Call her country soul. Call her a singer-songwriter. Call her Americana. Whatever you label her as, British belter Yola Carter is a force of nature. With a rich and inviting voice, loads of soul, and big, enticing melodies, she's an undeniable talent.
Her debut full-length, Walk Through Fire, finds Yola giving us a broad view of her artistry. There are songs for letting go ("Ride Out in the Country"), songs for holding on ("Rock Me Gently"), sexy country jams ("Love All Night"), and everything in between.
"Lonely the Night" lets Carter show off the comforting lows and thrilling highs of her singing chops. The step-up from the verse to chorus raises goosebumps in anticipation of the crazy release of the chorus, which does not disappoint.
"Keep Me Here" is my favorite song on the album. It's an old-school slow jam with Vince Gill on backing vocals. It finds Yola stuck in a one-sided relationship she really has no desire to leave. This would've been a smash hit in the late 70s or early 80s.
Despite the ability to let it rip vocally, there's a humble authenticity in Yola's work, and Walk Through Fire is a true showcase of both restraint and abandon. These are endearing songs that grab you immediately and stick around. A powerful debut worth your time.
Nine times out of ten, I hate Christmas music. Outside of “Blue Christmas” and “The Fairytale of New York,” by the Pogues, which makes me homesick for the dive bars in Chicago filled with Irish folks chatting over shots of Jameson and cold bottles of Miller, I am most definitely not a fan of the genre.
I want to stab my ears out when I hear “All I want for Christmas is You” and every year, they pull Mariah Carey out of her crypt and she gets up there and smiles knowing how much cash she’s about to make for the month.
On JD Mcpherson’s new Christmas record, Socks, I don’t feel that mind-numbing hatred, but in fact, I absolutely love it.
Instead of hokey tunes that feel like you’re trapped in mall-flavored hell, Socks is a refreshing take on a stale genre. I get it, tons of bands, artists, and labels love to cash in at Christmas because fans eat the genre up, but Socks doesn’t come off that way. Instead, it feels like one of McPherson’s records, just done up in red and green lights and tinsel.
What’s cool about Socks is that it’s very much in the spirit of McPherson’s first record, Signs and Signifiers, where the songs feel like they’re straight out of the Little Richard songbook. Nothing on Socks feels like it was written as a throwaway, but instead, he could play them in the middle of June with the same sense of excitement. These are straight up old school-minded rockabilly tunes that well-written and boy do they swing. The vibe is playful and there’s a swing of the hammer that just doesn’t quit.
“All The Gifts I Need,”, “Hey Skinny Santa,”, “Socks,” and “Santa’s Got a Mean Machine,”, all of these songs are total sock hop dancers that you can’t do anything but bounce around to. Socks is the perfect Christmas party record, its loud, fun, and never gets lame.
Basically, let me put it this way: if you can’t put Socks on the turntable or wireless speaker while cooking dinner and not want to do the twist in your socks, you’re a monster. Get out and buy a copy before everyone else finds out about the record, you jolly Santa-themed maverick, you.
With the ironically named Dying Star, Ruston Kelly
shows promise of bigger things to come
By Kevin Broughton
Last week saw the long-awaited release of season two of Amazon’s original “Patriot,” easily the most underrated and hilarious television show on any platform the last five years. The protagonist, John Tavner (a.k.a. “Lakeman”) is an intelligence operative/assassin who deals with the job’s inevitable stressors in an unconventional way: By getting high, writing songs about his real-life exploits, then singing them at open-mic nights. This “sad man in a suit” never smiles; but no matter what awful wolves are at the door, he always answers “pretty good,” when somebody asks how things are going. And things are always impossibly awful for Tavner.
One imagines a third season of “Patriot” heavily laden with Ruston Kelly songs. His full-length album debut, Dying Star, is wonderfully, beautifully – almost impossibly – melancholy. His characters just can’t seem to get out of their own way. Whether it’s pills, booze, infidelity or commitment issues these folks touch all the bases and are therefore of necessity sympathetic to somebody. A listen/look at the “Mockingbird” video
gives a pretty good idea at how heavy an emotional investment some of these songs bring. Kelly’s plaintive, poignant voice gives an intimate authenticity to the collection of misfits who bring these stories to life. “Faceplant” is a halfway-funny song about a pill head worrying his girlfriend will key his car and leave his possessions outside when he staggers home for the last time. And that one is followed by “Blackout,” which is the dude’s favorite thing to do in the car.
Probably no one remembers a time when Ryan Adams wasn’t a pretentious douchebag. Maybe in an alternate universe, Ruston Kelly is Adams, but a version that will never wear horn-rimmed glasses and read his book of poetry to a fawning crowd at a library in Brooklyn. Kelly has the sweet, soulful voice and the songwriting chops. And if these fourteen songs – none of which you’ll want to skip – are any indication, he can be every bit as prolific. Toward the end of the record, there’s even a hopeful uptick toward redemption. Throughout, Kelly makes great use of pedal steel and an occasional dueling harmonica to punctuate his phrasing. The whole record is just really danged pleasing to the ear.
This probably won’t be the best album Ruston Kelly ever makes. But there aren’t many released in 2018 by anyone that are its equal.
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Dying Star is available anywhere you buy or stream fine music.
The Pollies have had a busy, if somewhat quiet career since their debut came out in 2012. They've released 1 other full-length album, have backed Chris Porter on an EP, and have, of late, been backing Dylan LeBlanc around the US and Europe. In that time they have stretched their musical muscles and expanded the sounds that made their first two albums so intriguing. Now, they have released the retro, but positively modern, new album Transmissions.
With pulsing synths opening up the album, the Pollies let you know that a band from a place with rich musical history (Muscle Shoals, AL) can still shatter what it means to be a Southern band. While decidedly Southern sounding on most of the album, there are moments of freakouts such as the midway point and end of "Knocking At My Door." These are well-served and welcomed additions to these songs, adding a layer of intrigue to the perfectly crafted pop songs on the album. (To be fair, I've always been a fan of any sort of freakout moment on an album, so maybe I'm just biased.)
Jay Burgess and crew have started to hone their hook skills with beautiful rock songs like "Love's To Fault" and "Hold On My Heart." Burgess's voice is perfect to carry across these songs of loving and longing. You know how Lindsay Buckingham is the only person who could ever sing "Tusk?" Burgess's voice just ties all of these songs together with his raspy, wistful voice. Listen to "Lonely" and try to not be moved.
