Ill-Gotten Gains lands squarely in Chris Isaak territory -- not the
latter-day embarrassment, but back when he was good, and believed
that he was Roy Orbison. Sheehy's approach seems to owe a lot to the
big O (and country in general), and to the concept of the "my life is
terrible" school of songwriting -- not a new formula, but one that's handled
well here.
Sheehy's mention of Bill Hicks on the opener, "Sweet Blue Gene", is a good
indicator as to where this album is aimed. From being a "virus with shoes" on
down, each track contains stories of human failings and misery. From boxers
paid to take dives to love-affairs that self-destruct, the singer's focus is
on the seedier side of life, though it's wrapped in such a tremulous,
reverb-drenched sound that it's a view you'll be willing to share.
Tracks like "Mystery Train" and "Michael Jnr" seem to borrow heavily from
the sensibilities of groove-conscious artists like Barry Adamson, or some of
the more muscular musical moments in Nick Cave's catalog. Largely, this
works well, though it's best espoused in "Wha'cha Gonna Do?", which adds some
snarl-driven, beehive-sportin', gum-chewin' backbone to the cowpoke mix to
create an incredibly cliched foot-to-the-floor tune -- but one that's
eminently, ass-shakingly enjoyable at the same time.
Sheehy is in great voice for the bulk of this album; in more crooning
tracks, he's as good as it gets -- particularly in "No One Recognised Him",
which succeeds, even though it features some of the disc's cheesier lines.
Unfortunately, his sureness seems to stumble when more muscle is required;
"Michael Jnr" doesn't quite communicate the level of balls-out manliness
that the song needs to truly succeed. This aside, though, Ill-Gotten
Gains is a well-produced second album that adheres, largely, to a
sparse, cowboy ethic. It's good stuff; perfect for boozy musing after a
date's gone up the spout. Admittedly, the 3:00 a.m. album market is a small one,
but Sheehy seems to have made a good bid for top spot here; a little
country, a lot of bitchiness, and a voice that can -- in the right
circumstances -- deliver the goods. Please, nobody let this man get laid.
He'll produce pure gutpunching brilliance if his luck doesn't hold.
