Miranda Lambert is experiencing an exceptionally tuneful bout of growing pains. Like other artists who are suddenly met with a windfall of concurrent critical and commercial success, Revolution sees Lambert exerting a conscious effort to showcase Growth and Maturity as a songwriter. Putting it bluntly, Lambert does not want to simply be known as the gun-totin’ chainsmokin’ vengeful firebrand that was birthed with the success of her 2007 breakthrough Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. She wants you to know that she can also go soft. Trouble is, any listener who moves past her image knew that already; part of the reason Crazy Ex-Girlfriend worked so well was that she ached on the ballads as beautifully as she rocked the barnburners. On Revolution, Lambert still knows how to rock the barnburners, thank God. But her very concerted effort to show that she can do the ballads makes Revolution have less of an immediate impact than Crazy Ex-Girlfriend or even her major label debut Kerosene. But it also means there’s a breadth of emotional complexity that makes for a more interesting artistic statement.
Part of the deliberate image-shift occurs in the curious choice to release two of the album’s first three songs as its first two singles: “Dead Flowers,” which was released to country radio back in May, and flopped; and album opener “White Liar,” which is currently flopping. Not that this hurts Miranda Lambert as an artist; she’s never been fully-embraced by Nashville (the feeling seems mutual–”I put a bullet in my radio,” she declares in “Maintain The Pain”). But it certainly hurts her as far as this PR move goes. Both songs are fine album tracks with the kind of interesting lyrical crinkles you won’t generally hear on country radio. “White Liar” casually drops a confession that complicates the song’s previous narrative, and “Dead Flowers” includes a wonderfully poetic link between dead flowers and burnt-out Christmas lights (proof of her writing talent is that she refuses to use the word “bulb” to connect them, letting the images speak for themselves). Both songs are wonderful additions to Lambert’s lyrical palette; the problem is that they are both less musically and vocally interesting than they need to be–almost as if Lambert is sanding down her idiosyncrasies in order to win some of those Best Female Vocalist country establishment awards she keeps losing to Carrie Underwood. Consequently, they are the two least interesting singles of Lambert’s career, which is no way to introduce a new album.
It is unfortunate, because potential hits abound elsewhere. It’s just that–yep, you guessed it–most of them are barnburners. Sandwiched between the two failed singles is “Only Prettier,” which actually seems to be addressed to Underwood and her Nashville-approved ilk with the lyric “I got a mouth like a sailor and yours is more like a Hallmark card.” The guitars swing along with Lambert’s delirious vocal, and she shows the kind of enthusiasm here that is missing from the two singles; she clearly relishes playing the Mean Girl–expressing a hilariously blistering contempt for skinny girls to boot–and this song is a lyrical trolling worthy of Toby Keith, except a lot more fun. And funny too; what was seemingly lost in appreciation of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend was Lambert’s biting wit–she did, after all, appropriate and reverse the misogyny of “Under My Thumb” in that record’s “Guilty In Here,” a fine ode to sluttin’ it up.
Lambert has exceptional taste. Aside from the Stones, she jacked Steve Earle so hard that she gave him a co-writing credit, and has previously covered the likes of Gillian Welch, Patty Griffin, and Carlene Carter; on this record she gives a large boot up the asses of Fred Eaglesmith, Julie Miller, and John Prine as well. Which means that, although the Loretta Lynn comparisons are tempting, her skill as an interpreter means that she may actually be closer to being this generation’s Emmylou Harris. Which is fitting, considering the “red dirt girl” reference in the lovely “Airstream Song,” a song with a melody so vintage-sounding that Harris herself would have done it proud during her great run in the 70s. Further proof that Lambert’s writing is up to par with her idols’ is shown in “Me & Your Cigarettes,” which contains such a classic metaphor that it’s surprising this song wasn’t written until now.
The fact that Lambert can write such classic-sounding songs isn’t surprising; she is, at heart, somewhat of a traditionalist and keeps in line with a certain historical trend regarding country music’s reactionism (which makes something like the open-mindedness of Brad Paisley’s “Welcome To The Future” even more of an oddity). She is a Texan, after all, and she very clearly loves her guns. And considering the current political climate, what with people calling the President a liar and a socialist, this creates an anxious undertone in some of Lambert’s songs (the album’s very title itself seems slightly incendiary). It would do a myopic disservice to Lambert, however, to see her as some kind of wingnut spokesperson; she clearly aligns herself with the outlaw country of her hero Merle Haggard, and codes as more generally anti-authority than right-wing. The shit-talker who wants to cross party lines in “Only Prettier” can be from either side of the political stripe (and that’s only if you invest that line with politics). The reactionary in “Airstream Song” partly has an antecedent in Henry David Thoreau. And “Time To Get A Gun” was written by a Canadian, of all things, even if its satire may be lost on–or dismissed by–roadhouse patrons who just want something that sounds good for a sing-along. As a citizen she has preached gun control, but as a singer, part of the fun of her vocal is that she neither overplays the wink or takes it too seriously.
Such ambiguity only serves Lambert’s artistry further. And finally, she does prove again that she does the ballads well. Nashville writers-for-hire Tom Douglas and Allen Shamblin provide the gorgeous and unsentimental “The House That Built Me,” a song whose lyrics have such an impressive specificity of detail that they transcend the hoary concept–actually very similar in manner to Taylor Swift, country’s other great blonde singer-songwriter. “Makin’ Plans” is a nicely understated love song that only serves to highlight how overblown the similar “Love Song” is, which makes it the album’s only real misstep.
Revolution is far from perfect, but it’s another argument for Miranda Lambert as country music’s most exciting artist. And part of what makes her so exciting is that she would also be a boon to another genre, should she so choose: rock. Like Jamey Johnson, Lambert is one of the few country musicians who still knows the value of good guitar noise. Hell, “Maintain The Pain” by itself manages to open like Blue Oyster Cult, have a chorus worthy of Hole, and a title that sounds like a lost Metallica b-side. And her cover of “That’s The Way The World Goes ‘Round” has a punkish energy, from the feedback to the driving riff to the sloppy solo. She’s a woman who can play with the boys, but can also brandish her femininity as a firearm, a duality that is sorely needed in both genres. But she also knows to leave the party pretty, and by the time “Virginia Bluebell” finishes, it’s like a chaser after the exhaustiveness of this overlong album, a song that conjures a late night drive down a dusty country road. Wheels’ turning should be the only reason for this album’s title, not a political call-to-arms or even a self-serving estimation of growth; like all great country music, it would sound perfect in a car. Too bad they won’t play it on the radio.