At their core, The Pollies have always been a pop rock band with tendencies to stretch out songs. Southern pop rock has always been a rather unglorified but important genre. Bands like Big Star put Southern pop rock on the map, but there are a number of bands emulating that style today (one other that comes to mind is Belle Adair out of AL, as well). The Pollies are carrying that torch and making that sound all their own.
If I had one complaint, I would say that I almost wish "You Want It" was a bit muted on the synths. It's an interesting inclusion, and I almost like the addition. But, it gets to be a bit glaring and doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the album. The rest of the songs are incredibly well thought out and balanced. "You Want It" misses that mark, for me.
Still, Transmissions is worth the price of admission. You won't be disappointed with the contents. This is an album of perfect summer tunes- almost wish I had the whole summer back to enjoy this one with the windows down or out on the river. In a different life, The Pollies would be getting their due on the radio, but that is not the world we live in. Instead, you should go out, buy this and every other Pollies album, and share or buy one for your friends/family.
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Transmissions is available on Bandcamp, Amazon, Spotify, etc.
It takes a lot of time, patience, and mistakes to realize who you are as a man. From the way we get knocked down, to what we do next when the dust settles, all of those moments matter, they say something about us, what stock we’re built from.
Throughout Shooter Jennings career, he’s made it a point always to turn left when his peers go right, to duck and dodge, when everyone else is out there trying to sing a little ditty to sell a few Dodges. He’s a man you cannot put a label on, because the minute you try, he’ll outwit you and drop a surprise you never saw coming.
On his latest record, Shooter, Jennings has done it again. He’s made the album no one expected, except this time, some ghosts are lingering of a different variety. Shooter isn’t a record Jennings could have made when I first met him almost ten years ago, instead, that Shooter Jennings was channeling his inner Trent Reznor, he was finding new and beautiful ways to fuck with anyone who thought they knew him.
On Black Ribbons, Shooter Jennings wrote a concept record that has flashes of brilliance that hit harder today than we could have foreseen at the time. The fact that that album lies dormant in a lot of rock and roll minds is a crime, but hopefully, history will be on Jennings side, and he’ll get the credit he deserves.
Following that record, Jennings stayed close to country, writing records like Family Man or The Other Life, which are strong genre records, but they still had a flavor of angst, a shadowy, “can I crank up the gain a little here”, or “can I try this concept on them” there. Straight ahead country records, they were not. While solid, that era of Jennings career wasn’t his most pure; it was a time of growth and personal observation, which in the greater catalog, we can see the direct impact of.
On Shooter though, everything feels different. There’s no way, the guy who wrote Black Ribbons could have sat down and written “Born to Git Down” – Shooter is a portrait into a man who’s come to terms with his abilities, goals, and what he’s after. You can’t write a bunch of feel-good tunes that go hard with the beers, without a sense of purpose, and humility, otherwise, it comes off contrived and douchey, AKA most of the garbage pop country radio pedals.
Collectively, Shooter is Jennings best record. It’s fun, it’s loud, and it’s carefree. There’s elements of boogie-woogie, Motown, pure rock and roll, and a lot of heart. “Do You Love Texas” should be a new Lone Star anthem given it’s unabashed, bold, and in your face, which are all things Texans love. My new hobby is to pull the song up on a TouchTunes jukebox, and then watch people walk up to see the track, and immediately put it on their phones.
“Denim & Diamonds” calls back to Hank Jr’s “Outlaw Woman” a solid beer tune, good for the dark bar, and those drinks you have alone when the day’s been just a little too long for small talk.
I appreciate and applaud Shooter Jennings for reaching inside of himself and owning his legacy and his past. I hope the world around him, and the country radio program managers take a risk and add a few of the tunes off Shooter, if anything, as an effort to save their souls, because Shooter is fun, it’s reckless, and it’s pure country music that is without false pretense. If you can’t kick up your heels to “D.R.U.N.K,” you need to take those boots right off the dance floor, mate.
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Shooter is available everywhere you ingest fine music.
After two decades in the game, Lucero has reached one of those critical milestones as a band: people care about their new music.
As many of their peers are relegated to being humored when they play new songs live, Lucero’s fans crave new music, they want the stories singer Ben Nichols crafts from his years on the road, with a heart that’s taken a beating. The darkness of Lucero is what keeps people coming back, and always will.
On their new record, Among The Ghosts, Lucero have tapped into their hard-living past, the present as the perennial road dogs, but also, what Lucero will mean down the line. Considering the guys in the band haven’t had regular jobs since before they could legally buy beer, it’s an interesting pretense for a core that’s never broken up, but also, evolved together as a unit.
A Lucero show isn’t a concert; it’s a drunken hangout. The bar hums with copious amounts of whiskey and the crack of a tallboy. The crowd hollering along is a part of the ritual, a moment with your tribe saying that this room understands you, that this moment, these tattooed jerks can lead you somewhere honest, somewhere that only the baptized understand.
For many of us, we see those songs, those moments of anathema as a reflection of our own mistakes. Ben Nichols managed to take when we feel alone and broken, but shapes his pain into an experience that strangers share, and for many, to the point of tears. Lucero’s darkness, their self-loathing, their regrets, shame, the world pushing against them, against us – was the bond, the communion.
Fans of the band have a preconceived idea of what Lucero is. The thing is that they’re an emotional collective people feel like they have ownership of. It’s a special place to be in hearts when you can fill a room in any corner of America, and a good 50% of those people have your band’s logo tattooed on them. The songs are anthems that timestamp people’s hearts and mean different things do different parts of the country.
For the yankees, Lucero is a band drawn up from the Southern mud, a group that rips apart a room and lets them kick up their heels, hoisting their drinks in hand, shouting along to drinking songs and bummer tunes alike. For the southerners, Lucero is a mixture of country idealism, but with the punk rock ethos so many in the crowd lived through in a pre-internet age, when having tattoos and a Black Flag shirt, but a Hank Williams tape in the car meant something much different than it does today. Lucero even played Alaska, finding a way to give people who are far removed from the continental US something to drink about.
But, then Ben Nichols got happy. He got married, and later he became a dad. Word around the campfire was the band just couldn’t run on the same kind of smoke as it had in its past, for the fans, it was a long sigh of, “well, at least we’ve got the old songs because the new ones are gonna suck.”
We figured we’d lost our hillbilly Tom Waits; Lucero was now going to be another band where we endure the new tunes to get to “Drink Till We’re Gone” or “Tears Don’t Matter Much.”
