Orinoka Crash Suite

When San Francisco’s John Dwyer wants to get his trashy, smashy garage rock on, he convenes his Coachwhips trio. But for quieter times, Orinoka Crash Suite is Dwyer’s vehicle for acoustic, blues-and-folk American gothic. Whereas the sad-sack song sketches and wordless sound collages were largely kept separate on the first two OCS records, last month’s double album, 3 & 4, marries the two in creepy ways. Dwyer, whether singing a single vocal track or eerily offering a low mumble or a high warble, always comes off ghostly and detached, like a man whose soul has been swiped by the devil and replaced with dry ice. His lyrics drip with knives waiting to be thrust, guns waiting to be fired, coked-out lost evenings, places he doesn’t want to be and friends he wants to avoid. Paradoxically, this newfound enmity makes Dwyer’s music more intriguing and personal than anything he’s done before.