Bone dry and delicately woven; the web that Vic Chesnutt has created throughout his humble career has spawned by a humorous eye, evoking the beauty of the South in wry, often bazaar imagery that is nothing short of genius. His earlier solo offerings, dating back to his debut Little, were stripped-affairs, his paper-thin southern drawl supported by frail melodies. But with 2003’s Silver Lake, Chesnutt took a turn, employing the backing of a veteran crew who resuscitated his gasping lyrics, and bolstering his masterful songwriting with lush rhythms and multi-part harmonies, adding girth to his haunting observations.
Such is the case with Ghetto Bells, an intricate, 11-song tapestry of color and depth, accented by multi-instrumentalist Van Dyke Parks and jazz guitarist Bill Frisell among others. Perched above the dreamy instrumentalists’ wavering melodies, Chesnutt pulls jagged descriptions from dark worlds, illuminating them with the full orchestration that binds Ghetto Bells like a forgotten volume, left on the shelf, a shameful secret. Whether the grandiose themes of “Little Caesar,” or the unpredictable chord changes that steer Chesnutt’s off-kilter vocals on the ornery “To Be With You,” the album offers a glove-tight fit of instrument and vocals. Quite possibly the centerpiece of the album in both style and delivery, is “Forthright,” a glowing orb of stripped-down textures that trickle beneath fluctuating vocals, and bearing the closest resemblance to the southern storytelling at the root of Chesnutt’s career.
It is hard to deem Chesnutt’s craft as palatable; his barren verse often feels like the sticky burn of an outright sin. But his magic is found in the flakes of redemption that powder most all of his compositions at one time or another, covering the inherent grit and softening the edges. Ghetto Bells revels in this same southern avant-garde, and does drift into strange atmospheres under the weight of hard-jawed seriousness, spouting oddities as effortlessly as afternoon pleasantries. But like the greatest of authors, it is hard to deflate Chestnutt’s true mastery of words and images. Sure, it isn’t always palatable, but coupled with the lush instrumentation, his songwriting is a drifting, irritable, southern realist dream.