When Among The Ghosts was announced, it wasn’t a surprise by any means; Lucero is a prolific band that releases records on a fairly regular cadence. It was just that the optimism of possibility wasn’t there, that we were going to get another Women and Work or All A Man Should Do. While both records have a few solid tunes sprinkled throughout, they’re not the powerhouses that make up the band’s back catalog like the perennial favorite, Tennessee, or That Much Further West or even 1372 Overton Park.
Then the songs started leaking out. Lucero flipped the script; they challenged what they’d become over the last few records.
While the Stax-heavy horns were an experiment in identity, Lucero is so much more. Lucero is regret in song form but also knowing what life looks like from a lot of lenses. Among The Ghosts captures that familiar darkness that fans craved so much, it broke our hearts again, this time not because the bar is yelling the last call, but because the reality of life on the road, temptation, and sin are all out there, but Nichols isn’t interested.
Among The Ghosts is a personal dive into what it’s like to leave children behind, as drummer Roy Berry recently became a father, too. Guitarist Brian Venable has a son who recently toured with his dad for the first time. These guys are living their years out on the road while their children grow, while their hometown of Memphis goes on without them.
“For The Lonely Ones” is easily one of the best Lucero songs of all time. It’s better than anything off of the last three records combined. If there was a way to explain what Lucero means, what they feel like, in one moment, the encroaching analog darkness that slithers from the tape and through the vinyl is there, ready to be devoured.
“Cover Me” is a howling madman of a tune that encapsulates a yearning, an animal fire that’s not like any of the previous Lucero anthems. While it’s about Butch Cassidy, it feels much more nefarious, which is a good thing. “Cover Me” feels violent, but without a threat. Title track “Among The Ghosts” doesn’t feel forced. Instead, it’s a promise to Nichols wife and child, explaining his world one tortured vowel at a time.
This is the Lucero record fans have wanted. This is what Lucero is, intrinsically: those guys sweating it out in a room, figuring out the vibe, their history, but also knowing who they are. While some bands get progressively tamer with each release, Lucero are more punk now than ever. They’ve always straddled a line of punk and country as kissing cousins, there’s nothing the band can do that would shock or surprise the faithful. The blood is on the tracks.
Among The Ghosts is the moment that refocuses the dynamic of what Lucero is: While the punk overtones have always been there, “Among The Ghosts” is a statement, that despite what changes in their lives, how they grow, those boys from Memphis with all them tattoos, still have plenty of darkness to mine from.
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Among the Ghosts is available tomorrow everywhere.
When I review music, I do it primarily from the point of view of a fan. I'm a music lover with a platform, not a music historian or trained writer (clearly). The focus will always be on the sound, the lyrics, and the emotions the songs bring out.
Luckily, Cody Jinks is an easy subject to cover - you know what you're going to get: modern sounding country based in honky-tonk and 70s 'outlaw' country. Some people want their artists to explore new sonic territories and "evolve" over subsequent albums. While I embrace that sort of growth, I'm more invested in artists who grow in their songwriting while hewing close to a signature sound.
On Lifers, Jinks nails it. The rich vocals, steel guitar, whiskey, regret …all the things you've come to expect from Cody are here. And while he's certainly written some classics along the way, the overall consistency of the songwriting has never been better. There's a lot to be said for finding your niche and just freakin' owning it.
"Holy Water" leads the way with a mid-tempo search for truth. It's a look in the mirror at a man who's been grasping for something. That something, he realizes, is spiritual in nature and the female backing vocals come in like a choir of support.
Lead single "Must Be The Whiskey" was written by Joshua Morningstar. It's a loping modern honky-tonker and a thinking man's drinking song… or a drinking man's thinking song. That damn chorus is such an earworm, it's been stuck in my head for weeks.
There's a lot of points to hit here, so I'm going to speed up the proceedings. "Somewhere Between I Love You and I'm Leaving" is exactly what you'd imagine from the title - a tear in your beer ballad. Jinks' vocal performance is the star of this weeper, elevating it to possible song of the year territory.
Title track "Lifers" celebrates struggle and work ethic - the 'throwbacks and cowboys in old hats.' "Big Last Name" is going to be a huge concert sing-along. It's pure Texas country. "Colorado," co-written with Ward Davis, is another outstanding ballad and probably my favorite song on the album.
Things take an interesting turn at the end of Lifers. The last three songs, "7th Floor," "Stranger," and "Head Case" take a cue from "Holy Water" and get really thoughtful and introspective. Honestly, I'm still trying to absorb these two, particularly "7th Floor." If you're looking for evolution out of Cody, bookending the record with songs that look so decidedly and honestly inward may fill your quota.
Lifers is probably the strongest album yet from an artist who's still ascending in popularity. Who knows if it's the vehicle to be his "big breakthrough," but it's certainly accessible enough to fit the bill. Cody Jinks is on such a roll that even though he likely has little interest in mainstream radio, it's still an embarrassment to have such vibrant and beloved music exist in a world where that's not even a possibility.
Anyway, stay up till midnight tonight, download the album, pour a glass of something strong, and settle in for a damn good listen. Lifers is killer.
From my perspective, Lori McKenna is the best working songwriter whose last name isn't Prine. She has a gift - and 'gift' seems like the biggest understatement ever - for conveying real, lived-in emotion. She doesn't paint a picture; she paints you into the picture. You're there.
No matter your particular station in life - when Lori sings, you're a broken-hearted husband, a loving mother, a thankful child. I'm almost convinced it's voodoo.
The Tree is McKenna's latest foray into messing with your feelings. Family is front and center across the eleven songs, and again, it doesn't matter what you bring to the experience - Lori's plucking you from your existence and plopping you down in her stories.
"People Get Old," the album's first single, builds a world around its simple title. The passage of time and the certainty of aging are well worn themes to be sure, but you haven't felt them like this. The imagery - dad's cut sleeved t-shirt, turning off all the lights int the house like her dad did - doesn't just set the scene, it sets the mood. Lori's vocals pull you the rest of the way in, and suddenly you're reminiscing the past and pondering the future right alongside her.
"You Can't Break a Woman" tells a philandering mate how little his drinking and running around matters anymore. She's still there, but she's not there for him to hurt. Even though the message is to the lover, you're the titular woman. She hasn't left yet, but she's long gone.
Though a lot of The Tree's songs lean on shading and expertly arranged simple prose, Lori can wordsmith with the best of them. On "The Lot Behind St. Mary's," McKenna flexes her lyrical muscle. It's a longing and nostalgic look back to a couple's more innocent times. I'd pick a line or two to include here, but really, the entire thing is incredible. The most devastating thing about this song is what she doesn't explicitly tell us. When it hits you…
There's some joy to be found on The Tree - celebrating the small things and the everyday heroes (mom!). There's also a lot of struggle to go around - much like life. McKenna's brilliance is her searing honesty. Her ability to absorb the listener into the song is without equal.
