It's unfortunate that one of rock's most threadbare myths -- "great art is produced through great personal pain" -- is supported by so damn much compelling work. You don't have to scratch far beyond the surface of this cliche to turn up a million examples of how substance abuse, personal trauma or mental illness have contributed to some of the most interesting music of the past few decades.
For former street denizen F.M. Cornog -- the one-man band known as East River Pipe, a pseudonym derived from his lengthy residence in a Queens apartment before his relocation to New Jersey -- this connection between pain and artistic epiphany was responsible for much of his early output, particularly the 1996 release Mel, where song titles such as "I Am A Small Mistake" were indicative of his perilously fragile state.
The Pipe's fourth full-length release, The Gasoline Age, trades in tales of homelessness for wide-eyed stories of the open road. A concept album built largely upon observations gleaned from Cornog's frequent automobile excursions around the seedier interstates of his new home state, The Gasoline Age threads together various images of the highway -- shiny pimpmobiles, hijacked cars, midnight drives -- that tap into the best of country's truck-driving tradition.
That he sets these vaguely constructed stories to a mile-wide array of musical backing -- "Hell Is An Open Door" could practically be an Allmans outtake; "Wholesale Lies" recasts Brian Wilson in a less innocent light; "Atlantic City" is the best Mercury Rev song written this year -- is a testament to Cornog's creativity as well as his facility with a rudimentary home studio. Simple, spare, and as hopeful as anything released this year, The Gasoline Age is the sound of life's infinite possibilities flying by your windshield.
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