A strange dream, last night.

Palookaville, Colorado; the only saloon in town. Tom Waits is behind the bar. However, when we order a sasparilla he turns around brusquely, mumbling something like "thirty-five summers... I have thirty-five summers left!" What a jerk. In a dark corner Nick Cave and Robert Johnson are silently playing dice made from human teeth. Outside, 6 feet above the dusty townsquare, Ian Curtis gently sways back and forth in a sultry Southern breeze: "the herald of a coming monsoon," Nick Cave whispers, to no one in particular. Suddenly Leadbelly kicks open the swing doors of the bar. He looks at us from head to toe, and then he bellows amiably: "Fellow, why aren't you wearing any pants?"

What we want to say is: we are rather impressed by the new 16 Horsepower album. 'Secret South' is a mighty exorcism of all things heathen, sinful and off the right path, lasting well over 45 minutes, and, as if the group wanted to rub major label A&M's nose deep in (sh)it, A&M dumped them without mercy after the brilliant albums SackCloth 'n' Ashes and Low Estate because of low sales, it's also the most inaccessible (sic) and adventurous album of the foursome so far.

'Secret South' has 11 tracks, fantastic and esoteric compositions every one of them, that will give even the not so religious among us more goose pimples than a plucked goose in a haunted house where the central heating has broken down. Take our word for it, you will not laugh when in a moment you will hear David Eugene Edwards sing 'on my knees I run away' in 'Poormouth'. Be aware that our favourite pulpiteer cum suis now have more eyes for texture, layered-ness and structure, and that consequently the sound has been fiddled with thoroughly: the stirring drive that used to be so characteristic of the band's sound now only propels opening song 'Clogger' - a seething country-rocksong à la 'Black Longue' (sic) - to an unprecedented height, in the other songs the tempo is considerably slower. Therefore, do take your time to let more restrained and composed work like the majestic ballad 'Burning Bush', that strides along on yellowed ivory, and the simply sinister closing song 'Strawfoot' sink in.

That the dishonourable discharge by their previous label hasn't affected the group's self-confidence in the slightest, is proven by their choice of covers; 'Nobody 'Cept you' is a more than successful rendition of an obscure Dylan-song, and Edwards' oppressive version of the traditional 'Wayfaring Stranger' is in no ways inferior to previous attempts by good folk like John M. Dye, Patty Griffin and Woody Guthrie.

We would love to go further into what furious fire-and-brimstone sermons like 'Cinder Alley', 'Praying Arm Lane' and 'Splinters' did to our night's rest, but we are already outrageously late as it is; so it's up to you to further explore the desolate wilderness under ominous cumuli that Edwards calls his soul. Take along plenty of rice-cookies. Amen.