Give this album your full and undivided attention, but prepare yourself. This isn't a record of pat platitudes and mindless entertainment. It demands of you. I don't get "in my feelings" much, but if you really listen to this album and don't go there, you missed out.
When I heard the news last year that American Aquarium was experiencing a mass exodus of all members except for singer-songwriter BJ Barham, I wondered what form Barham would continue on in. I knew that he'd continue. The songwriter in him showed no signs of quit, of having that hard-earned time out on the road be for nothing. I will admit that I was shocked to hear that the name American Aquarium would continue on with all new members. But, at the end of the day, Barham's earnest lyrics and dedicated-to-the-craft workmanship is what made American Aquarium truly work. So, it should be no surprise that the latest output from Barham and new mates is just as impressive as ever.
Barham seems to find that muse of his when his back's against the wall. When he feels like he's been backed into a corner and the only way to get himself out is to fight like hell. It's what we saw with 2012's stellar Burn. Flicker. Die. And now we see it here on Things Change. I think that muse was burning from both ends of the same candle on this latest output as Barham saw not only the end of his band, but a change in the U.S. that was hard for many to grapple with.
I'll get that political upheaval out of the way first because I think that may turn some folks off. It shouldn't. Barham writes from his personal worldview. You might disagree, but he isn't wrong either. When he sings of seeing the hate his grandfather fought against being alive and well, it's there. And, regardless of who won the election of 2016, it was still going to be there. So, before getting mad at yet another artist who should just "shut up and sing," just listen. Try understanding that there are folks out there that are worried- on both sides. We are scared of each other, but we can change that. Music is one of the things that can, and does, bring us together.
As far as the other subjects on the album, there is a mighty heavy dose of regret and hope when it comes to losing friends you've had for years. There's always sadness when you lose someone- whether it be by choice or, god forbid, death. But, there is always hope and happiness in what that change can bring. Barham doesn't shirk responsibility for those relationships failing. He meets them head-on and tries to learn lessons from those failures. He addresses the man he used to be when he would blame every trouble he had on every woman who did him wrong ("One Day At A Time"). He addresses the booze that always led him astray and towards self-destruction ("I Gave Up The Drinking"). Barham knows he isn't perfect, but his ability to stare his demons in the face with hope is what makes the album so incredibly stunning. And, that's just the words...
The music on this album is a synthesis of every single American Aquarium album up until now. There are hard-driving rockers ("Crooked+Straight"), acoustic self-reflective songs ("One Day At A Time"), and straight up country songs ("Work Conquers All"). While the band prior to this iteration was a pretty damn good band, this new band has absolutely crushed any expectations one could have had going into this album. Barham is the glue holding the band together, sure. But, the band takes his bare bones songs and kicks them up countless notches. I don't think Barham could have chosen a better group of musicians for this new era of American Aquarium and I can't wait to hear where this band goes from here.
So, give these songs a listen. Take time with them. Don't get turned off because he says something that might not be what you want to hear. Hear it from his point of view. Music is the great equalizer and as always, hope springs eternal. And don't forget to go see Barham and crew as they come to your town!
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Things Change is available everywhere you enjoy good music.
Leon III's debut album begins with a Grateful Dead-esque loopy guitar intro and then the heavy twang of a familiar voice. The band's background info describes them as a psychedelic Americana group, and based on the opening seconds, you'd have to say that's about right.
The voice you recognize is that of Andy Stepanian, the head ass of the Wrinkle Neck Mules, a long under-appreciated alt-country outfit from Virginia. Mason Brent of the Mules is on guitar. Leon III is a bringing together of this duo's rustic aesthetic with the smoother sounds of acts like Wilco and the experimentation of jam and indie rock. While that may sound like an odd mixture, it's not a far cry from a lot of the alt-country I listened to in the early 2000s.
The band is rounded out by drummer Brian Kotzur of Silver Jews, pianist Tony Crow, singer Jordan Caress, and guitarist Chris Scruggs - Scruggs as in the grandson of Earl - this is a top notch collaboration of musicians.
So, I've listed the influences and ingredients, but what does Leon III sound like? Downtrodden folk rock might be the best descriptive. Stepanian's gruff vocals combined with the softer textures laid down behind him is an intoxicating presentation. For me, the familiarity with Wrinkle Neck Mules' jubilance made it an even more disconcerting experience at first. It's not a challenging listen, but it's a challenge to absorb this album. The reward is worth repeated listens.
The album is meant to be digested as a whole, but there are a few standout tracks for me. "Faded Mountain" is driven by bass and drums, punctuated by piano and steel guitar. It's one of the quieter moments on Leon III, but the simplicity of the sounds and the poetry of the lyrics make it one of the more poignant.
"Alberta" is the heart of this record. It's a slow build of a song about realizing you'll never have it all. The progression of this track will raise the hairs on your arms - horns push the horizon higher and Stepanian's yearning grows then fades. It's an emotional trip.
"Between the Saddle and the Ground" talks about the swiftness in which salvation can be found, even in the fleeting moments. It's constructed around a William Camden quote referred to on the Dead's "China Doll." The tune is reverential to the Dead, but the sound is pure epic Americana.
Leon III isn't an easy album to love, but once you've let it seep in for a few listens, it won't leave your mind or soul. This is emotional, intelligent, artful music in an era of throwaway culture. If you dig Wrinkle Neck Mules, Silver Jews, Wilco, or any act in between, it's well worth your investment to give this record a few spins.
When people ask about Farce The Music, I like to think of what we do around here is spread “The Gospel of Good Shit.” We’ve helped give a little credence to folks who are either up and coming or out there killing it, who deserve more ink than other outlets are providing them.
We talked about Sturgill before he was cool, and we blabbed on about Chris Stapleton when he was still “that big, bearded dude from The Steeldrivers.” We shouted from the rooftops about Tyler Childers and Colter Wall back when no one had so much of heard of these dudes outside of Ole’ W.B. Walker. We’ve not shut up about Margo Price since she was talking about losing the farm and wanting a bottle of wine for momma.
Lindi Ortega, Jason Isbell, Lillie Mae, Ian Noe, Kacey Musgraves, and Justin Wells - all of that amazing music, we’ve been waiving those flags a long time now. This isn’t a pat on the back; it’s a mission statement: we’re dedicated to helping champion amazing artists, and hopefully getting some of these folks who are still slugging it out in bars, playing for tips, sell a few t-shirts or at least another bottle of PBR after their set.
