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latest listens: The Ragbirds, The Arcade Fire, The Innocence Mission, Patti Griffin, Lucinda Williams, Favorites of 2006 |
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| blog | jeffrey's books | film reviews | >music reviews | interviews | contact | |
latest listens: The Ragbirds, The Arcade Fire, The Innocence Mission, Patti Griffin, Lucinda Williams, Favorites of 2006 |
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Looking Closer's
Recent Music Reviews
- Thom Jurek reviews Maria McKee's Late December (All Music) - Ronnie D. Lankford, Jr. reviews Rosie Thomas's These Friends of Mine (All Music) - Thom Jurek reviews Suzanne Vega's Beauty and Crime (All Music)
Jeffrey's review of Over the Rhine's The Trumpet Child will be published in the next issue of Christianity Today magazine. Here are a few first impressions: * “I don’t want to waste your time with music you don’t need,” sing Karin Bergquist at the beginning of Over the Rhine’s new album The Trumpet Child. No worries, Karin. We need this kind of glory, passion, and delight in the world. Believe the hype. In some aspects, The Trumpet Child is the best Over the Rhine album ever. Production. Instrumentation. Class. Style. Karin wraps her tongue around these lyrics like she’s savoring dark chocolate ice cream, and her voice is like a fine red wine. (Okay, that’s not the most original metaphor, but doctors will tell you that red wine is good for you if you have it with dark chocolate, so….) Lyrically, it’s lighter fare than what their fans have come to expect… the meter tips in favor of songs written for cleverness, pleasure and play here, rather than the spiritual questing and relationship wrangling that has dominated previous records. But hey, after the hardship chronicled in the blues of their last studio record, Drunkard’s Prayer, The Trumpet Child is a well-deserved party record, celebrating all of the good stuff in life: sex, jazz, Shel Silverstein, Tom Waits, Easter Sunday Morning… it’s all here. But man oh man, the album leaves me wanting more. In the very best ways. I want a second disc full of songs like these. They spoiled us rotten with that double-album Ohio a few years back. It’s hard to accept that this release is over in less than 42 minutes. I’m glad I’ve got tickets to both Seattle shows in September. It’s gonna take that much to satiate my appetite for This Year’s Model of Over the Rhine. Do I sound greedy? Hey, Karin herself declares, right here on this record, “When it comes to wanting what’s real / There’s no such thing as greed.” In some cases, the individual songs leave me wanting more. I wanted the title track to keep going and going. I predict it’s going to become The Favorite Over the Rhine Song for many of their fans. I heard them “try it out” way last August, with just voice and piano, and it was awesome; hearing what they do with it here, well… it’s going to achieve unforgettable moments of sacred glory at their future shows. Oh, and what do you know: Linford Detweiler gets to ramble his way through a song that his fans will love even more than “Jack’s Valentine.” I hope “Don’t Wait for Tom” pleases Tom Waits, because it is one heckuva tribute, running over with references to Waits not only in the lyrics but in Linford’s rhythmic delivery too. Linford’s piano performances are especially flirtatious and sprightly this time around, and he strikes up some combustible chemistry with the jazzy horn ensembles and guitars. It’s a reinvention for Over the Rhine that will have listeners thinking of songwriters from Cole Porter to Portishead’s Beth Gibbons. I’ve only heard the album through once. Anne and I lit candles and savored the experience, which is our ritual for first experiences with new Over the Rhine material. And although I’ve been living with live performances of about half of these songs for close to a year now, I’ve found the experience so intense and concentrated that I’m waiting until tomorrow to listen again. If The Trumpet Child doesn’t catapult Over the Rhine to the kind of acclaim and attention they’ve so long deserved, well, it’s certainly not their fault. Those critics who think their fans make too much of them are going to have a tough time dismissing this one. It may not be super-sized, but hallelujah, it’s a classic.
