Album review: Dust Congress’ Regurgitate Sunshine State makes for a great depression

by Sarah Crisman

We all have certain albums we turn to when in a particular mood or another. Music is, after all, the highest form of expression we have as human beings. What else are we supposed to do with ourselves? When I first heard Dust Congress, I knew they would be my go-to melancholia (maybe it was the bassoon). I consequently feel beautifully wretched each time I hear this dark chamber folk.

Regurgitate Sunshine State, the second project released by the five-piece Denton outfit, is most palatable on 12” LP. Pressed on baby blue vinyl with hand screened artwork by Nevada Hill on the blank side of the album, the artwork is initially what drew my attention to this project. I found it quite intriguing and had no idea the depths these four songs would take me. Suddenly I felt very far away, as though I was sharing in someone else’s pain -- someone from another time and place all together, perhaps -- but someone who understood the drudgery of facing tribulation. Incidentally, this album is the perfect drinking buddy. I highly suggest you accompany this record with bourbon.

The lo-fi crackling plays in perfectly over the jangled marimba and lonely horns. Nick Foreman’s vocals are anguished and raw; not unlike what we are hearing from Danny Balis, Telegraph Canyon, and Matthew Gray. In keeping with Denton’s incestuous nature, the members of the band also respectively represent Pinebox Serenade, Shearwater, and Baptist Generals. The resulting sound of this particular collaboration is all at once timeless and relevant.

It’s quite interesting, actually, to hear all this gorgeously blue music coming out of North Texas these days. It’s as though we’re all depressed about something, and the only way we can get through it is to create this sound reminiscent of the Dust Bowl. Perhaps that is how we should decipher if our nation is in a depression or not -- we may have tipped beyond a recession if the new music is consoling in its despair. I bet the economists on Marketplace couldn’t have predicted that effect. Now that I think about it and examine the resurgence of folk, blues, and Americana, it makes perfect sense. It makes me feel better about all the Ramen I’ve eaten over the past few years. We’re not alone in our trials.

Filthy South, the final song on the album (there are but four) provides a redemptive optimism necessary after three songs of wallowing in the mire. The trumpet peps up to provide a positively New Orleans feel (and I am an absolute sucker for anything that reminds me of NoLa) and you are given the distinct impression it’s time to suck it up and dance around the kitchen table (the bourbon will help this bit along). So what if we have no money! We have music and we’ll get by just fine.