There’s a name that keeps popping up on my radar over and over again, someone who thanks to my mate Harsha down in Sydney, I got the chance to see in a tiny little room above a Spanish restaurant on the other side of the planet. That name is Joshua Hedley.
While I enjoyed my experience seeing him in a packed room full of Aussies in their best country gear, it wasn’t until I heard his new record, Mr. Jukebox, when I was flabbergasted at Joshua Hedley’s beauty and brilliance.
Joshua Hedley is a name that will be mentioned in places “too cool” for country, that vaunted Sturgill Simpson territory, an area that blurs the lines of just who Sturgill’s “core” fanbase is, nobody knows – but there sure are a ton of them. Rolling Stone has already jumped on board, and then there’s NPR, The Chicago Reader, The Tennessean, to name just a few who are falling hard for Hedley’s debut Third Man Records release.
Having spent years as a featured Monday night performer at Robert’s Western World down on Nashville’s main drag, since his teens, Hedley knows a thing or two about playing the hits, and it shows on Mr. Jukebox. It’s become lore amongst the musicians on Broadway to cite how well Hedley knows his country music, but also that he can play it at the drop of a Stetson.
What Mr. Jukebox isn’t, is another record featuring a desire to be a bar room badass, a fighter in a leather hat ala Waylon with a Kool dangling off his lip, ready to clean a clock and peel out on a Harley, middle fingers up. Outlaw isn’t a world uttered when describing what Hedley does, in fact, it’s the exact opposite of what he does.
When Waylon and Willie were coming up and energizing the idea of what the Outlaw scene meant, it was on the merit of beer swigging hooligans who write songs for guys with hard knuckles and a constitution for cheap blow and fast women. The songs weren’t complex arrangements, nor did they lean on the traditions of Nudie suits or songs about horses and other fairy tales of the scene back then.
Outlaw was decidedly not what was popular in the day’s country music, which featured lush string arrangements and stories about heartbreak, and deceit by a lovelorn partner. There was a sense of beauty to those songs, a purpose driven by big choruses and a beat that anyone could two-step to, drunk or sober, happy or sad.
That’s precisely the nerve Joshua Hedley taps into on Mr. Jukebox with booming traditionalism and on the nose respect to the late 50’s early 60’s era of country, before disco or rock n' roll changed the flavor.
The soul of Mr. Jukebox is decidedly unhip to mainstream Nashville standards, but the songs are glorious throwbacks to guys like Ernest Tubb, George Jones or Buck Owens. The reason Mr. Jukebox succeeds is his backbone of traditionalism, not only in character, but also because of Ole’ Hed’s dedication to the heart of real country music.
Hedley’s fiddle furiously battles his smooth vocal runs with a multi-disciplined attack that's just damned good music. Joshua Hedley can strum a guitar, sing with a clean, clear harmonious range, and write lyrics that are not only witty, but also painstakingly crafted so that the words on some of the record’s tracks land like guy punches.
Mr. Jukebox is the record you can slip on for MeeMaw while she’s in the kitchen and you’re likely to get a head turn out of her because the sound, the style, the playing is so believable, so in the moment; it’s hard to reckon that Mr. Jukebox is brand new. Say what you will, but there’s always something pleasing about getting a flicker of recognition from the old school, even if she’s just making a gumbo in her slippers.
The record’s opener, “Counting All My Tears” lets the listener know that without a doubt, Conway Twitty’s stamp is there. All throughout the album, the steel guitar slides and wanes while the harmonies are large productions that harken back to the thick, wall of sound delivery, but with a slight tinge of gospel power hidden in the rafters for a sprinkle of good luck.
“Weird Thought Thinker” feels like that era of Willie Nelson before he moved back to Texas, while “I Never (Shed a Tear)” feels straight off Patsy Cline’s vine and broadcast to the world via The Grand Ole Opry. This is pure classic, country music that’s without any of the bullshit sparkles. We’re getting closer and closer to two factions of country music coming to the forefront: Southern Pop and Country Music.
If there was any doubt of what Joshua Hedley does, brother you ain’t been paying attention. Mr. Jukebox is here to stay, and the waves we’ll see in his wake will only push those boats higher and higher – green Nudie suit and all.
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Mr. Jukebox is available everywhere you consume fine music.
When a band releases a record that defines their career, it’s Sisyphean task to follow it up. Very few bands can write a Sgt. Peppers and come back swinging with the White Album as the Beatles did. The same goes with the Stones, who managed to write five classic records in a row, starting with Beggars Banquet and ending with Goats Head Soup.
Bands like At The Drive In, Glassjaw, Refused, and At The Gates, all have classic records people obsess over and study to an almost scary degree. Genres and styles of play have evolved around the seminal The Shape of Punk To Come and Slaughter of The Soul. Over twenty years later, kids are discovering those records and trying their best to copy the magic caught on tape.
When Sleep released its droning, doom-defining monolith Dopesmoker, it was met with a resounding thud thanks to the band's label refusing to release it in its original form. A secondary tracked down edition titled Jerusalem finally was released, but it was always Dopesmoker that found its way into tape trading circles and bootlegs pressings. But, the fervor for Dopesmoker bubbled up from the tar pits and over the years, has become canon for all things stoner.
In the wake of Dopesmoker’s release and subsequent troubles, Sleep broke up, but remained brothers in smoke. Al Cisneros formed his otherworldly OM while guitar hero Matt Pike challenged Lemmy for the baddest man in rock and roll with High on Fire. Drummer Chris Hakius played in OM for a few years but ultimately hung up his sticks to focus on being a family man.
And then in 2009, Sleep reformed out of nowhere. Capitalizing on the growing doom and stoner scene in mainstream metal circles, Sleep went from playing ½ filled bars in cowboy towns to packing bodies into rooms holding a few thousand across the globe. For almost a decade, the band toured sporadically, hitting the Blue Chip festivals or doing a nationwide run for month or two, raking in the cash.
Stoner metal fans devoured the chance to see their heroes live, for the chance to be taken to the church of all things Weedian.
In these past years, Cisneros, Pike, along with new drummer Jason Roeder of Neurosis fame pummeled their way through Sleep’s greatest hits and no one was one bit mad about it. They still got the cherry festival payday, while red-eyed fans gobbled up the band's merch with no fear. For the band, the promoters and the fans, this worked, and it was easy for one simple reason: writing new music could taint the legacy for the world’s greatest doom band that’s not Black Sabbath.