Montreal's main event, The Arcade Fire, is the most arresting, essential rock band in the world right now. If I'm wrong... then you'll have to persuade me. Is any other band playing with such a forceful combination of energy, invention, and inspiration? Does any other live act compare to their jet-engine intensity? The Arcade Fire are caught up in the fever of prophetic vision. There are threads of conscience and conviction running through their work that run farther than the rage, cynicism, and despair of Radiohead to kindle the fires of faith that U2 have kept burning for so many years. We don't need more pop doomsayers. We need truth-tellers who acknowledge the darkness, admit their part in the problem, and coax us to cry out to the Source of all help. As the Book of Ecclesiastes promises, with increasing wisdom comes increasing pain. Win Butler's is the voice of lament in a darkening age. He and his "orchestra" ... who have conjured the biggest sound in contemporary rock... are running for the lifeboats and inviting us to follow. Their music is a vast, thunderous roar, a noise that heralds the end of the world even as it holds back the flood. In two words: Hot Dam. Their second album lives up to the expectations, and that's hard to believe, considering the expectations inspired by their first full-length album, 2004's Funeral. While Neon Bible lacks the chaotic complexity of that landmark debut, it is indeed a step forward. Butler's become a stronger lead singer, exhibiting more control and passion here. Where his performance in Funeral reminded me of David Byrne, now I'm hearing echoes of Ian McCullough (Echo and the Bunnymen) and even Bono. The songs cohere into an album remarkable in its focus, wholeness, and depth. Recorded in an old church, Neon Bible has all the urgency of a hellfire-and-brimstone sermon, minus the judgmentalism... these prophets are including themselves among the most-likely-to-be-damned, and lamenting their inability to escape compliance with the sins of the age. Faith, they say, is a questionable thing when the faith you've embraced was sold to you by a preacher with a salesman's grin. In "Black Mirror," the dark, oceanic opener to Neon Bible, Win Butler despairs of himself, his own sins, and his inability to find a perspective that isn't tainted by his own brokenness. "Shot by a security camera / You can't watch your own image / And also look yourself in the eye..." He's looking into what humankind knows about itself, and finds little hope. What is this black mirror toward which the culture turns for knowledge? It certainly isn't God. The mirror seems to represent the oracle of popular wisdom. It highlights the narcissistic spirit of the age, reflecting distortions back to a misguided population. It might be the heartless machine of business, or it might represent the way that democracy ends up enabling our own worst instincts. It seems less like an authority, more like an all-consuming black hole. In "Keep the Car Running," which gallops on an exhilarating mandolin riff, the singer confesses a deep-seated fear that haunts him. He knows there's a disaster coming eventually... judgment, war, an end of some terrible nature. He wants to "keep the car running" for a quick escape. But he doesn't have much hope, except to go to "the same place animals go when they die." And what is this "Neon Bible" that these "animals" consult? Is it the true Word of God, a persistent glimmer of wisdom cutting through our cultural darkness? Or is it a "golden calf," a distortion of the one true God, tainted with "the poison of the age"? This fleeting, haunting little tune suggests that our culture needs to put the Christ back in Christianity. "What I know is what you know is right," Butler sings. In other words, we all affirm each other in our rightness, and thus we all go wrong. In a culture united in the pursuit of happiness, trusting only our own fractured hearts, we're just counting down to ruin. "There's not much chance of survival / If the Neon Bible is true...." "Intervention," the album's central anthem, arrives on a tide of resonant church organ tones, and its title suggests both an effort to persuade as well as an ill-advised military endeavor. We get to the core of the album's concern... the incongruity of this commerce-driven war and the religious vocabulary of its commanding officers. As a soldier struggles with fear, fighting for an empty cause, he's just "working for the church" while his family suffers. But he justifies his service, claiming that "it's money that we need." Butler sings, "I know no matter what you say, There are some debts you'll never pay." Just because they tell you you're working for the church doesn't mean it's true. In "Black Wave/ Bad Vibrations," Régine Chassagne, Butler's backup singer and wife, takes the lead, singing with reckless abandon of a desire to cross a border and leave bad memories behind. But this sounds strangely naive and doomed, while the song's sudden shift back into full apocalypse mode warns us not merely to run, but to change our ways. "Stop now before it's too late / Been eating in the ghetto on a 100-dollar plate," he sings, possibly referring to the scene in Lars Von Trier's The Five Obstructions when a man eats a gourmet dinner in the middle of a poverty-stricken neighborhood. Your decadence, says Butler, is going to bring you down. That "great black wave" sounds closer than ever, and sure to destroy. As the album goes on, Butler continually reminds us that the coming calamity is brought on by crimes we did commit. In "(Antichrist Television Blues)", a frantic, funny prayer, a man who lives in fear of terrorists begs God to make his daughter into the next American Idol. But he can't quite reconcile his Christian faith, his fears, and his dreams. The song culminates with a frenzied chorus of female falsetto as if the turntable is accelerating. The center cannot hold. Debts, an ill-advised "holy war," the false promises... when Butler looks outside he sees that the tide is "rising still" ... right up to the windowsill. "Windowsill" is the album's most straightforward lament: "I don't want to live in America no more." Anti-American? That depends. Butler's rejecting the narcissism, the arrogance, and the greed that comes with consumerism. He's not rejecting the Christian ideals of America -- freedom, truth, and goodwill towards men. He's saying that capitalism has trumped conscience, leading to a nation of sales-pitches and lies. And thus, with the zeal of U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name," the album's peak comes in the return of a song from their first EP, "No Cars Go." In this context, the album has a furious new significance and energy, appealing to our desire for a new start, a new frontier... redemption. But it's not over yet. The album closes with an appeal to a higher power, piercing and poignant. My friend Joel Clarkson considered the lyrics in a post at ArtsandFaith.com:
Clarkson was reminded of a scripture:
I think he's on to
something.
