Blowin' Indie Wind

Author: Erika Mercer

For photo shoots, they like to dress up as pirates.

Or, if not pirates, Dickensian gentlefolk.

Welcome to the Decemberists.

Shake hands, and they'll lead you down a cobblestone path teeming with sooty chimney sweeps, foul-mouthed prostitutes, dirty orphan boys and weatherworn sailors. They'll tell you all about the "ghosts of sailors past" and remind you of your late gypsy uncle whose "face was carved and rift with wrinkles / In the picture in your head."

Who would've thought that five musicians from Portland, Ore., could have the literary prowess and musical dexterity to drag you onto the streets of eighteenth century England or aboard a swaying pirates ship? Because somehow, they do.

How?

Well, let's start with Colin Meloy, guitarist and singer who, behind the fetching pair of dark-rimmed glasses he sports atop his nose, possesses the brainpower to conjure these scenes and the voice to pull them off.

Nasaly, acute, and penetrating, his voice reminds you of the immediacy of any situation - the need to hold onto your purse for fear of scoundrels and pickpockets. The importance of reminding daughters to beware the drunken sailors and "not to walk the streets alone tonight." The shrill cry of the widow to the chimney sweep: "O lonely urchin!" Whispering intimately, Meloy will lead you down the darkest alleyways and force you to breathe the filthiest stenches of the city. Then screaming maniacally, he'll scare away the vagrants in your nightmares, send them running back to the shadows whence they came.

Enough of that gloominess, though. Let's not forget all the fun and debauchery to be had on those same city streets! That's in his voice, too - mischievousness, rakishness and drunken self-indulgence. Like when he tells the tale of Billy Liar, who's "staring over at the neighbor's, knickers down," then reiterates, for the sake of those who might not have heard the first time, "He's got his knickers down." Or when he lets the words, "O what a rush of ripe Èlan! / languor on divans / Dalliant and dainty" roll of his tongue as thought they were each a gushy red strawberry.

But onward, mates! Next we have Jenny Conlee, the band's keyboardist, pianist, organist, and accordionist. That's right - they have an accordion, and a very prominent accordion at that. An accordion that whines and swings, drones and screeches. An accordion that epitomizes the sounds of a busy Dickensian street - the distressed cries of babies, the squeal of cart wheels, the shrill whistles of sailors to local ladies. Like Meloy's voice, the accordion never wavers, but continues to create its own oddly majestic noise. They both belt out their sound as if the world depends on it but, at the same time, without giving a care what the world thinks.

Then there's Jesse Emerson on the upright and electric bass, Rachel Blumberg on drums, vibes, and glockenspiel, Chris Funk on pedal steel, electric guitar, synthesizer, lap steel, and last but not least, a guest string quartet. Together they produce a sound that is lush, baroque and charming - a peculiar mixture of the old and the new, the epic and the lighthearted. Undeniably self-indulgent, manic-depressive, and pretentious to the extreme, The Decemberists remain totally irresistible.

Go out, buy this album, and set sail, as Meloy promises, "on a packet full of spice, rum, and tea-leaves." You won't return.