Music, especially metal fans can be fickle. People care about legacy in heavy metal. Bands can go from hallowed legends to “they wrote The Ugly Organ, but the new stuff sucks” real quick. Once the band falls down the ladder a few rungs, people stop showing up to the shows, and the hype dies down.
Sleep continually teased new music, but only released one track, “The Clarity”. Everyone figured they’d write a new record, someday, but till then, fans would enjoy hearing “Dragonaut” or “Holy Mountain” at shows, knowing they’d never be bumped out of the set list.
But then on 4/20 Sleep surprised the world with their first record in two decades, The Sciences through Jack White’s Third Man Records. The Weedians had awoken, and they brought forth new tunes for the stoned masses, but the question that was on everyone’s mind: would Sleep cheapen their legacy or affirm it?
The band did neither. Instead, The Sciences is one of the year’s best records and moves beyond, “good follow up to Dopesmoker,” and places Sleep as the undisputed heirs to the throne of Black Sabbath. The Sciences is not only a neck breaking, sludgy love song to the universe, it’s a poem to the mysteries of faith, but it’s also a masterpiece.
Al Cisneros taps into the wild, unearthly drones of his OM project and interjects them seamlessly into the 2018 edition of Sleep. The band capitalizes on tight, circular driving grooves that feel familiar, but not tired or a rehash of what they’d already achieved.
The Sciences offers a narrative on what’s it’s like inside Sleep’s world of churning riffs that demand the listener join them on a quest into the deep recesses of the mind.
Instead of mindless wandering, which many of their burned out contemporaries are guilty, tracks like “The Botanist” and “Marijaunauts Theme” are soulful explorations of what stoner metal, doom, or whatever you want to call it are capable of thanks to Sleep challenging not only themselves, but where the genre can go sonically.
The record takes the classic riff exploration of the Sleep blueprint, but showcases the intensity of Matt Pike’s furious playing, should anyone forget he’s more than the shirtless guy with the beer gut, but a metal icon that happens to be relentless guitar hitman.
The Sciences transcends because of two primary reasons: one being Jason Roeder utterly and undeniably changed the DNA of the band for the better with his brilliant handwork along with his in the pocket, dynamic drumming that’s more John Bonham or Bill Ward than he lets on with Neurosis.
The second major plot point regarding the success of The Sciences is easy to spot: the band are students of the game. Cisneros, Pike and Roeder are still stoners playing metal in bands who tour most of the year. They’re involved in the evolution of the scene with Sleep, but also High on Fire, Neurosis, and OM. These dudes never lost touch with their mission but evolved as musicians, and people in the process of the band’s successes.
The songs on the record are playful and on the nose with their love of all things Black Sabbath and the dank kush. The vocals are less hooky sing-alongs to capture an ear, but instead on “Giza Butler” or “Sonic Titan,” they’re droning absolutions to a realm we probably cannot fathom.
Instead of a lousy cash grab, we’re lucky enough to see this trio of brilliant stoners evolve before our eyes. Who knows how long a record after this one will take to craft, it doesn’t matter, anyhow. These six new tracks on The Sciences are good enough to hold us over for a long while, or at least till the pipe needs repacking.
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The Sciences is available everywhere you enjoy music.
When I first heard Great Peacock's EP a few years ago, it felt like it was the beginning of something special - an inside peek at the beginning of the rise of an obscure band. 5 years later, and it still feels that way when I hear a new Great Peacock offering. The band's sophomore album is no different as the band takes a slight turn away from the gentle, melodic Americana and more towards the psychedelic, Americana-tinged rock.
The last output, their great Making Ghosts album, was everything we had been promised from their self-titled EP. It was a melodic outpouring of yearning tunes with Blount Floyd and Andrew Nelson's voices working perfectly together. The band toured restlessly off that album, coming to DC at least 4 times, I believe, during that time. Around the last couple of times the guys came through, you could hear something shift in their music. There were 2 acoustic guitars on stage, then there was one acoustic and one electric, then there were only electric guitars. The songs began to shift sonically and jam a little more.
On Gran Pavo Real, those new sounds are apparent with the opening organ-heavy jam of "Hideaway." The harmonies of Floyd and Nelson are still there and the heartbreak-driven tunes are still there, but there is a shift in the tone towards a Pneumonia-era Whiskeytown. But, never to fear, there are still hints of the old Great Peacock there - "Begging to Stay" and "Miss You Honey" being the two most akin to their previous album.
There's always a bit of concern with a new album from an artist you really like - are they going to hit the mark they were aiming for and if they do, is it the mark we're wanting to hear? Will they grow in a way that stays close to their sound but sees them exploring new themes and sounds? On all accounts, I think Great Peacock hits every note right on this Gran Pavo Real. They take a chance moving away from their first album and coming up with an even better version of themselves. They're bluesier ("Heartbreak Comin' Down"). They're subtler at times ("All I Really Want is You"). And, they're just all around better.
This is the kind of album that's just right for the upcoming Summer. It's going to be on my stereo all year long, for sure. There's a song for every occasion, high to low. And the music is rollicking and a damn good time. You should go buy this album, and then buy another for a friend. Then, go to every show these guys put on near you. Let's make the world know Great Peacock.
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Gran Pavo Real will be released next Friday, March 30th and you can pre-order it at iTunes, Bandcamp, and other music outlets.
When you do what we do, there are folks you consider “the home team,” the musicians we’ve watched grow over the years. The artists we were begging readers to check out long before they broke out or hooked up with a super producer. Tyler Childers and Colter Wall made their way onto the national stage. We’re always rooting for Justin Wells, and we want Lindi Ortega to do well. Jason Isbell is slowly taking over everything, and some of us can remember when Sturgill was playing rooms to 100 people. There are so many great bands out there grinding, The Quiet Hollers, Two Cow Garage, Shovels and Rope; we tip our hats to all of them.
We take pride in seeing these folks bloom, which in some cases, submitted a few scratch tracks or sent us a tweet to check out their music. These once obscure artists are getting a shot at real success.
Another one of those folks we love and are unbelievably proud of is Caleb Caudle. On his newest record, Crushed Coins, Caleb Caudle is making noise that’s booming louder than his critically acclaimed Carolina Ghost.
Crushed Coins feels different than Carolina Ghost in that the body of work is less reliant on the big and bright late 80’s/early 90’s country overtones, and instead feels personal and more “Americana” than strict, by the book country and western.
Crushed Coins features straight-ahead songwriting and a strict reliance on mastery of craft instead of studio trickery or layers of instruments designed to muddle the message. There are some heartbreakers, some good time jams and some beer drinking tunes, which as about all you can ask for in a straight ahead country record.