Karen Peris lost both of her parents over the past couple of years. Most people experience these losses at some point, and many feel those absences painfully. But for Peris, these were not just her parents... they were two of her best friends. And that grief is palpable through the songs that she sings on The Innocence Mission's latest release, We Walked in Song. But even more palpable than that is the faith and the hope that she will walk with them again... that the "brotherhood of man," which is one of several thematic threads winding through the whole album will go on beyond the grave. Beyond the film's highly personal poetry, We Walked in Song is pretty much more of the same from this husband-wife combo. And that's not a bad thing. Don Peris's guitar stylings gleam with the same irresistible light, as he moves from meditative reflections to lilting and playful trips down memory lane. Mike Bitts provides perfect bass counterpoints. Karen's voice continues to enchant, a gift that defies comparison. And her lyrics give us specific moments from her experience, through which a mystery glimmers.
As if inspired by this remembrance of Karen's parents, the Perises also celebrate the simple joys of family ties in songs dedicated to their children, Drew and Anna. As a result, "Happy Birthday, Beautiful" and "I Love That Boy" are as simple and playful as nursery rhymes. They may strike some as being too sentimental, but there's a genuine affection in the lyrics. I'd never offer these as prime examples of the Perises' capacity for poetry, but songs like these do increase the listener's sense of intimacy with the songwriters. There is an effortlessness to these songs that has prompted one of my favorite critics to call this album "boring" and "complacent." While I might agree if I felt this material was derivative, or just a recycling of their previous work, I find that the lyrics continue to bring me along on the Perises' personal journey through hardship and hope. As the husband of a gardener, I find myself appreciating the Innocence Mission's unpretentious, familiar style the way I find comfort in a familiar variety of flower no matter how many times I see it bloom. Audacity and reinvention are overrated... when we come across something as rare and pure as the Innocence Mission's work, more of the same is not a bad thing. I find them comforting in their eloquence and fragile beauty. While I admit that this release does not have the range of subjects and sounds that have made their best releases -- Umbrella, Glow, and Birds of My Neighborhood -- such enduring, revealing volumes, I still find the delicate and evocative lyrics, the beauty of Don's guitars and Karen's voice, and the technical precision of their performances to be a generous helping of grace at the end of a noisy, wearying day. They're faithful friends who know how to restore my spirit.
It opens with meditative piano so melancholy you might think you're listening to Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas. The songs that follow are touched by the same mysterious longing that haunts Charles Schulz's neighborhood of philosophical children. Further, the album delivers the same kind of soul-thrilling joy that the conclusion of that perfect holiday cartoon provides. But no, this is not Peanuts. It's Over the Rhine's second Christmas album, Snow Angels. And it's the equivalent of a fire in your living room fireplace on a chilly winter night. In fact, Snow Angels has the feel of a "living room" production, much like the last album of new material these lyrical lovers released, 2005's Drunkard's Prayer. But that album was all about heartbreak, hope, and healing, as their marriage was rescued from the brink of destruction. It was a heavy, ponderous record, directing our attention to some troubling and dark places. Snow Angels is another album for dark nights, but it turns our attention skyward to twinkling stars. It's blessed with lightness, buoyancy, and brilliance. Karin Bergquist is in a jazzy mood this time around, and her voice is alive with sweetness and delight, often layered in angelic harmonies, while Linford Detweiler's keyboard notes dance like breeze-borne flakes in drifting curtains of snow. Okay, that sounds a bit corny, I know. But this is an unapologetically sugar-coated record, in which even songs about holiday blues go down easy. Originals like "All I Get for Christmas is Blue" soothe our aches by the way they shape the singer's own blues into beauty. Like the best Christmas songs, "White Horse" carries us through the snow to Bethlehem, to the only source of genuine hope. And "New Redemption Song" might be a prayer, an appeal for a restoration of hope since the echoes of angel choirs faded so many years ago. Variations on traditional carols like "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem" and "Angels We Have Heard On High" blend beautifully with new lyrics in "Little Town." And then there are the Christmas songs for lovers. "Snowed In With You" is enough to make you celebrate Valentine's Day in December. And if you enjoy the sparkle of frost on the front on your windows, you might want to skip track #8, "North Pole Man," because Karin's sensual performance of scandalously suggestive lyrics is going to melt anything in area. Then, if you need a rock-and-roll fix (and I really did by this point in the record) they'll shake things up for you in "Here It Is." The song sounds like a few leftover sentiments from the Drunkard's Prayer days, resonating with painful memories and expressions of hope through the hard work of forgiveness. Punctuated with Mickey Grimm's jazzy drums, which provide just enough tinsel to make the songs sparkle, and supported by Byron Harris's bass, the songs serve to inform us that Over the Rhine is headed away from rock toward jazzier territory. Remember how Drunkard's Prayer ended with a show-stopping performance of "My Funny Valentine"? That was a big clue about their new direction. And if the next album includes the new material they've been playing on the road, it's just going to get better and better. By sticking to traditional song stylings this time around, Snow Angels does not return us to the dark, mysterious territory of the last Over the Rhine Christmas album, The Darkest Night of the Year. That was an album of spooky wonder. This one's playfully melancholy, but it will certainly spike the punch of Christmas parties anywhere it's played. If it's stuffed in enough Christmas stockings and mailed in enough festively wrapped packages this year, it might also introduce a whole new audience to Detweiler and Bergquist's music. It might be just enough breadcrumbs to lead people into that dark, snowy forest to the gingerbread house where there's a world of previously recorded albums to savor, and not a single wicked witch in sight. Merry Christmas, Karin and Linford! We know you're capable of serving up a savory feast, but we're also thankful for dessert trays as colorful and intoxicating as this one. Bring the whole menu when you tour next summer. We won't complain if you decide to serve a little bit of Christmas in July.
