With the release of this compilation, John Fahey’s project label has returned to print the late-’20s recordings of Moran Lee “Dock” Boggs (1898–1971), the Appalachian singer and banjo player from western Virginia whose voice could curdle strong beer and whose preoccupations with violence and death were expressed in a language of terrorized ambivalence. Taken as a whole, these songs represent a small talisman from a portion of the world most musicians don’t care to acknowledge: a place so crushing that the only true catharsis comes from deep and abiding despair.
Boggs’ output from this period consisted of only twelve master cuts, eight recorded for the Brunswick label in 1927 (five of which feature Hub Mahaffrey on guitar), the remaining four for the tiny Lonesome Ace imprint (whose motto read, “Without A Yodel”) in ’29. Every one sounds as if it’s encrusted with earth which is cracking from the center outward. It’s difficult to overstate how ferociously disturbed Boggs can sound, or how totally involute his sadness seems to be.
Five alternate takes from the later sessions are also included, each of which varies slightly in cadence if not pitch, and all of which suffer from the inconsistent sound quality endemic to recordings made on acetate 78s. Boggs’ approach to music was grounded in jug stomps, waltzes and dirges whose origins are as old as America itself. Though the title of this collection implies an obvious stylistic tendency, the truth of the matter is that while Boggs’ banjo playing is steeped in blue notes and flashing slurs, the larger forms he produced were not merely “country blues” but a cold fusion of hillbilly musical styles, scraps of field lyrics and mouthfuls of loathing.
Finally, a word about the packaging. Revenant has compiled a 64-page hardcover booklet of essays, liner notes, lyrics and photos that emulates the best features of the first true “albums” of 78s. Their efforts are exemplary, in spite of the irony that what they’ve produced is richly ornate and celebratory, where Dock Boggs’ music was spare, bitter, and bent on reckoning.
