Joe Henry: Scar

The most impressive moment of Joe Henry's Scar comes early, courtesy not of Henry himself, but of guest Ornette Coleman, on the evocatively titled "Richard Pryor Addresses A Tearful Nation." In many ways, the free-jazz giant's presence perfectly symbolizes the divergent path Henry's career has taken. Beginning as another New Dylan in the folk/country mode, Henry cast away his past with 1996's Trampoline, the first in a series of atmospheric, boundary-pushing experiments, though even as a more tradition-minded songwriter, he still collaborated with artists ranging from Don Cherry to sister-in-law Madonna. Scar, Henry's eighth album, is also his most ambitious, and probably his most challenging. Backing away from the avant-funk of the near-perfect Fuse, Scar heads into even moodier territory. The aforementioned Coleman track is a gloomy way to start an album, and "Stop" (rewritten by Madonna and company as her single "Don't Tell Me") is a dark tango in the Tom Waits mold. Corralling a stellar cast of players (including Me'Shell NdegéOcello, Brian Blade, Brad Mehldau, and regular Waits sideman Marc Ribot), Henry recorded the album mostly live, with the assistance of producer Craig Street, and the groove is there. However, the disc's flow doesn't always progress naturally, with the otherwise fine "Mean Flower" and "Rough And Tumble," both intriguing soul tracks, jutting out conspicuously amongst the otherwise mostly downbeat fare. Similarly, the fuzzed-out jam "Nico Lost One Small Buddha" sounds out of place before such strong, somber ballads as "Cold Enough To Cross" and the title track, not to mention the vaguely psychedelic "Edgar Bergen." Henry's songwriting is strong as usual, and the album sounds spectacular, but Scar fails to match the conceptual consistency of its predecessor. It's an album full of magnificent moments, but not quite a magnificent album itself.