How I miss The Sundays, for their melancholy sweetness, as refreshing as strawberry lemonade on a hot summer aftrenoon, and as comforting as cocoa on cold winter's night. And oh how I'm happy to welcome an album that reminds me of those blissful expressions of bother and broken-heartedness. Thank goodness for Glasgow's Camera Obscura, whose new album Let's Get Out of This Country arrives to quench the thirst of a long hot summer like a tall glass of perfectly tart iced tea with a sprig of mint pinched between the cubes. Sometimes, even when things are going well, there's nothing better than a rigorous wallowing in longing and dismay. It reminds me that, no, things really aren't going well... I'm just distracted by temporary happiness, and deep down, I am a broken-hearted creature whose dreams are still far from coming true, whose needs are still far from being met, whose understanding is still deeply fractured. I need art that reminds me of this and recognizes it, even if it's just a little piece of pop genius that does the trick. I'll admit it, I'm happier when I know I'm still somewhat unhappy. Because that's more true than the delusion of happiness that other quick-fixes can achieve. So, oh how I'm happy to discover Camera Obscura for the first time. They've been around a while -- so, yeah, where have I been? -- but it's their third album that has seized my attention, and now I'm eager to work backward and hear the rest. It's turned the clock back all the way to the days when I was prone to waking up with a mad crush on bands like Mazzy Star and Belly. Their lead singer and songwriter, Tracyanne Campbell, writes lyrics that seem sprung from a schoolgirl's journal... the kind of girl who will dazzle the English teachers with original poetry, break the hearts of all the boys in her class, and be clinging dreamily to microphones in nightclubs across the city within months of graduation, taking her charms to a whole new level. By penning such eloquence about incompleteness, in the tradition of Lloyd Cole, Nick Drake, and even The Cure, Campbell is doing us a favor. When she sings, "Tell me where it all went wrong and maybe I can make it right," it's a self-fulfilling prophecy. They even begin with a direct reference to Cole, answering his song "Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken?" with "Lloyd, I'm Ready to Be Heartbroken." (Watch the video here!) Ah, those melancholy college afternoons in college, listening to Lloyd Cole who sang about heartbreak so I didn't have to.... And by crafting such heart-ful dreams from heartache realities, she is a salve to what ails us. Her voice is as light as Leslie Feist's, but it has the gentleness of Natalie Merchant (in her 10,000 Maniacs days). Best of all, each song is delivered with such effortlessness, such weightlessness, that they get their hooks into our own heartbreaks and lift them, each song a little helium balloon of blue joy. The opening track grabs you hook, line, and sinker irresistibly--think The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love" sung by Harriett Wheeler. This is, quite simply, the most delightful pop surprise I've heard this year. It's got the gloss and pristine production of last year's Let It Die by Feist, the dreaminess of Hope Sandoval's Bavarian Fruit Bread, and the lush, mournful sentiments of Over the Rhine at their most melancholy Don't miss it. Let these lemon-lime melodies cool your summertime fever, and they'll have you singing in the rain through the dreary days of autumn, and warming up to a hot cup of Camera Obscura all the way to Christmas. When in "The False Contender" Campbell asks, "Do you think it's time / I put him out of my mind?" I just want to shout, "No way, not so long as he inspires you to write stuff like this!"
