omewhere there is a desert ruled by a sun that knows no malice, a sun that never scorches; warm, healing, nurturing, smiling softly down with love for all that is beneath it and all who pass through it. Calexico is that sun, making all the wonders of their desert visible. Shedding light not only on its geography -- the unblemished sand, the noble vegetation, the rocks, the sky -- but also its history, culture and humanity, Calexico transforms the desert into a place of adventure and inspiration, hope and redemption.


Over the course of Feast of Wire, Calexico beams down on you, warming your blood with songs of heroism, poverty, restlessness and uncertainty that bring to mind 70s AM radio and South American jazz as often as they do Marty Robbins and Slint. The dominant instruments are staples of Mexican music -- trumpets, acoustic guitars and accordions -- and Calexico’s giddy, reverent romanticism of the border is still in full bloom, but Feast of Wire is a startlingly diverse album which, like many of the characters who drift in and out of its songs, refuses to stand in one spot for long, knowing full well that in the desert there’s always more to be seen.


Where there’s sun, there will also be shadow. Calexico’s desert is not free of night or shade, and that’s why it’s such a fascinating place. There is energy and mischief, but it is always countered by mystery and darkness. Songs like “Sunken Waltz”, “Not Even Stevie Nicks” and “Across the Wire” radiate an uplifting warmth -- stories told by well-travelled friends, richly crafted with myriad perfectly chosen and tastefully played instruments -- but aren’t so warm that they defeat the chilly darkness of “Quattro (World Drifts In)”, “Black Heart” or “Woven Birds”, each song a stark, mesmerizing impression of dust and danger.


The crowning touch on many of Feast of Wire’s songs is Joey Burns’ voice. Taking on many forms -- whispering falsetto, confident croon, delicate sigh, rhythmic grumble -- Burns’ vocals are at once those of the common man and those of a genius. From the sublime (“Not Even Stevie Nicks”) to the strange (“No Doze”), Burns provides a face for each song. It’s never definite and often obscured by shadow, but it’s always there to be looked on for comfort and guidance.


Impressive, then, that the instrumental tracks that make up the rest of Feast of Wire are so incredible. No protagonist is needed to give “Pepita” its drive. No words could describe a chase as well as the trumpets of “Close Behind”. “Dub Latina” is far more than its title would suggest, a smooth, dynamic journey from texture to texture, rhythm to rhythm. “Guero Canelo” is at once sweaty, sultry and menacing. The tequila sunburn jazz of “Crumble” gets better with each solo. The freeform, somnambulant “No Doze” ends the album appropriately: with sunset.


A big part of what makes this album so wonderful is that it is a compilation of things that don’t actually exist. There is no kindly sun lighting the path you need to take, there is no mystery beyond America’s southern frontier (there’s not even an American frontier anymore), there are no more heroes and there is nowhere to go when it’s time to start over, but there is Feast of Wire, where these things don’t just exist, they thrive.