Behind the dunes

Spending a few lazy hours in the backyard of a radio station refining their audio-vérité seems a logical step for the Tucson-based outfit. Backyard Barbecue Broadcast (Koch), the new disc, which includes a few hard-to-spot older songs, was recorded for New Jersey radio station WFMU as part of its weekly live show The Music Faucet.

Singer/songwriter/guitarist Howe Gelb often pulls words through his schnozzle in a way that's either endearing or enraging, depending. His distinctive plaint sits in a particularly prominent spot 'round the WFMU campfire, where there's virtually no padding or volume. So Backyard Barbecue Broadcast is a rigorous test of his appeal as a songwriter and as a vocalist. And he triumphs for the simple reason that he's got plenty of screwball charm. Over the years he has evoked scenes that haunt and disturb: images of blue-lit ropes attached to bellybuttons, moss being scraped from bones, etc., linger like some kind of sick joke. Somehow Giant Sand's kookiness isn't too dangerous -- maybe because of Gelb's quaint side. As when he lamented that the "poor little universe/has stubbed its thing" on the title track of 1992's Center of the Universe (Restless). In any case, shafts of light have pierced the gloom since their first record, 1985's Valley of Rain (Enigma), when "Maybe we're just waking up to die" became "Maybe we're just waking up to try" at the end of "Death Dying and Channel 5."

The heart of Backyard Barbecue Broadcast beats more quietly, and takes longer to appreciate, than the earlier, rockin' incarnation of Giant Sand. You have to be in the proper mood to plunge into the ragamuffin folksiness and eccentricity of it, especially given the opener, "BBQ Suite," a 23-minute compendium of five songs rolled into one. Right off there's a melodic shuffle of harmonica and guitar and Gelb's voice comes in crackly and hoarse, singing of a "big quagmire" and "love as a heat-seeking missile." An exquisite steel guitar wavers in the breeze and a dog barks. And then Gelb's sitting at "the counter of intelligence," java in hand, trying to figure out things he doesn't know. Wistful and weird, "Good and Gone" is itself a gentle mystery.

In the face of cryptic words, the song titles lend a bit of definition. The guitar/drum pulse of "Romance of Falling" is unsettled and urgent, and Gelb's croak is downright tuneless. In the most lucid moments he sings, "Dancing drunk on the edge of love" and "Her eyes were blank, man, I thought they were loaded." But the restrained insistence of the rhythm is what speaks the loudest about a heart out of control.

"Seashells" emerges from "Romance of Falling." It's an undulating sliver of steel set against Gelb's mumble-singing a puzzle about a so very happy Fourth of July and the swamps of Joisey. Midway through he interrupts his song to offer a burger to the resident pooch. Placid and slight, the number doesn't aim for tons of import. In fact, that freewheeling artless spirit is what's most attractive about Backyard Barbecue and Giant Sand in general. But it's also to blame for the whiff of self-indulgence that can lurk amid all the pitter-patter and willful weirdness.

"Mope-A-Long" works because it settles into a simple groove and rides it to the end. A slow drum-and-bass shuffle is hard to beat, and not even Gelb's bizarre words can dampen the song's easy country sway. But by the time "Lean" bleeds out of "Mope-A-Long" and Gelb is chanting, "You are mullusks in a shell/You and your cahh-rrrr . . . ," the insanity verges on tedious. So it's a relief when his mischievous side kicks in: "They're still husking out in the doo/If you muster you sure can pull through too." The silliness redeems it; the ad-lib feel is ingratiating.

Still, Backyard Barbecue's spontaneity can fizzle when the new versions are held up to the originals. "Get To Leave" sputters along, never igniting here, whereas the Long Stem Rant (Demon) version from seven years ago was fast and urgent, if not groundbreaking. There's something to be said for sticking to a script, even if it means losing the haphazard charm of barking dogs and splashing in the pool.

A fund has been set up for the medical costs of Giant Sand guitarist Rainer Ptacek, who has no health insurance and has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. Donations can be sent to Bank One, 2 East Congress Street, Tucson, Arizona 85701.