Radiohead fans predicted that a solo album by frontman Thom Yorke, produced by Nigel Godrich, would probably sound a lot like... well... Radiohead lite. Or Radiohead without a lot of guitars. Or Radiohead B-sides. And they were right. What's distinct and impressive about The Eraser is the way it proves that Thom Yorke is still a real live boy, not a person who has been absorbed by the effects that usually splinter, distort, and multiply his voice. Yorke is an extraordinary rock vocalist, and it's good to hear him au naturale again. But it is also distinct in the way it seems Godrich and Yorke aren't out to dazzle or prove anything hear. They don't feel the need to pull the rug out from under us, or mix up the styles of the songs. The album sounds a little monotonous the first time through, but the more I've played it, the more I've come to enjoy some of the tracks; find intriguing details about others; and sometimes skip one or two. I particularly like the title track and "And the Rain Came Down," with the way they develop grim intensity. "Harrowdown Hill" presumes to be a dark revelation about the death of the British scientist and WMD truth-teller David Kelly who died, somehow, on that very hill--a specific, bold song that works as a sort of Kafka-esque nightmare. But "Black Swan,' in which Yorke feels compelled to make "This is f!@#$ed up" into a redundant refrain, gets annoying very quickly. Otherwise, yeah, it's pretty much what you'd expect. Yorke is lamenting the abuses of world superpowers, alienation, media distortions and lies, government cover-ups, and the slow deterioration of the earth. Nothing new there. My continual wish that he would find a silver lining somewhere, or some glimmer of hope, seems to be a vain hope. But in a world as troubled as this one, when big music awards go to the consumer-crafted pop stars of American idol and we continue amusing ourselves to death, who can blame a minor prophet for repeating himself about how dark and cold the world is becoming? "Time is running out / for us." If you're speaking for artists with something to say, Thom, you've hit the nail on the head. I don't expect Dylan's next album is going to be a ray of sunshine either. The truth is out there and needs to be acknowledged once in a while. Someone's got to do it. Hope won't come from ignoring the darkness, but by taking it on. And for folks like Yorke who don't seem inclined to look beyond the human sphere for any kind of redemption, things must seem very dark and desperate indeed.
Bruce Cockburn was built on a Friday, and there's just no fixing him. At least, that's what he tells us in the song called "Mystery." And yet, he assures us, "I've done okay." Indeed, he has done okay. Twenty-nine albums and countless concerts under his belt, and there's no sign that he's anywhere near shelving those guitars. He may say that you can't fix him, but that may be because nothing is broken. He's still writing some of the most thoughtful lyrics in rock, and his guitar playing continues to dazzle. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he offers more than mere anger at the rapidly declining state of the world, more than mere sentiment for the sake of love. While his albums remain criminally overlooked, he's pointing the way toward hope with songwriting that stokes the fires of conscience and spurs us into action... whether that manifests itself as political activism or shows of love for our friends and family. Life Short Call Now is his strongest collection since his 1997 masterpiece The Charity of Night. It's a colorful, thoughtful, heartbroken expression, fraught with nightmares but fueled by faith. While there are dark and dire passages on this album, the light of love and hope shines brightly and the darkness cannot overcome it. Still, the darkness does get a fair amount of air time. Lamenting "the callous and vicious things humans display, " the singer confesses to feeling "the weight of hard feelings" on his conscience. This time, solemn orchestral strains swell all around his guitar like the waves of the dark sea that washed over Sting's The Soul Cages. Yes, there are plenty of brooding generalizations: "We create what destroys / bind ourselves to betray." But there are also piercing specifics. In "Tell the Universe," he delivers a resentful admonition to those who seem eager and empowered to rush us into the apocalypse. (Do I have to name names?) "All those lives not worth a second look," he mourns, "Tell the universe what you took." And then, as if worried that he wasn't specific enough, he moves into "This is Baghdad," describing the fear of American soldiers, the suffering of those in the bombed-out city, and the hopeless state of chaos. But these troubled visions come in the middle of the album, after many flourishes of humor and affirmations of hope. The opening notes of the album are characteristic Cockburn--an easygoing riff that sounds like something from Dart to the Heart, and Cockburn describes our culture of fast-access and instant gratification. But then he's affirming himself, with "no lover, no wife," asking "Can one man fit in a nomad life?" While he may refuse to pull over for the freeway's empty promises of satisfaction, he arrives at the conclusion that only a personal connection can bring lasting fulfillment. When he hears the bed "banging on the wall" of the next room, it prompts a confession: "You've no idea how I long / For even one loving caress...." "Slow Down Fast" is a cocky, spirited rant in the vein of "It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine.)" It's certainly timely, and it gives him opportunity for some inspired guitar fills, but it reminds me more of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" than anything, and that's