America is one strange album -- creepy even. Things start out normal enough: Kweskin and company wander the tumbleweeds of the Old West. Very slowly, however, they melt into oozing molasses. By the time they reach "Old Rugged Cross," Kweskin hardly resembles the perky folk revivalist of the early mid-'60s. Behind him hovers a choir of ghosts that grows more haunted, more eerie, on the six-minute trance "Dark as a Dungeon" and "Old Black Joe," a death-bed lament moaned minutes before that last gasp.