After the release of 2009’s Songs of Shame, Brooklyn’s Woods saw its audience grow considerably. Seldom does a record bridge the gap between raw and smooth, heartfelt and logical in the way that Songs of Shame did. In the wake of such success, all bets are off. Expectations drive some bands mad, resulting in poor performance, dashed listener hopes. Releasing great albums in consecutive years is a rare, oft-unimaginable feat. Occasionally a band will shine, exceeding the mark laid ahead of them. On At Echo Lake, Woods maintains the simple elegance of its earlier records, while adding more depth and thoughtfulness, expanding on its sound in a big way. The result is one of the most honest, well-crafted records of the year.
The signature of Woods music is Jeremy Earl’s voice. He sings softly, using the upper register of his vocal chords without too much strain. Think a more feminine Neil Young or a less boorish Doug Martsch. Words thrown around to describe Woods include: freak folk, low-fi, indie, back porch, jam band, experimental, psychedelic. All of the above have some pertinence, but none do justice.
Woods has an earthy appeal that few bands seem to embrace anymore. They use acoustic guitars, write lovely folk tunes, operate homemade electronic equipment, and reconnect with simpler times. Evocative displays are given in “Deep”, “Pick Up”, and “Death Rattles”, which feature light singer-songwriter melodies over gentler rhythms. The majority of the drumming stays somewhere in the background, at times reduced to mere tapping or banging of the tambourine. The most poignant track on the album comes by way of “Time Fading Lines”. Guest Matthew Valentine adds tasteful sitar work on top of a cacophony of feedback and open chords before clearing the way to one of the more beautiful choruses written in recent memory.
What’s really refreshing is that, on top of writing these poignant melodious tunes, Woods also rocks. “From the Horn” starts off with a cascading psych-punk riff that morphs into a jam worthy of any Wooden Shjips or Pocahaunted record, albeit shorter (few tracks breach the three minute mark). Other rockers include the beach soaked jangle of opening track, “Blood Dries Darker”, and the sappy 60’s pop of “Suffering Season”.
Lyrically the album floats along a playful, sometimes eerie stream of consciousness. In one of its more literal descriptions, At Echo Lake closes with “Til the Sun Rips”, a melancholy, somewhat uncanny song about the eternal quality of dreams, traditions, and ideas. “Head up in to that night/what will be will always be/a dream comes on/and the day goes bye/you’ll be passing it on/’til the sun rips that sky.” Aptly placed, this track denotes the ever present, cynical side of modern life, while at the same time expressing hope for the transformative power of everyday thought, simple ideas – notions all too lost in the hustle bustle of the everyday, but that we’re graciously reminded of on At Echo Lake.