not a good thing. "Peace March," on the other hand, lets the music do the talking. It's a sprightly, confident guitar performance, focused on his nimble fingering--a noble contribution to his large body of instrumentals. Some may find this, and a few other tracks, annoyingly similar to previous recordings, but I find them comforting excursions into playfulness, music for the joy of it. It brings some levity to an album that might otherwise lean toward self-importance. The album's lightest moments come during its simplest song, "Mystery" stands as the album's most memorable and endearing track--a sing-a-long with humorous and thoughtful moments that make us think about how glory is shining through and whispering rumors of glory. Ron Sexsmith contributes hearty backup vocals, agreeing that "Infinity always gives me vertigo / Vertigo / Vertigo ... and fills me up with grace." In "Beautiful Creatures," he laments the way we have spoiled the earth. We were ordered to subdue, but also to replenish, right? In a mournful falsetto, he sings, "The beautiful creatures are going away." It's as if Cockburn has reached the vantage point described by Bob Dylan in Oh Mercy, where he looked around and declared that "Everything is Broken." On that same album, Dylan took note of political corruption and the rapidly declining order of the world, but brought it all back home, observing his own culpability in the brokenness. As creation groaned for redemption, so, humbly, did he. Like Dylan, Cockburn is seeking solace in human relationships, but ultimately he's following Dylan even farther, looking beyond the human sphere. He seems eager for the day he'll be drawn out of this weary, battle-scarred flesh and into something new and redeemed. "See You Tomorrow" rides along on an irresistible railroad-rhythm riff as Cockburn describes a day when a mercenary asked him for help. "I have to say, I liked the thought / Of living that guilt-free." The line reveals his weariness with the accumulation of sins, his own and others. But the refrain is ultimately one of hope in eternity. "The pain on the horizon / can't sink me in sorrow / 'Cause I know I'm going to be / Seeing you tomorrow." And yet, I can't help but lift the needle and carry it back to "Mystery," an affirmation of all that is glorious about this life. I want one more run through that soulfully sweet refrain, for that music that sounds as if the piano were recorded a hundred years ago and the guitars played just this moment. Ahh... there we go, the reminder that I need: "This feast of beauty can intoxicate / Just like the finest wine," he tells us. "So all you stumblers who believe love rules / Stand up and let it shine." It's a line so good, it's worth singing again. And he does. And so do I. And so will you.
It's a year for the wisdom of aging and very old men. We're hearing some memorable sentiments from Paul Simon and some anthems of hope and glory from Bruce Springsteen. T Bone Burnett is singing about a dark future, ranting about a maddening present, and voicing the pain and regrets of his past. Donald Fagen's latest is full of ghosts and memory. Even Neil Diamond has come out of hiding with an album of unusual urgency. And we're just a few weeks away from Bob Dylan's first new material in several years. But it will be hard to find an album with currents as strong and deep as those running through American V - A Hundred Highways. Johnny Cash's final recording sessions with producer Rick Rubin may be the crowning achievement of their work together. It's a poignant, inspiring collection from the legend's last days. And when we read the liner notes, in which Rubin talks about their friendship and how his time with Cash led to a time of spiritual awakening, we begin to understand why Rubin was able to capture such intimate performances. The two were very close, and there was a third entity involved in their relationship... a Higher Power. Cash's Hollywood biography, Walk the Line, ignored the most important and effecting part of his life... his Christian faith. Here, we get a truer sense of the man's heart and soul. In his time remaining, as he recorded a few more stories for his audience, he could have sung any number of standards and classics. He chose:
Featuring original selections and strong selections from Springsteen ("Further On Up the Road") and American folk history ("Run On"), this is a collection that explores the sounds of Cash's musical history, even as it confirms its own important place in history. But for all of the hype and the history, perhaps the most startling thing about the recording for this listener is its intimacy. Rubin's production gives warmth and resonance to the simple instrumentation. He never loses sight of his purpose: to let the 71-year-old Cash do what he does best. So he arranges each performance like a simple but exquisite frame in which Cash can paint a picture. And the pictures make some things perfectly clear: Cash stood apart for his acknowledgment of his faults; his earnest expression of his longings and his needs; his willingness to share his stories; his passionate love for a woman of grace; his knowledge of the source of his gifts; and a voice like none other. His voice bears the scars of wrong turns and deep wounds. But it also glows with the joy of knowing that soon all of those wounds will be healed, those burdens lifted, allowing him to enter into the rest of his savior. There will be many records this year more audacious, arresting, and innovative. But I doubt that I'll be hearing anything more profoundly affecting. I went into it to hear the last songs of a living legend, and as the last notes passed, I felt I'd been given a fond farewell by a friend... and I wanted to respond with gratitude. Someday, I will.
