There’s something indescribably otherworldly about Afghan Whigs, for all that their Southern-gothic-laced soul explores territory that has been traversed by everyone from Neil Young (at the earthier end of the spectrum) to (shudder) Coldplay. Formed in 1986, the band found themselves on Sub Pop for their second album (1990’s Up In It), with the band slowly filing their garage band / grunge roots down to nothing by the time they struck gold with Congregation. From that auspicious point, they would release a further three albums, each exploring a wider range of sounds, before they split in 2001, ostensibly never to be seen again.
Although the band tentatively reformed in 2006, it would not be until 2011 that a revamped Whigs would properly return, with only frontman Greg Dulli and bassist John Curley remaining from the original line up. Their opening gambit, 2014’s Do To The Beast, saw Dulli and co. recapturing much of the magic of the original line-up and they have hardly looked back since, the odd line up shift notwithstanding.
Soft Control, the band’s fourth post-reunion album and their tenth overall, finds the band once again exploring the darker side of the human psyche to a soundtrack that takes in R&B, earthy soul, psychedelic rock, and more over the course of its ten tracks. Beautifully produced by Dulli and guitarist Christopher Thorn, it is an immersive, subtle album that once again combines catchy, off-kilter rock with moments of sublime beauty that leave you shattered.
The album opens with the rippling Jungle Roux, which combines the rippling drive of Baba O’ Reilly with elements of the Stones circa Some Girls, and even a touch of David Gilmour’s solo work. It’s a great start, the shuffling rhythm and addictive melodies all combining to set a high bar for the album that follows. That loose Stones-y vibe remains in the rolling toms and doo, doo doo refrain of House Of I, which nods to the unassailable Sympathy For The Devil, the band throwing in elements of Royal Blood and David Bowie’s plastic soul era in a manner that makes it sound both contemporary and timeless at the same time – a paradox unlikely to be lost on mercurial frontman Dulli. In contrast, the piano and rim-shot opening of Duvateen easily sidesteps any possible chance of AOR mawkishness thanks both to Dulli’s assured performance and to the Sigur Ros-esque guitars which scrape across the surface of the mix.
The band change things up again with My Lover, which captures some of the dark beauty of In Spades, the crackly electric riffs and Dulli’s dark Elvis impersonation drawing the track along a path usually reserved for Nick Cave. It says much of the band’s commitment to the concept that the sweetly simple title, while gifted with a miraculous melody, nevertheless imparts a lingering sense of darkness that is far from dispelled by the sanguine horns and lilting piano refrain of The Deepest Part Of The Darkest Shadow.
Rather odder is Mariah Luster, a track that combines a simple acoustic part, massed horns, and an awkward rhythm that powers it relentlessly towards a string section that, in any other set of circumstances, would sound ludicrous. Yet, for all that the band throw everything but the kitchen sink at the mix, what stands out is not its complexity but rather the airiness of the sound, and the result is strangely affecting. Then there’s the gorgeously ruminative psychedelia of Memphis, Texaswhich, with its strings, reverb-drenched guitar, and harmonica, paints a sonic portrait of the titular city. It segues directly into the brisk 77, which recalls nothing so much as The Flaming Lips with its whimsical backing vocals, aching leads, and lightly sketched keyboard parts.
Built around a similar rhythm, Loose Talk is simply a great rock song, complete with a powerful vocal, gritty riffs, and a punchy, widescreen chorus that you’ll be singing for days. It leaves the haunted beauty of A Simulation to bring the album to a close. With its simple piano refrain clothed in jangly guitar noise, it’s a mini-psychedelic epic that feels like a heartfelt farewell from someone who once lived their life so completely that oblivion has become welcome.
There are many times across the course of Soft Control that you’ll be reminded of other bands. These are but fleeting glimpses, however, as seen from a car window speeding down an empty road. For the most part, Soft Control sounds like the Afghan Whigs doing what they do best, exploring life, love, and loss through a cathartic medium that allows each person to explore it in their own way. It’s a haunting, frequently beautiful album, that leaves you feeling strangely at peace, as if you’ve been on a journey you can’t quite remember, and it’s one you’ll want to revisit time and again. 9.5/10
