Review: "Dust Bowl"

When I tell people about Joe Bonamassa, I like to say he’s "the best guitarist you’ve never heard of." But recently I’ve begun to think that I might need to rework that introduction to "he’s the best guitarist I have ever heard period." Either introduction is likely to conjure up images of a seasoned pro in the minds of new listeners, so most are somewhat surprised when they discover a 34 year-old white guy behind the microphone. But don’t be fooled by his youth. Bonamassa had logged more miles on a guitar at 15 than most guitarists do by 50. Keep in mind that this is a kid who opened for B.B. King (more than once) when he was 12, and who recently formed super-group Black Country Communion with Glenn Hughes, Derek Sherinian, and Jason Bonham. Yes indeed, his 34 years have been prolific to say the least; his latest release, Dust Bowl, is his ninth solo studio album. And, where many artists will begin to fade, mellow out, or become redundant, Bonamassa has somehow one-upped himself again. Dust Bowl is, in my humble opinion, his finest effort.

The album opens with the chugging "Slow Train," a loud, powerful blues exclamation. The subject area is nothing new to the blues genre (nomadic symbolism, broken relationships, etc.), but the execution is refreshingly new. Bonamassa finds a way to make his song sound eerily like the metaphorical train he sings of with percussive riffs and driving rhythm. The second song is the title track to the album, and deservingly so. The multitude of stringed and percussive instruments introduced in the song provide a haunting backdrop for strong vocals and alternately eerie and fiery guitar riffs. I would say that it is unquestionably the strongest song on the album, but Bonamassa has a nasty habit of making every song count, and the remainder of the album stays impressively on-par.

On "Tennessee Plates," Bonamassa tips his hat to the big Nashville country sound, turning down the gain and up the twang. Well actually he keeps the gain up pretty high. He just adds some twang, and some John Hiatt. The result is a big, rolling song about a big, rolling Cadillac (with Tennessee plates!). Bonamassa makes every note count, right down to the end. But don’t turn down the volume just yet. In his cover of Bobby Troup’s "The Meaning of the Blues," Bonamassa takes all the Nashville energy and brings it, lumbering, into focus behind the loudest, bluesiest lens I’ve ever beheld. He simply wails on his guitar, tearing out gut-wrenching solos and leaving the audience sufficiently floored. In fact, it’s probably a good thing that the beginning of the next tune, "Black Lung Heartache" is toned down a bit, because otherwise the unprepared listener would not be able to handle the continuous influx of energy. Please note, however: "toned down" does not mean “less impressive." Bonamassa employs an orchestra of small stringed instruments, some of which I have never heard of, (all played by the man himself) to give a jangley, tumbleweedy quality to his composition. When he does turn the volume back up partway through, he is able to maintain the hollow tone he achieved in the beginning, and the song becomes raw emotion and energy for about two minutes.

"You Better Watch Yourself" is not, as an uptempo, bluesy, jam, particularly unique. It is, however, another opportunity for Bonamassa to showcase his mastery of the guitar and his trademark Gibson-driven tone. The diversity resumes in the following track, "The Last Matador of Bayonne." This is the slow song of the album. Primarily soft guitar, brushed drums, and a trumpet wailing in the background, the song finds Bonamassa contemplating history and solitude in (presumably) the French town of Bayonne. The middle third of the song is the heart of the composition, and possibly of the album itself. Bonamassa unveils some of the most soulful, incendiary, heart-wrenching guitar playing I have ever heard in middle of this song, before sinking back into the shadows, leaving as quietly as he arrived.

Black Country Communion (BCC) bandmate Glenn Hughes appears on the cover of Paul Rodgers’ "Heartbreaker." If you were curious about what BCC sounds like, this song will give you a pretty good taste. Big, loud, classic rock with strong vocals and stronger guitar playing. Nothing too complicated here, folks, just some rockstars doing their thing. Another cover (this time of Michael Kamen and Tim Curry) follows in "No Love on the Street." The sound is not remarkably new, as both sonic and thematic parallels can easily be drawn between this and "The Meaning of the Blues." But at this point, any excuse to hear Bonamassa shred his way through a big, sexy blues song is fine with me, so I could not care less about the slight redundancy.

While we’re talking about redundancy, I suppose we’ll just carry on thorugh the next two tracks. Bonamassa’s own "The Whale that Swallowed Jonah" and Vince Gill’s "Sweet Rowena" (to which Vince Gill contributes his voice) are both uptempo country-based songs (the latter markedly more country-sounding than the former, but both retaining noticeable twang). While never totally repetitive, the songs don’t do much that hasn’t been done already on the album. But keep in mind that at this point on the album, Bonamassa has covered essentially all the bases, and redundancy is nearly inevitable. I choose to forgive the double-up because the songs remain strong and tasteful, and Bonamassa’s soft voice and hard guitar playing are as pleasant as ever.

The album ends on the highest of high notes (metaphorically speaking, here). Karen Lawrence’s "Prisoner" gives Bonamassa the opportunity to hit the area he hasn’t yet on this album. In fact, I don’t know that he’s sung/played like this before at all. I suppose it never hurts to begin with an already emotionally charged song, but Bonamassa takes that emotion and passion to levels that I previously didn’t know could be achieved musically. His voice is a perfect match for the song’s love-struck lyrics, and his final guitar solo on the album is one of his strongest. I honestly don’t know that he can hit a wrong note (at least while the monitors are on). 

As the final note rings into silence, the listener is left to reflect on an album that truly has everything. Loud vocals, scorching guitars, emotional choruses, guest stars, cool artwork, and a barrel of different sounds and styles tastefully and artfully woven together. Dust Bowl is a true masterpiece, and it is absolutely Bonamassa’s best album. At least, until the next one comes out.