More reviews of American V - A Hundred Highways: All Music Guide, Metacritic's archive
Fourteen years ago, T-Bone Burnett told two young fans -- Martin Stillion and me -- that he hoped to get away from producing albums and start recording one solo album every year. So we've been eagerly waiting to see that happen. And guess what? He's done nothing but produce, produce, produce, working on so many different kinds of projects that I've lost track. He's brought us O Brother, Where Art Thou? and albums from Sam Phillips, Ralph Stanley, and so many more. And he's done extraordinary work, no doubt about it. But his last record, The Criminal Under My Own Hat, was so good that we've been eager for a follow-up ever since.. Well, better late than never! And oh, it's so good to hear Burnett singing again... even if these new songs are as dark as nightmares. It's like they've been left on the burner so long, they've blackened and turned half to ash, half to smoke. Yes, The True False Identity is an album voicing the despair of five minutes to midnight. At the first listen, you might think you've stumbled into a Tom Waits record, a sequel to Bone Machine or Real Gone. And you wouldn't be far from the truth: with Marc Ribot's clamoring guitars and Jim Keltner's smart drums giving framework for the itchy, edgy noise of the record, this is a producer's album. And this time, the producer is also at the microphone. Many of the lyrics are delivered in Burnett's unmistakably witty, sardonic voice. The wisdom, the acidic humor, the blistering commentary, the satirical, Dylan-esque storytelling... it's all still there. But there's something more... a weight, a weariness, echoes of violence still resonating in the hollows of a broken heart. T Bone's lamenting everything he sees here, from the the burden of a lost love to the culture of fear cultivated by a devious government, to his own private failures. "I can feel it all slipping away from me," he sings in the closing track, and you want to send somebody in there to save him. Here's the cheery beginning:
Accentuate
the positives, See what I mean? He's not messing around. Shuffling drums and rattling bones punctuate the dark wordplay of "Zombieland." This opening track is a horror movie soundtrack about a culture that blindly follows "that devil beat," where the ratings-driven media and power-mad religion leads an easily-duped populace, where machines serve us (so long as we submit to them), where a democracy has embraced the very dynamics that deceive them. Ribot's guitar responds to Burnett's mentions of the intoxicating "monkey blood" by mimicking monkey cries. This is followed by the rock-and-roll rage of "Palestine, Texas." While Ribot's guitar howls, snarls, and moans, Burnett sings:
What is
this faith that you profess
This version
of the world will not be here long In "Every Time I Feel the Shift," the album's most ambitious work which builds to a thunderous refrain, complete with gospel choir, he berates a blind and uncaring public that are oh-so-democratically plunging toward judgment.
If
we were to cast an eleventh commandment When the chorus roars "We're marching up to Zion, that beautiful city of God," it's more a fearsome prospect than a refrain of joyous deliverance. If we have to pause to note any weaknesses in this extraordinary work, then let us acknowledge that Burnett sometimes goes from pained poetry into belligerent ranting. As protest songs go, "Blinded by the Darkness" is a terrific tantrum. But it's rather wearying too, and by that point the album is teetering between being an eloquently coherent lament and a laundry list of assorted complaints. Whether or not "Baby, Don't Say You Love Me" is about the demise of his marriage or not, the song is lyrically the weakest of the bunch, revealing little more than anger and resentment, signs of personal damage with none of the spiritual inventory or humble reflection of... oh, say, Sam Phillips' A Boot and a Shoe. Once in a while, a work as dark like this suggests that it's the artist's last gasp. "These hard times come down like an avalanche / and I'm lost and detached, along with all who never had a chance." Yes, it feels to the listener that everything is "slipping away" as well. A cry of despair, and that's where it ends. But I suspect that, like the murky water from a faucet that hasn't been turned on in years, this first muddy blast from Burnett is a sort of "cleaning out" process, and that if he continues to write, record, and perform, the hope and humor and light will return. In spite of some impressive recent production work, these songs make it all the more clear that Burnett's voice is essential right here, right now. He's got that prophetic streak that characterizes the work of U2 and Bob Dylan, especially the groaning spirit of songs like "Love is Blindness" and "Not Dark Yet." After hearing this record, you might do well to put on something that reminds you that hope and faith are not futile. Midnight is where the day begins. Right? Right?
How do you describe something as fragile and beautiful as The Innocence Mission's music? Many have tried. And after much deliberation, I've picked not one but two winners! Each one will receive a copy of the new solo album from The Innocence Mission's Don Peris... Go Where the Morning Shineth. So here you go... a whole gallery of attempts to describe the music of The Innocence Mission. If this doesn't convince you to rush out and buy a copy of the remastered re-release of Birds of My Neighborhood, I don't know what will.
2006's re-mastered version of The Innocence Mission's Birds of My Neighborhood lets this masterful recording expand to fill a room, resonating in hardwood floors, giving the listener the freedom to move about in the spaces between Don Peris's exquisite guitar stylings and the fragile beauty of Karen Peris's vocals. It's the next best thing to having them visit you personally in your living room and play you a song... a dream I haven't given up on yet. (I know, it sounds funny to dream of having one of your favorite bands visit your home, but hey... if music as glorious as The Innocence Mission's can exist and find audiences amid the clamor and buzz, then I'm inclined to believe in miracles.) These songs are as fresh and beautiful as the day they were recorded, more than five years ago. While Don and Karen have moved on from those days of deep darkness in which they crafted such palpable sounds of sadness and hope, their work continues to give voice to the wounds and wishes of people everywhere today. And rather than merely wallowing in angst, these songs are journeys that move us from a place of grief to a place of gratitude and grace. And gratitude is what I would show should I ever have the opportunity to thank them in person. FOR A FULL REVIEW, AND A LIST OF THE BEST ENTRIES IN THE INNOCENCE MISSION CONTEST, CLICK HERE.
