Under most circumstances, this writer would use the word “unsatisfying” in a less-than-complimentary way, but it happens to be the only way to describe Pit Wagon’s self-titled debut. It’s congruency, lyricism, and musicality are top-notch: no doubt in my mind. The instrumentation, collaborations, and wit are all superbly well thought-out. So why, one might ask, is the first word that comes to mind when listening to this album “unsatisfying?”
The answer: we live in a beautifully unsatisfying world, time, and place. This is a soundtrack for the unfulfilled soul, sidewalk heartbreak, lovers constantly quarreling, brimstone-crossed comfort, and, of course, the feeling in the back of the throat after nights and days filled with too much whiskey and half-smoked cigarettes: the dust and residue of which mostly comprises the songs on Pit Wagon’s record.
Take, for instance, the character Kassandra in the track of the same name, who’s “not an angel from heaven; she’s an angel from hell I can tell.” The stories told are those of gray relationships, one-way infatuation. “Black Heart” is the search for the hypothetical one in all the wrong places. This writer’s favorite track, the song walks a blues with a few boot kicks square through a door and has a female antagonist that storms her lover more like Godzilla taking a city rather than the Hollywood-invented run across a park towards welcome arms in a smoothed-out summer dress.
The album even takes its message further, defending downtrodden and beat-down unions of Wisconsin in “Hey Gov.” However, the fact that Voldy, the lead songwriter of the group, might know a thing or two about love comes through loud and clear. Giving everyone who listens a throat lozenge of hope after all that smoky mess of cynicism, the last track poses, “Hey guv’ner, hey guv’ner, well what about love? You think your decisions are sent from above. You think you can change things with a push and a shove. Hey guv’ner hey guv’ner, well what about love?”
I’d say that if there’s anything this album tells us about love, it’s that it’s not forced. But it does show up between the cracks in rotting floorboards, on long drives down swervy, pot-holed highways, and resolves itself in the clarity of a self-destructive hangover soothed by the sounds of Mabis’ slide guitar, Jensen’s self-taught harmonies, and Voldy’s rasp-tinged vocal cords. I’d also reckon this album will convince you to catch Pit Wagon at one of their upcoming shows or later on down the road this summer. They’ll be filling the holes in the streets of Eau Claire and beyond with sweet, sweat-drenched, and lemonade-spiked songs that represent this town well.
