August 2, 2004 by A.S. Van Dorston

Despite Mark Lanegan having six solo albums under his belt, most of the thousands of people who saw him perform as part of Queens of The Stone Age didn’t even know he did anything other than The Screaming Trees. Bubblegum should change that. Lanegan mixes up his usual Nick Cave-influenced noir-folk Americana formula with some harder rocking elements, collaborating with Josh Homme and Nick Oliveri (QOTSA), Izzy Stradlin and Duff McKagan (GnR), Troy Van Leeuwen (A Perfect Circle), and Polly Jean Harvey among others. The album’s title isn’t a coy reference to a new accessibility, but rather a lyric in the short, haunting “Bombed,” – “When I’m bombed I stretch like bubblegum/And look too long straight at the morning sun.”

The album commences at twilight with the dark, brooding “When Your Number Isn’t Up,” in which Lanegan is surprised he isn’t dead yet, presumably after the decade of hard living, hard drugs and hard punches. The “night porter” is a reference to the nickname he gave Kurt Cobain.

When the sun is finally goin’ down
And you’re overdue to follow
But you’re still above the ground
What ya got comin’ is hard to swallow
Like blood runnin’ warm

Did they call for the night porter?
And smell the blood, blood runnin’ warm
Well, I’ve been waitin’ at this frozen border
So close you could hit it with a stone

Instead it simply buffed his voice like sandpaper, which is stonger than ever, but with a touch more character. “Hit the City” is an early highlight, finding him duetting with Harvey on top of a driving guitar and organ groove. “Methamphetamine Blues” is a pounding rocker, featuring Homme’s supercharged guitar that treads territory somewhere between desert rock and Queen’s Brian May. “Strange Religion” continues his successful series of soul ballads, including “Pill Hill Serenade” from 2001’s Field Songs, and “Consider Me” on 1999’s I’ll Take Care Of You. “Come To Me” features Harvey again, this time they’re like the creepy yet sexy goth couple trying to lure a third party into bed. “Come to me/Burn your starry crown/My dark angel.” “Can’t Come Down” contends for the album’s peak, a harried junkie’s lament that writhes underneath pummeling percussion.

While he doesn’t spin a yarn quite like Tom Waits (who does?), Lanegan’s embattled tales of strife and addiction ring true. Along with tightly focused songs and impassioned performances, what more could you ask for?