If Randy Travis or Garth Brooks is on your Spotify playlist, be sure to check out everything Caleb Caudle has released, he’s one of the best dudes putting in the work. He’s skillfully adept at harnessing that clean, powerful and hooky sound those guys pulled off back in the day. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, Caleb Caudle is an artist that appeals to older country fans, but can also bring in a lot of new people. He’s got an immediate likability, but also listenability that many artists, no matter how great just can’t foster.
As Pantera taught us on the home video: KEEP THE SCENE ALIVE, MAN.
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Grab Crushed Coins from Caleb's Bandcamp site or find it at all the other usual places.
As a music nerd, few things are as satisfying as stumbling on a record at random and then being the first to put it on blast to all of your other music nerd friends. It’s like the smoke after a fantastic dinner for folks to dig in crates for vinyl or comb the hipster blogs looking for that perfect record to stream while they drive across the state next weekend.
The James Hunter Six’s newest record Whatever It Takes is precisely that record. For some reason, The James Hunter Six have alluded me. It pains me to know this incredible band was out there, spreading its brass-laced heart and soul without me, it makes me sad. Nonetheless, I’ve resolved myself to learning and loving their entire catalog, because friends and Romans, these cats are fucking amazing.
Whatever It Takes is an old-school shaken cocktail of blues, rockabilly, early R&B, Doo-Wop, and rock n' roll from the pre-Elvis era. The smooth tenor of the record is straight out of a classic Scorsese bar fight scene with red bar candles and abused Formica bar tops and the scent of smoke permeating everything, no matter how many years ago the smoking ban passed.
Whatever It Takes is a collection of songs meant for small rooms with close bodies, for people to sway and swing in comfortable shoes and sport jackets with no ties. The vibe is analog, and there’s no allusion to anything current, it’s a throwback and doesn’t miss a lick. Whatever It Takes was recorded on a classic-soul era eight-track tape and transferred over digitally. The vibe is sweaty and one that demands your attention cuz Jack, The James Hunter Six swing hard.
If you crave dulled mono-styled tones that feel straight from the classic Stax or Chess playbook, then The James Hunter Six have tapped into a vein that rivals and on some songs surpass Leon Bridges. Hunter's voice is a bombastic chameleon that can wail with the best of them, but then whisper and moan. He’s not trying to do anything outside of the norm of the genre, and that’s why Whatever It Takes works flawlessly.
“I Don’t Wanna Be Without You” is a stone cold opener that sets an immediate tone for the record, it’s breezy and a little sleazy, too. There’s plenty of overtures to sex, sin, and long nights, which for some of us is all we’re looking for when sifting through the endless choices presented every day.
Grab it off Amazon and show these dudes that have slogged it out over six records that we’re ready for their arrival.
I’m just gonna make this review as easy as possible: The newest Harm's Way record is like a chainsaw to the face. Evolving beyond their fast, straight ahead hardcore roots, Harm’s Way is forging into water explicitly held by tried and true metal bands and ripping the seams off the baseball every step of the way. Despite its early release this year, Posthuman will be a hard record to top for its sheer violence, riffs, and brutality.
While their prior release Rust was a step toward the direction of full-on “metalcore” Posthuman straddles both the lines of a band that can hold their own with Sick of It All, but also wreck shop opening for Max Cavalera. Harm’s Way has found a way to take the best Roadrunner riffs of the late 90s and early 00’s and package them together, but without abandoning credibility to tread new artistic waters.
The songs on Posthuman aren’t formulaic and instead try out a lot of different time signatures and thematic styles. It’s a formidable mixture of violence mixed with the history of Chicago’s tougher than leather hardcore style. Having grown up in Chicago’s hardcore scene, I couldn’t be more proud of Harm’s Way carrying the battle flag for my hometown. (I saw them open for Soulfly playing the Nailbomb record and after finding out they were from Chicago, I immediately walked over to their table and gushed. I know I looked like an asshole. I don’t care.)
Posthuman is a complex, yet a beautiful mixture of ideas that should not work. Somehow Harm’s Way pulls Posthuman off. One minute, there’s a clear Godflesh or Nailbomb influence and just went you think the band will do something lame, they go harder than the previous track. Harm’s Way isn’t a one trick pony, if anything they’re capable of releasing crushing metal records, but also maybe dropping some straight industrial EP’s a la what Trent Reznor has been doing with Nine Inch Nails as of late.
"Dissect Me" is a perfect of example of crushing riffage but at the same time shows a clear influence by bands like Ministry or Skinny Puppy. Chicago’s industrial history with Wax Trax is present in the DNA of Harm’s Way, even if the band doesn’t realize it. While the metal featured on display is ridiculous, there’s so much going on throughout Posthuman, that it’s a tease for different looks into the band’s bright future.
"Human Carrying Capacity" is the best hardcore song of the last ten years, hands down. Sorry Code Orange, sorry Knocked Loose. Harm’s Way has released a record that’s worthy of headliner status and should bring plenty of asses into the club to swing on posers. Get ready world, these dudes have arrived.
About 17 years ago, I joined a band called Failed Resistance. We were a hardcore/punk band out of Chicago, completely out of place with the other local punk bands, who mainly played pop punk music. Yet we managed to get our own crowd locally and had a respectable draw throughout the country. I bring this up because I have always had an obsession with street punk/hardcore music, and frankly, in the past decade, I have only found a handful of new bands performing this type of music. And, none of them were from Chicago.
With the release of The Gutters of Paradise, The Kreutzer Sonata totally gave me new faith in local music. This album is a no-nonsense, relentless, brutal attack from beginning to end. Opening with the catchy “Ten Yard Stare”, a song that really sets the tone for the entire record, this album just doesn’t let up. “Nobody” follows nicely with some great guitar work and painfully great vocals. A lot of people don’t get it with the screaming vocals, but, it is truly an art that takes years to perfect. Adam of The Kreutzer Sonata has found his niche and that really makes the vocals the forefront of the entire album. And, that is not taking away from the rest of the band at all. They are a very tight and experienced group. Without a great band, great vocals do no good.
The fourth track “Pulse” almost tricks you into thinking it may be a little more poppy with it’s opening riff, but, as the vocals come in, the aggression quickly returns and this makes for one of the finer tracks on the album. Almost every song includes gang vocals that make the songs all that more memorable and easy to scream along with when you see them live. It’s not easy making hardcore songs with hooks, but, these guys do it with ease.
On what is perhaps the best track on the album, “Old Glory,” the band digs a bit deeper in political views. Complete with a bass breakdown and a shredding guitar solo, plus the gang vocals repeating “World Coming Down,” this one will get stuck in your head for days.
