It’s been said that the bone dry dirges of Doby Watson’s Twenty Two were inspired from the cornering crises of Watson’s own twenty-second year. But these intimate memories are much less the balladry of a suburban cowboy and more the disturbing moans of someone, anyone caught in the nightmare of the past. XXII nevertheless locates a point at the end of Watson’s youth, where his soft, contoured reflection in the mirror seems to have suddenly shattered under some enormous weight. What exactly Watson lost is never clear, but some grotesque fate robbed it from him and blindsided him into a confession of loneliness and despair. The songs of XXII recount in broad lyrical strokes the grueling salvaging process of Watson’s fragmented yet vivid musical identity.
Doby Watson – Twenty Two
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Each song ruminates on the assembly of Watson’s matured soul, which seems to be covered with a threadbare, yet graceful veil. As in the early confessions, “Pummel,” “I’m just so goddamn scared of every little thing,” Watson’s mind, body and soul seem to be exhibited in nearly every line. But as the album hums along, the songs’ sentiment becomes impressionistic, and the dark Doby Watson we all are introduced to fades into abstraction. What seems to rise from the ash is the lush band of 24 twanged guitar strings and Watson’s gravely croon. The minimal arrangements lack a drum, but a simple heartbeat is the rhythm Watson wants you to keep. Pillars of the album like “Colors of Sun” and “Juxtaposition” bear a brutally straight-faced honesty that is palpable but often ironic: “I smell death wherever I go… you will never know how it feels to be alone/ I sure don’t… I will be yours, and I will be anybody else’s but mine.”
Despite his prolific history of genre bending and whimsical musical exploration, his furrow into solemn meditation can alienate a listener as well as Doby Watson. But after years of touring the still basements and galleries of the mid-continent, Watson’s voice over these has never been so humbling and homeward bound. When Watson performs XXII in a reverie of deafening and demanding silence, he seems wise enough to know that this year does not only belong to him. It belongs to everyone that’s ever heard, listened, or bore such a weight. It’s for every soul struggling to be cultivated in a year where the future beckons and dreams of youth are crumpled up and tossed to a prairie wind.
