ooden Wand sings in the shadow of God. Or in the shadow of those who sing in the shadow of God. Or in the shadow of those in the shadow of those who sing in the shadow of God. Worshipping not a deity, but a chronology of American musical traditions (country, gospel, 60s folk, the ongoing vision quests of psychedelic music, and current anti-folk) more or less separate from religious practice, James Toth finds his inspiration in God as an operative metaphor, an open image, and as a producer of meaning in life.

He could be Christian. But to enjoy Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg one shouldn’t search for autobiography in the album. That would miss the bigger picture, and Toth wants us to focus on the biggest picture—mortality, meaning, and salvation. These issues aren’t exclusive to the religious domain. They are, however, more easily accessed by religious imagery.

So there’s no need for games of is-he-or-isn’t-he. Instead listen to the word “God.” You’ll have many opportunities to do so in Harem of the Sundrum. Let the word dissociate from the literal Biblical meanings and instead focus on its mystical intent—a name for the unnameable. “God” denotes the ineffable relationship between humanity and its world, the clumsy jump from the level of individual to the level of collective. A world of misunderstanding, desire, and possibility opens when one searches for meaning in that leap. And all but the most ardent atheists have done so at some point. So Harem of the Sundrum, despite its seemingly brazen Christian themes, resonates powerfully with believers and non-believers alike.

Actually, even the ardent atheists will enjoy this record, because many of the tunes are so memorable, boasting melodies and hooks that transcend the lyrics. Stripped of semantics, Wooden Wand still crafts a sincere, cohesive album.

“Leave Your Perch” is a bleak, resigned number drenched in gentle, gas-leak tape hiss. The smoky moaning, the introspective finger-picking, and loping electric guitar accents guarantee success, but the lyrics happen to be wonderful as well. They collect dusty images that don’t really hit home until the refrain of “stick it to the wall.” With those simple words, Toth conjures hordes of lonely people bearing burdens too heavy to carry—lost faith, lost loves, lost lives. People trying to pin their burdens to something more powerful, more stable than themselves. The understated song achieves the rare feat of being both highly personal and broadly applicable.

“Porch Modifier,” the spiritual sequel of “Leave Your Perch…,” revels in the release of the burden. It harkens to a childhood of oneness with nature, before concerns and self-consciousness divided us. “Porch Modifier” is a reward for the struggles of “Leave Your Perch,” promising birds, a hopeful dawn, rising guitars, and gorgeous doubled vocals.

Toth pulls off the trifecta with the raucous “Vengeance, Pt.2.” Sounding drunk and happy, Toth slurs the chorus of “God says vengeance is mine” as if he doesn’t fear such vengeance at all. With the assurance of a good life led, Toth slips free from the watchful God, knowing he’ll see his friends in the next life. The chorus, rather than rousing fear, instead attempts to free us from the compulsion to judge. Vengeance is not within our power, anyway.

Side One ends with a brief letdown. “Sundrum Ladies”—with its snaking psychedelic touches and sneering vocals—seems to be a darker song, but the lyrics are so stubbornly obscure they defy all interpretation and undermine the solid musicianship. “Babylon the Great, pt. 3” features a pleasant chorus, but the guitar line becomes a bit repetitive over time and the flat vocal melody can’t carry the track.

Flip the record (Time-Lag does vinyl up right again. Also check out the bonus 7” for three strong covers) for “(Ask a) Sufist Chef,” which comes off as a successful version of “Sundrum Ladies.” Wolves, skeletons, and unanswered questions create an atmosphere of desperation and confusion. The most direct track on the album, “Sufist Chef” finds Toth looking inward, finding darkness, and fumbling for light. Ultimately his answer—“we should be with God without attachment”—sounds impotent in the open, empty space of the song.

Christian rock reigns right now, but even it features far fewer references to a higher power than this album. But Toth doesn’t want to indoctrinate. The bluntness of his imagery thwarts any subliminal intent. He wants the listener to make these images theirs, to consider them even if they don’t intend to set foot in church again. With Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg, he provides an impetus for thought as well as a compelling album.