Isn't it wonderful when a
live audience knows how to be quiet?
Listening to
Elbow for the first time, with hearing their 2005 release
Leader of the Free World, I have that rare feeling that I'm
hearing what will become one of my favorite rock bands. This is
great rock-and-roll songwriting. While the lyrics are bleak, and
some of the political commentary blunt and clumsy, when it comes
to Elbow's musicianship and melodicism, I'm reaching for the sorts
of superlatives I pull out for Radiohead. They're not innovators
like Radiohead--they seem quite content to let rest on the
strengths of their songwriting and lead singer Guy Garvey's vocals
(he sounds impressively like young Peter Gabriel). Now I've got to go explore their earlier works.
The Minus 5 continue to turn out Beatles-esque pop with unapologetic nostalgia, bringing together talents from all over the map. Since The Traveling Wilburys haven't put out an album in ages, there's really nobody else delivering this variety of classic pop right now. But in spite of the long list of notable participants this time, it sounds to this listener like, well, just some more Minus 5 songs. That may be enough for you. Some folks like it when bands stick to what they're good at. But it makes me restless, and I start wondering what the folks in this band are doing with their other, more adventurous bands. I can't say that there's any particular track that really stands out, or that any of the lyrics have emerged as more than merely clever this time. And as past Minus 5 albums have been primarily entertaining diversions, this one seems likely to fade into the background in a season of surprising and vibrant new music. If you're a collector of work by Peter Buck or Scott MacCaughey, or if you like The Minus 5's retro-pop and jangly guitars, this release probably won't be a waste of time, but it won't rock your world either.
After two strong solo albums of contemplative pop, Sarah Harmer throws a curve ball this time, belting out bluegrass and country tunes as if she's been doing this her whole life. Her voice sounds better than ever, the songs have zip and spirit, and the musicianship -- from the guitar-picking to the fiddle-sawing -- is energetic and bright. It's great music for pulling up the blinds and eating breakfast: it'll start you up for the day and send you out in high spirits.
A note from
the All-Music Guide review:
What is the auditory equivalent of the scent of a garden on a spring morning? What would music sound like if it dripped from a honeycomb? A music critic can make a complete fool of himself trying to describe the pure beauty, simplicity, and grace of the music made by Don and Karen Peris, otherwise known as The Innocence Mission. But here I go again, risking humiliation, just to try and catch in words a glimmer of their glow. Go When the Morning Shineth is Don Peris's second solo venture, and this one is mostly made of instrumentals, with two songs along the way -- one of which features Karen, and in the other he's joined by Denison Witmer. From the dreamy “Day Trip,” with its rhythm-guitar punctuation and honey-drip guitar plucking, to “Jubilee,” in which he provides himself with jazzy drum accompaniment and interweaving layers of loop effects, it's clear that Peris is feeling a bit more experimental than usual. The guitar stylings will be familiar to Innocence Mission fans, but the atmospheric effects give some numbers a fresh twist. "Delaware" is a meditative stroll. "Glimmer," which is perfectly named, will be a favorite for its bright, sprightly step and shuffling drums; you half-expect Paul Simon's voice to chime in, or Sufjan Stevens with some meditative and nostalgic lyric. Even the voice of John Lennon's ghost would seem a natural occurrence here. (It's no wonder that "Julia" is Peris's favorite song.) In "Recital," his guitar loops wind around cello strains like a vine around strong boughs. And the album just keeps spreading its branches and flowering. Aw, for cryin' out loud, there I go again. How do you solve a problem like Don Peris's guitar playing? Words fail. But for me, the greatest thrill is to hear Karen's voice join Don's, bursting into thrilling song with their impeccable, unmatchable harmonies in “North Atlantic Sand.” The duo, whose album Befriended was NPR's #1 record of 2004, are still one of the most enchanting wonders in popular music when they put their voices together. This song finds them as optimistic and joyful as parents singing to their child can be.
Greener
are the hills where you are bound In the hands of any other artists, these lyrics would be sticky with sentimentality. But in their hands, they shimmer with sincerity. It's enough to make you ache with anticipation for their next record, which may be out later this year. I know I said this before, but this music tends to make you think about gardens... especially one garden in particular, from long long ago, which has a name synonymous with longing. (Watch this page for a review of the remastered version of The Innocence Mission's masterpiece: Birds of My Neighborhood... coming soon.) Go When the Morning Shineth will be available through Badman Recording Company in April.
Beth Orton's latest abstains from the
electronic bells and whistles of her previous records. It lets her
bittersweet vocals shine the way a gem can dazzle when the jeweler
finds just the right setting. |
recommended internet radio
past favorites Jeffrey's Eleven Favorite Recordings of 2005 Jeffrey's 10 Favorite Recordings of 2004 Jeffrey's 10 Favorite Recordings of 2003 Jeffrey's 10 Favorite Recordings of 2002
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