In a very real way, this is the Dave Matthews Band's do-or-die moment - with the passing of saxophonist LeRoi Moore last August, Dave Matthews Band faces not only an increasingly skeptical listener base, but must also adapt to a missing limb that had been a significant voice within the band. In each of the three albums Dave Matthews Band has released since 1998's Before These Crowded Streets, the DMB fanbase has grown steadily more doubtful of the group's ability to recapture the magic that was so magnetically prevalent in their sound throughout most of the '90s.
It's no exaggeration, then, that Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King is the band's most important album in the last decade, and certainly the most pivotal moment in the second act of their career. The good news? The end result of more than three years of staggered studio sessions with multiple producers and band members has yielded the band's most eclectic, energized and aggressive record to date.
The gorgeous "Grux" begins the album, a clear tribute to their fallen saxophonist, whose signature sound bookends the album. It gives way to the brass blast of "Shake Me Like a Monkey," an immediate burst of evidence that something very different is afoot in the Matthews camp. A monster jam that will undoubtedly be an instant live highlight, the razor-sharp horns evoke Peter Gabriel at his highest pop moments and give way to a mean little sex groove that indicates a full-throttled revival for a band that's spent the better part of the past decade wading through the mud of its own aimless progression.
Lead single "Funny The Way It Is" is a strummy, familiar-sounding jam that blossoms into luminous arrangements and shifting irony-dripping nostalgia. Credit should be given to producer Rob Cavallo for the simple fact that he got the hell out of the way here, adding frills and contributing a sonic drama that's tastefully understated - a relief, considering his past work with The Goo Goo Dolls, Green Day and, yes, even Paris Hilton.
The biggest surprise on GrooGrux arrives in "Time Bomb," which begins soft as a mountain stream, but steadily builds to a point where Matthews rises from a tense, existential narrative ("If martian fell from the sky/What would that do to God?/ Would we put the weapon down/Or aim it at the sky?/ No one would believe it/ Except the fucking nutjobs") to unleash a well of pent-up aggression, unveiling a new trick - his ability to howl furiously, his voice a desperate, throat-shredding wail as he begs you to help him make sense of it all, to pick up the pieces. “I want to believe in Jesus,” he shrieks, and there's no false drama here - Matthews genuinely seems to be reaching out for a sign.
"Alligator Pie" is a banjo-led Cajun convulsion that flips to a drunk-funk dancer around the two-minute mark, climbing to a feverish voodoo stomp that's rises to a new height, entirely unique to the DMB sound. Stefan Lessard's low-end basswork here is unrivaled by his previous work, and Boyd Tinsley is a man utterly possessed on the violin.
Like Dylan before him, Matthews' decision to go electric on Everyday cost him legions of Birkenstock-clad collegiates loyal to the campfire acoustics of old. Groo Grux is easily the band's most plugged-in album, and unapologetically so. Sticklers for the "old acoustic sound" are left spinning in their history books with this one, invited to either convert wholly or jump ship - there's little room for middleground.
Death's presence is never far from reach, but if Matthews is afraid, he's sure not letting on. He faces it head on, never dwelling too heavily on the melancholy, instead baring his teeth in unexpected bursts of frustrated declaration. His spiritual journey seems, justifiably, reignited by the death of his friend and bandmate, and at times he's possessed with a sense of such thrashing longing and defiance (as on "Dive In" - "If God don't like me he can send me to hell - but I like being with you, girl") that one wonders whether Dave has finally tapped back into the fire he's been lacking all these years. He finally seems to have something to say again, and it's wonderful to hear.
"Lying In The Hands of God" is the other extreme, a callback to earlier DMB ballad stylings, demonstrating Matthews’ more reflective side over Carter Beauford's polyrhythmic framework. “Save your sermons, for someone who’s afraid to love,” he croons, rejecting the false prophet guidance for the voice inside. Sure, the ballads are familiar trips down Matthews lane, but there's a quiet-beauty redemption to tracks like "My Baby Blue" and closer "You and Me," which will undoubtedly fill up the easy-listening playlists on the FM dial this summer.
Lyrically, Matthews' focus on mortality and petty indulgence isn't a far cry from his usual themes, but the weight has never been so poignant. The “I’m going to love you” refrain on Seven is lifted directly and unapologetically from When the World Ends, but the self-referencing is a forgivable indulgence, a deliberate callback accompaniment to songs that distinctly recall Moore. He is the Groogrux, and this is his beautiful tribute.