The Gutters of Paradise features fifteen tracks in all, and it never slows down or becomes stale and repetitive. With so many cliche punk bands out there these days, TKS really know how to separate themselves from their peers. Even though the band has been around for a few years now, I believe that this album finally gives the band a proper recording, capturing all the elements they have to offer and giving people something to connect with. The future is bright for this group of youngsters, and with proper booking and touring, I believe that TKS will begin to start making major waves, not just in Chicago, but around the world.
The Gutters of Paradise is streaming now at https://thekreutzersonata.bandcamp.com and will be released in the near future on vinyl through Don’t Panic Records and Distro out of Chicago. Do yourself a favor and get your hands on this stellar record.
(Formerly of the dearly departed Country Perspective)
Back in 2015 when Chris Stapleton released Traveller, it was clear how criminal it was for how long it took for everybody to hear his golden voice on a full-length album. How can somebody this great take so long to be finally be heard? And the same thing can be said for the debut, full-length album from songwriter Caitlyn Smith. She has spent years writing for some of the biggest names in music, but now finally she gets an album of her own. You may not know Smith, but just give her new album Starfire one listen and you’ll never forget her.
The album opens with the waltzing “Before You Called Me Baby.” Right away you get a taste of the absolute raw power of Smith’s voice. Her command and presence will grab your attention and hold it until the album ends. “Do You Think About Me” is a yearning heartbreaker about not being able to move on. The album’s title track is a fiery anthem about staying true to you. It reminds me of something Dolly Parton would have cut back in her prime.
Every song on this album is great, but there are a couple that go even beyond and one of them is definitely “East Side Restaurant.” Smith’s voice is chill inducing on the chorus, evoking so much heartbreak and emotion as she hits her highest notes. The production brings an elegant, classy and refined feel, perfectly complimenting the lyrics and setting the scene in the listeners’ heads. Smith brings a palpable, aching desperation on “Don’t Give Up on My Love” that enraptures you. She goes through all of the emotions of a rising singer-songwriter in Nashville on “This Town is Killing Me.” She recalls all of the sacrifices she made to realize her dream of making music. It’s the story of so many names you’ll never hear, but something the listener needs to know.
Smith recalls in “St. Paul” the special place this city holds in her heart due to it being the place of her first gig and being from Minnesota. “Tacoma” is one of those songs you’ll instantly fall for on the first listen. Garth Brooks cut it on his comeback album a few years ago, but Smith brings the raw passion that is needed to take the song to it’s full potential. The bridge of this song goes to a place very few artists can go (it would be unfair to spoil this) and something that you need to hear for yourself. Smith shows off her vivid storytelling ability on “Scenes from a Corner Booth at Closing Time on a Tuesday.” You’ll feel like you’re at that bar taking in the scenes with her.
While the album tackles a lot of serious subjects and themes, Smith shows off a more fun side on “Contact High.” It’s a catchy love song that helps bring a great balance on the album and allows Smith to really show off the range of her voice. “House of Cards” goes on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. It’s also the best song on the album. The song delves into faith, hope and self-doubt in such an emotional way. You can sense how much Smith has lived this song and in turn it makes you recall your own emotional hurdles. The song is a perfect demonstration in the powerful connection that resonates between people when showing vulnerability. The album closes with the romantic love ballad “Cheap Date,” a heartfelt and realistic look at love you won’t see in a Hollywood movie.
Caitlyn Smith’s Starfire is fantastic in every way. The songwriting is sharp, smart and relatable to the everyday listener. The production is smooth, flawless and really helps bring the words of the songs to life. Smith without a doubt has one of the best voices you’ll hear in music today. You’re doing yourself a disservice if you haven’t listened to this album. It’s one of the best you’ll hear in all of 2018.
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Starfire is available on Amazon, iTunes, Spotify, etc.
There’s no two ways about it. Drew Womack possesses one of the most amazing voices in the history of well...history! Pair that with world class songwriting and you get Here’s Some Stuff I Wrote, the latest effort from the Brownwood, Texas born troubadour.
If Drew’s voice sounds familiar and you just can’t place it, let me help you.
He fronted Sons of The Desert in the 90’s, churning out hits like "Whatever Comes First" and "Leaving October Behind." He can also be heard prominently on Leann Womack’s cut of "I Hope You Dance."
Equally impressive is that Drew played all of the instruments on this album. There are several co-writes on the record as well, from the likes of legends like Radney Foster and Rodney Crowell.
Overall, Here’s Some Stuff I Wrote is a forty three minute showcase of genius. Excellent vocals, writing, instrumentation, and production. The hard copy will make a great stocking stuffer for the music lover in your life this Christmas, or you can download it on iTunes here:
Jonathan David McPherson grew up a rural cat, even for an Okie. The son of a farmer and retired Army veteran (mom was a preacher), JD grew up near the town of Talihina, a random spot the railroad decided to drop a turn-of-the century depot in Indian Territory. “Where I grew up,” he told the New Zealand music blog Libel, “was just completely removed from anything resembling a town or a city. It was an hour away from the nearest supermarket.”
Drawn to the guitar in his early teens, the isolation proved a boon. Music became his sole focus, and he’s been in bands of one sort or another from then till now. We can be thankful that in his formative years he was drawn to the work of Buddy Holly and other 1950s icons; his Undivided Heart and Soul positively oozes authentic rockabilly.
If The Flat Duo Jets (or iconic front man Dex Romweber), The V-Roys, Marshall Crenshaw, Robert Gordon and Brian Setzer got together for a twenty-teens hootenanny, they’d hope the could collaborate on something that could rival McPherson’s October release on the New West label.
There’s a brilliant range and diversity: McPherson’s goes from to throbbing, pleading rocker on the opening cut, “Desperate Love,” to sweet, soothing crooner on “Hunting for Sugar.” The bass-driven backbeat and reverb-laden baritone guitar of “Crying’s Just a Thing You Do” are reminiscent of Elvis Costello. And it’s impossible not to hear the Rockpile/Nick Lowe influence of a couple of songs, notably “On The Lips.” (A hint of Squeeze, too.)
The money cut, though, is “Bloodhound Rock.” Fully a third of the 4 ½-minute song is a nifty buildup of standup bass, feint brushes on snare, understated guitar and just enough organ. It burns. You can’t not shimmy and shake.
There’s not a more fun song, or album for that matter, of the year.
Dig it, Daddy-o. It’s okay to shake your hips.
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Undivided Heart & Soul is available on Amazon, iTunes, and all the usual spots.
