Or maybe more like the Waltons' humble narrator, John Boy - y'know, sort of the liaison between the rural and the urbane. The kid was a writer after all - only I doubt he ever penned anything as wonderfully creepy and flat-out freaky as the contents of If We Can't Trust the Doctors (Cass/V2), Blanche's first missive of captivatingly unsettling southern gothic musings, released in 2004 to universal acclaim. Nah, John Boy would stick with down-home-y yarns about swimming holes and apple picking. I doubt he'd ever want to bum us out with confessions such as "Like a slot machine, hope lets you win / but just enough to keep you coming back again / But it don't take money, hope's crueler than that / It robs your spirit, and gives nothing back."

Ah, "The Hopeless Waltz" - a woozy pedal-steel-and-banjo stumbler of a song, in which chief songwriter Dan John Miller twangs away a despairing melody while Miller's wife-bassist Tracee Mae floats out a languid reminder: "When you're sadder than sad, that's when hope drives you mad." In time, that lost-in-the-ether feeling gives way to a spirited round of garage-rock bluster, only to recede and begin once again. It's probably my favorite track on an album, which seems to bounce from highlight to highlight, an imagining of George Jones or Porter Wagoner meeting up with Mazzy Star's Hope Sandoval in a Nashville studio with seasoned session musicians, only to be barged in by the White Stripes. (An apt reference, considering both bands have toured together, and Blanche's mandolin-and-banjo-master Little Jack Lawrence is also a member of Jack White's other enterprise, the Raconteurs.)

Other highlights? "Garbage Picker" is a gleefully deranged hayseed romp in which our hero has been, er, dumped, by his love interest for being a scavenger. Delivered in his best cornpone ramble, Miller recalls over a nervous shuffling rhythm: "My debonair style impressed you / But you kept asking where I shopped / And that day you saw me digging by the roadside / was the day our romance stopped." It's a welcome bit of levity in the midst of all the references to nightmares, jealousy, and abandonment. Still, it's easy enough to miss some of the album's darkness and dread if you surrender to its front-porch pickings: other than the occasional foray into storming garage-rock, If We Can't Trust the Doctors is a largely acoustic affair, often set aglow by Dave Feeny's infinitely expressive pedal steel and the rollicking banjo-work of Lawrence's predecessor, Patch Boyle. Pull those ears of yours away from the unplugged bonhomie, however, and you're likely to be regaled with another tale of disappointment. Even the "love song" on the album is anything but. "Do You Trust Me?" is a charming Lee Hazlewood/Nancy Sinatra-worthy piece of push-and-pull, but don't call it romantic: "Now the stars are sick of shining / though nothing's really wrong / And it doesn't take a jealous man / to sing a jealous song":

Blanche kept quite busy after the release of their debut: the Millers landed roles in the Johnny Cash biopic I Walk the Line, playing Cash's guitarist Luther Perkins and wife Birdie in the film. Lawrence and Feeny were part of Loretta Lynn's backing band the Do-Whaters for her 2004 comeback album, Van Lear Rose (Interscope). Lawrence also, as mentioned, hooked up with the Raconteurs. Tracee Mae kept on with her career as a visual artist. (Her painting "Wait Until Tomorrow" adorns the cover of Little Amber Bottles, and some of her work feels like the fever-dream folk-art equivalent of Edvard Munch.)

So, no, Blanche didn't exactly disappear after their debut, but record company woes did keep their profile rather low for a while. Well, then, Little Amber Bottles is quite the rousing way of saying, "We're back!" Recorded by Feeny as well as by Lambchop's Mark Nevers (producer of recent gems by the Clientele, Candi Staton, and Bonnie "Prince" Billy), it's a fuller, wider-reaching album than the first, indulging more in their punk/garage-rock proclivities as well as a few moments of country-gospel. Lyrically, they're still the same band - bless their twisted little hearts. Their latest murder ballad, "The World I Used to Be Afraid Of," is a cheeky little shuffler. Much praise to the intuitive rhythms of Lisa Jaybird Jannon, whose thoughtful drumming takes on a bolder role on Bottles. It's bolstered by happy-as-pie handclaps and cheerful mandolin. Sure, Dan John's drawling away about drowning his girlfriend in the river, but the sun is shining and the band sounds so positively ecstatic, so, ah, never mind.

Lawrence's banjo work is incredible, particularly on the gloriously mournful "O Death, Where Is thy Sting?", a haunting lament spotlighting Feeny's lonesome holler. Curiously, he sounds a bit like the bluegrass counterpart to Baltimore Anglophile singer-songwriter Cass McCombs, and his heartfelt turn at the mic provides an interesting change of pace from Dan John's usual sideshow-barker delivery. "A Year from Now" offers the album's most dramatic moment: a gradually building rumination about a troubled relationship, it begins with a sing-songy banjo lead and the male protagonist (Dan John) insisting that "a year from now, it'll be OK / a year from now, I'll know what to say," but soon enough we see reason for doubt. The string-quartet filigree does its best to fool us into thinking that everything's going to work out, but soon enough the tension intensifies as guitar feedback threatens to engulf the violins and cello, and by the song's drifting conclusion, it's clear that these lovers are about to part ways (or, they should, anyway).

In the nutball-country category, Blanche gives us "The World's Largest Crucifix", a frighteningly plodding psycho-drama worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as Porter Wagoner's "Rubber Room." Now, I've never been to Amarillo, Texas, and to be quite honest, after hearing this deranged chronicle of a road trip up I-75 to see the big-ass cross on the hill, I can assure you that I will do everything possible to make sure it stays that way. While menacing rockabilly guitar fights against a death-crawl rhythm, Miller appears to be waging his own personal battle…against mental illness. It ain't pretty.

The Nancy/Lee comparisons find their place once again on Bottles' opener, "I'm Sure of It," a buoyant-but-occasionally-slippery duet between Dan John and Tracee Mae boasting a curious contrast of sunny-afternoon banjo and ghostly violin creaks and moans. Our man's delivery is all sneer and sinuses, while his love interest metes out every word in a breathy sigh. It's a lovely match of jagged edges and pillowy softness, and fitting testimony to the genius of the Nancy/Lee collaborations. "I Can't Sit Down" does an intriguing dabble or two in the same territory, though in this case Hazlewood and Sinatra have been transported to a revival tent for a rapturous old-timey gospel rave-up pushed along by a floorboard-stomping oompah-rhythm. Mountain music never sounded so snotty.

Speaking of snotty, how about a peep at the video for "What This Town Needs", the first single from Bottles, previously unveiled as part of last year's V2 EP of the same name? Nice bass drum action: