Plants and Animals – Wonderful Bubble

Montreal’s Plants and Animals lowered the pressure to record their third full-length album

Stress wouldn’t seem to be a problem at an old manor outside of Paris. But despite the wine, the cheese and the picturesque countryside, Plants and Animals found themselves with frayed nerves instead of focus.

The Montreal indie-rock trio decided on a new process to record their third album, working longer and more carefully on songwriting before setting foot inside La Frette Studios. With time running short and pressure mounting, the band wasn’t getting things right. So when a neighbor complained about the rock music interfering with his holiday family reunion, the forced break was just what the band needed.

“Stress is the enemy when you’re in front of a microphone, because you can hear it afterward,” says drummer Matthew Woodley. “… We extended our plane tickets for a few days and decided to take advantage of that time, and it just made us work differently, and it started to make us have more fun.”

The loose vibe on The End of That comes from that low-pressure situation and the “bubble” the band got to work in with engineer Lionel Darenne (who recorded Feist’s The Reminder at the same studio). Woodley describes La Frette as “somewhere between this great big grandiose mansion and a country home,” with paint peeling from the walls and great high ceilings.

“The place you’re in when you’re doing something can shape the outcome a lot, and this house was a wicked place to be creative in,” he says. “I can’t imagine this place being anywhere other than in France, because of the flavor and feel and architecture and the bread and cheese and wine, but I don’t think it was France that inspired the record. It was this wonderful bubble we were in.”

The band recorded almost entirely live (as opposed to multi-tracking), working out the songs ahead of time instead of using the studio to flesh out ideas as they’d done in the past.

“We wanted to avoid a lot of postproduction and just sound like three people playing together straight-up. This time, we can see the whole picture, and it’s more of a question of execution. It’s liberating,” Woodley says.

Plants and Animals started a decade ago as a strictly instrumental trio, good friends playing music together just for the enjoyment. Woodley, multi-instrumentalist Warren Spicer and lead guitarist Nicolas Basque did that for five years, recording two EPs before putting together their debut album, Parc Avenue, and going out into the world as a touring band.

Woodley describes the band’s instrumental period as experimental and even a bit wanky.

“Because of that, we got good at playing our instruments together, and we didn’t worry about writing hits or even singing,” he says. “That’s always going to be there as a foundation of what we do. I can’t imagine it any other way.”

Parc Avenue was nominated for the 2008 Polaris Music Prize, and its follow-up, La La Land, also made it to the 40-album-long list for the top Canadian album prize. But despite such early success, the band wanted to strike out in a different direction for the new album.

“We’ve always done a lot in the studio,” Woodley says. “We spent two years making our first album, and the second time, we also did a lot of writing in the studio. We thought it’d be better to look at the material, and the decisions end up different.”

The End of That is a record that takes a look at adulthood and growing up, with Spicer’s lyrics talking about facing down an “existential crisis.”

“They’re pretty direct and blunt. It’s about a time in life. When you first hear the title of the record, it can sound dark and ominous, but it’s not,” Woodley says. “I think the lyrics come across as having a beer with a friend at the end of the day. It’s an ending, but it’s also a celebration.”

“Well holy matrimony! / Everyone is getting married or breaking up / And the stroller situation on the sidewalk is way out of control,” Spicer sings on “Crisis!” as he describes the difficulty of relating to peers who have embarked on more-traditional paths than that of a rock ‘n’ roll band.

On “No Idea,” it’s Spicer asking, “Do you fear loneliness? Do you fear getting left behind? All your friends are getting married and having a time?”

Woodley says the lyrics shouldn’t be read as a diary, but more as a general description of the questions a lot of people deal with about maturity and adulthood. And there’s still an optimistic thread that runs through the songs.

“We’re not opposed to families and strollers or anything like that; it’s just more like, ‘Oh shit, what’s happening?’ That’s the existential crisis that Warren is poking at. But it’s all done with a wink and a grain of salt,” Woodley says.

Musically, The End of That finds the band updating vintage rock ‘n’ roll styles of greats like the Band, the Grateful Dead and Crazy Horse, alternately rootsy and psychedelic, equally comfortable in frantic jams and simple folk. It’s the same type of alternative-history classic rock played by contemporaries like Blitzen Trapper, Dr. Dog and The War on Drugs, slicing and shuffling big-name influences into a sound that’s familiar and even recognizable, yet impossible to pin down.

Woodley says that the more careful songwriting/preparation and the live recording of The End of That have the band the closest it’s ever been to playing the songs onstage as they sound on the album. And once again, those instrumental roots become a big strength as the band heads out on tour.

“I like being onstage and playing to people who are listening in the moment. Personally, it’s my favorite,” Woodley says. “I find it to be harder in the studio, because you listen to yourself playing more. We all love playing live. That’s where we’re at our best.”

Published May 17, 2012 in the Tucson Weekly.

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Femme Fatale Show, feat. Make My Baby, Club Congress, May 11

Phoenix singer-songwriter Lonna Kelley is a longtime favorite at Club Congress—but she’s taking a different road with her new band.

Make My Baby is more of a collaborative effort—with three female singers, right out front—than Kelley’s alt-country bands Broken Hearted Lovers and Reluctant Messiahs. And Make My Baby captures an entirely different sound, a tom-thumping, fuzzed-out garage-rock that’s lightened by tight harmonies.

The relatively new band played Club Congress in December, but on Friday, it headlined an almost-exclusively female night, with Acorn Bcorn, AK Kitten and Ruth Wilson also scheduled. Unfortunately, my evening hit a snag, and I missed the first half of the show.

Make My Baby features Kelley on guitar and vocals; Tabby Hufman and Ann Seletos on standing, bass-free drum kits and vocals; and, almost hiding in the back, the guys rounding out the band. They opened with “On the Radio,” a spiritual cousin to the new Beach Boys single, featuring nostalgia laid bare, and celebrating music, youth, dancing and the sense that “everything is possible, on the radio.”

Make My Baby might be Arizona’s answer to retro girl groups like Best Coast, Vivian Girls and Dum Dum Girls, but beyond the band’s sweet harmonies, everything is raw, loud and even a bit twisted. Make My Baby stays away from dreamy reverb, remaining firmly planted in a lo-fi buzz that contrasts beautifully with the bubblegum-pop vocals.

The songs continued in the vein of “On the Radio”—teenage tales of being love-struck, motoring around and other familiar exploits. Just a few months old, Make My Baby is forgiven for turning in a relatively short set. Their charms are plenty, and as the band writes more songs, we should keep our eyes peeled for more Tucson performances.

Ahead of Make My Baby was the stripped-down blues-punk of sister-duo Acorn Bcorn. There’s plenty of menace delivered by the kick drums and the squealing guitar, and when Marina Cornelius unleashes the chorus of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” it’s downright frightening. Elsewhere, Marina and Leanne took the tempo to fast and frenzied, leaving an electrifying buzz hanging in the air as they brought the last song to a crash landing.

Published May 17, 2012 in the Tucson Weekly.

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Mike Doughty’s Book of Drugs

Mike Doughty, 2010

Artists get second chances all the time, but no one gets a resurrection.  So, Mike Doughty had only one choice: take the few minutes of the day his head was clear to race out in front of his alcohol and drug addictions, or to continue killing himself.

In The Book of Drugs, a memoir that’s stark in its depiction of family dysfunction, abusive relationships and the incessant hunger for drugs, Doughty centers on the moment he gathered his strength to detox once and for all.

The Book of Drugs is a chronicle of spiraling addiction and, ultimately, recovery. But running parallel to that narrative is the story of Doughty’s musical life and career, the formation and dissolution of his band Soul Coughing and his turn to solo acoustic performances and albums. From the book’s perspective, the divide couldn’t be more blunt: Soul Coughing = drugs, alcohol and abuse; Mike Doughty solo = clean and pure, satisfied with life and making music that reflects his true self.

In concert recently at Tucson, Arizona’s historic Club Congress, Doughty said his book has “lots of groovy drug stories, lots of shitty drug stories and why I hate Soul Coughing.”

So, what’s a fan to do?

Doughty has picked his side, unequivocally, repeatedly stating in his book, during interviews and on stage in the current tour (which functions as a hybrid combining book tour with solo acoustic performances) that he despises his former band.

But where does that leave someone like me, who became a fan of Mike Doughty because of Soul Coughing?

I can’t choose.

The fact of the matter is that Doughty’s hatred of Soul Coughing is completely rational, even if it’s personally disappointing to me.

But what’s impossible as a fan of both Mike Doughty and Soul Coughing is to join him in completely jettisoning those three records he recorded with his former band (who he doesn’t name in the memoir, simply referring to them as sampler player, bass player and drummer.) He may hate Soul Coughing. However, their blend of hip-hop, jazz, beat poetry and New York cool that Doughty himself coined “Deep Slacker Jazz” remains some of the most compelling music I’ve ever heard.

Ruby Vroom was the first album I ever owned that came fresh from the hip underground. Irresistible Bliss was the album that spurred me and five friends to drive four hours roundtrip to see Soul Coughing perform live in Tempe. And El Oso is one of the first records I bought at a midnight sale. I love Soul Coughing for the nostalgia they inspire, as much as I like their music.

This is a point Doughty makes clear in his book. Those fans who come out to shows shouting for his old band’s hits are seeking to relive their own teens or twenties, which is something he can’t bear to do. Fair enough. I won’t toss away my fandom of Soul Coughing, but neither will I force it into the space of my current Mike Doughty fandom.

If abandoning Soul Coughing is a prerequisite to hanging onto Doughty, I’m not willing to go there. But if it’s simply a matter of keeping them in separate realms, of tuning one out while the other is on, and vice versa, then I can manage.

Doughty’s solo records, starting with Skittish (which was such a drastic departure from Soul Coughing’s sound that Doughty released it himself, unable to get his record company interested) offer a run of songs at least as impressive as the band’s three albums do. While more conventional musically — he has termed the style “small rock” — the records feature that same brand of stream-of-consciousness word play and uniquely rhythmic guitar playing that made Soul Coughing so compelling.

I want to say that the fact that Doughty’s now clean has had no impact on the quality of his music. But that desire comes from a place where it’s presumed that sobriety would necessarily lead to an artistic decline. It’s a fallacy that comes from our deeply ingrained collection notion of sex (which Doughty discusses in rapid-fire detail in his memoir,) drugs and rock ‘n’ roll.

Sobriety has given Doughty the man a way to keep living. But what it has given Doughty’s music is more than simple re-emergence. Always poetic, Doughty’s lyrics for Soul Coughing could be horribly veiled or seem like a mere jumble of words. Now, his lyrics have an entirely new clarity and a dynamic thematic reach. He questions god, spirituality and identity and yearns for life’s big answers, instead of simply trying to sound cool.

The great comedian Bill Hicks has an iconic bit, captured on his Relentless album, about how drugs have done great things for us and how the artists who made all the great records in your own collection were “really fucking high on drugs.” That positive effect Hicks describes certainly seems to be a reality, with countless examples through the years — including Soul Coughing’s Ruby Vroom, Irresistible Bliss and El Oso. The humor in this observation is obvious. But while Hicks skewers corporate sell-outs and their undignified self-righteousness, he never discusses what’s on the other side of that coin: Amy Winehouse, Jimi Hendrix, Hank Williams, and what very well could’ve been Mike Doughty.

Rock star death via the bottle and the needle is a sad convention that the music world consistently glorified for decades. Mourners may never accept the tragedy of a favorite artist dying young, but those same artists are endlessly celebrated, even if only as the tragic figures they are. And their records usually sell better as a consequence.

By contrast, musicians with redemptive stories — Steven Tyler, Ozzy Osbourne —are often mocked or shunned, considered creative husks of what chemical muse drove their artistry. Doughty demonstrates how wrong this reflex can be. Like Bob Dylan and Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy, he is someone whose creativity was reignited by breaking free from chemical dependency. But whereas Dylan’s reclusiveness after his speed-fueled 1966 world tour and Tweedy’s stint in rehab for addiction to painkillers seemed merely like the ends of chapters, Doughty’s post-addiction work is, as The Book of Drugs implies, a whole new book.

What Doughty has been chasing is his true self, undiluted and independent, free not only from his former bandmates and the heroin, cocaine, marijuana and alcohol that he absorbed daily for years, but also from the music industry that prefers tragic narratives to redemptive ones. Perhaps it stems from a personal commitment to his sobriety as much as it is the result of artistic vision. The fact that Doughty has been able to make such a clear break is practically unheard of.

Doughty is a rarity as an artist, someone who starkly refuses to coast on old hits. The hoard of legacy acts playing casinos and state fairs around the world — sometimes with as few as a single original member — prove that it’s a lucrative pastime, as do the indie-rock stalwarts whose reunions in recent years have seen them selling more tickets for a nostalgia trip than they ever did in their prime.

What Doughty did was to take a fan base that he’d built up with Soul Coughing, let go of those who weren’t willing to stick around for just him, and then build from there, writing, recording, touring and blogging on his own terms.

At Club Congress, Doughty opened with Unsingable Name and Madeline and Nine, two of the best song he’s ever written. In a performance stretching two hours, Doughty played storyteller and host as well as musician. He gladly takes questions from the audience, knowing full well that despite saying “I hate questions about Soul Coughing” he’ll nonetheless continue getting them.

But as those questions recede and Doughty retunes his guitar, the spark is obvious. It’s why he plays music, why he laid the worst moments of his life bare in a memoir, why driving all around the country at 41, a dozen years into his solo career, and why he’s playing a small club on a Sunday night: Mike Doughty is a tremendous songwriter and musician and despite all the twists and turns, he’s living his dream. While it might not be the sort of dream that familiarity with the music business has led us to expect, it’s it’s all the more inspiring for its health, honesty and dedication.

 Photograph courtesy of 92YTribeca. Published under a Creative Commons license.

Published May 10, 2012 in Souciant Magazine.

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Lambchop, Howe Gelb, Club Congress, May 6

Lambchop’s first Tucson performance was a hushed and delicate affair—no surprise, considering the mellow frequency on which Kurt Wagner’s gorgeous and off-kilter songs live.

Even for a band that tours infrequently, it’s a surprise that two decades and 11 albums hadn’t previously brought the Nashville band to Tucson, especially considering Wagner has collaborated with opener Howe Gelb. But credit the rarity of the show for the crowd’s near total silence, full attention and warm appreciation.

Impressively quiet yet full and intricately textured, the sound of Lambchop is unmatched anywhere—alt-country intertwined with lounge-jazz that lets Wagner’s restrained warble flitter about.

Arranged in a semicircle, Wagner, pianist Tony Crow, keyboardist/guitarist Ryan Norris, bassist Matt Swanson and drummer Scott Martin packed the first part of the show with nearly the entirety of Mr. M, the band’s new, excellent album. Dedicated to the late Vic Chesnutt, Wagner’s friend and fellow songwriter, Mr. M is perhaps definitive in showcasing how Wagner can sustain a quiet melancholy that grows more rewarding the closer you listen. Songs like “If Not I’ll Just Die,” “2B2,” “Gone Tomorrow” and “The Good Life (Is Wasted)” are filled with memorable lines and careful details—impressionistic and inscrutable at the same time.

After reaching into the back catalog for a couple songs—”Interrupted” (1998) and “My Blue Wave” (2002)—Wagner jokingly asked the crowd if they were depressed yet, then introduced the next tune, “N.O.” as a “big fucking bummer.” Then came the bathroom-suicide song “Soaky in the Pooper” and the encore of “Magnificent Obsession,” both even darker.

Ahead of Lambchop was Gelb, first solo on the piano, and then backed by some of the newest members of his expanded Giant Giant Sand, including Brian Lopez and Gabriel Sullivan, both on guitar. Previewing songs from his forthcoming album, a “country rock opera,” the band took a ramshackle approach to new tunes like “Forever and a Day.”

Howe turned the mic over to Lopez and Sullivan for a song apiece before announcing surprise guest vocalist KT Tunstall (the Scottish singer is in town to record her latest album) for a charmingly unrehearsed but passionate cover of The Band’s “Out of the Blue,” dedicated to the late Levon Helm.

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Great Lake Swimmers – New Wild Everywhere

Toronto songwriter Tony Dekker leads Great Lake Swimmers, an electrified folk orchestra striving for the same agelessness that’s carried decades of roots music.

New Wild Everywhere finds Dekker writing with a troubadour’s restlessness, filling his songs with elemental and natural imagery—fire, wind, storms, animals, wounds, dreams and desires.

The band’s sound falls somewhere in the area of Roger McGuinn fronting the Band, or Will Oldham forcing Arcade Fire into going country. It’s rich and polished chamber folk, well-executed on slower songs like the dreamy violin-led opener “Think That You Might Be Wrong,” though the spark really comes when the band picks up the pace.

The album’s most-memorable songs share an up-tempo jumpiness: the breezy Laurel Canyon-esque “New Wild Everywhere,” the full-bore country rocker “Changes With the Wind” and the brightly melodic “Easy Come Easy Go.”

But it’s the ballad “Fields of Progeny” that serves as the album’s calling card, an ode to old-time roots music and all the links that have brought that music to the present. Dekker’s sincere longing is fully exposed as he sings, “I hear the old voices singing / this song will never end / it was here long ago and continues to grow / in the fields of progeny.”

Great Lake Swimmers play music for the Instagram world, turning to sepia tone in fond mimicry of the old originals—and pulling it off beautifully.

Published May 10, 2012 in the Tucson Weekly.

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The Project, Church Key, Club Congress, April 27

Live band hip-hop is a rarity in Tucson.

So when the Project arrived on the local scene—fully formed, with an eclectic sound that takes in soulful grooves, jazzy detours and spacey funk—late last summer, the fresh sound created a huge buzz. Releasing their debut Child Support (produced by Ian Carstensen at Loveland Studios), the Project put on a tight show Friday, holding the full crowd from start to finish.

Backing MC Rey Murphy and crooner Darielle Williams are saxophonist Yancey Wells, bassist Darren Simoes (Dead Western Plains, the Bled), and guitarist/keyboardist Ian Carstensen and drummer Orin Shochat (Holy Rolling Empire).

The band opened with “Grindin’,” chill organ and a slightly mournful sax giving way to a sharp beat and verses from Murphy about street credibility, staring down long odds and coming out on top.

“It’s Not a Game” is anchored by a Williams hook—”This is my life, it’s not a game. I grew up in the ghetto struggling through pain” —that echoes 1990s R&B and G-funk. Murphy picks up his pace on “Rolling Stone,” flowing quick on vivid verses about drug dealing and pursuing rhymes as an escape.

The smooth and jazzy “Project Boys” is a showcase for Wells, putting the sax right up with Williams and Murphy’s laid back ode to determination: “The Project boys is in the fuckin’ house, we’re doing our thing and I know that we’re gonna make it.”

The hard-edged instrumental funk of “Big Dipper” let the musicians show off, particularly Simoes, whose insistent bass line drives the song. “Music” is an appreciative shout-out to everything from Wu Tang to Miles Davis, a telling string of influences that explains much of what the Project is attempting. As Williams sings, music itself is the muse they’re chasing.

Leading up to the Project—so named because it’s (somewhat unfortunately) a side project—was alternative guitar rock from the new-ish Church Key (with members of Garboski, Gentlemen of Monster Island and Blues) on the main stage and a side stage that hosted a packed showcase of MCs, led by Captain Antenna on the turntables. The talent and promise of local voices was impressive, especially Too Tall, WHSK and the Aces.

Published May 3, 2012 in the Tucson Weekly.

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Tennis – Young and Old

The first album from Tennis arrived framed in its own narrative—husband and wife tour the Eastern Seaboard in a sailboat for seven months, then form a band to make a record about their experience.

The band’s follow-up manages to carry the themes and sound of Cape Dory another step forward. Young and Old isn’t about sailing so much as it’s about wanting to sail again—stuck facing the real world with a too-adventurous spirit.

The music from Denver’s Alaina Moore and Patrick Riley falls on the less-dreamy end of dream pop—think Beach House swapping the reverb for some bubblegum choruses. Patrick Carney of the Black Keys produced the album, upping the tempo and adding a bit of low-end muscle in comparison to Cape Dory.

The lyrics—and song titles like “Dreaming” and “Traveling”—center around the battle between disillusionment and idealism, an introspective kind of searching as opposed to the literal exploring that shaped their first record. “Took a train to get to you,” Moore sings on album-opener “It All Feels the Same.” On “Never to Part,” he says: “Paradise is all around, but happiness is never found.”

While it’s missing a standout track, Young and Old is a strong second effort and one that suggests Tennis will continue to make fine pop music that finds a good balance between hazy sounds and sugary vocals.

Published May 3, 2012 in the Tucson Weekly.

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Bon Iver, Feist, TCC Arena, April 23

Bon Iver and Feist use the immediacy of live performance to make their songs swell with much greater intensity. And though the (sadly unfilled) Convention Center Arena might seem like an awkward venue, the cavernous space is well-suited for the sound of both bands.

Feist came bounding onto the stage first, opening with a rocking version of “Undiscovered First.” With a trio of backup singers in flowing dresses, and backed nimble multi-instrumentalists, Feist ran through 13 songs, mostly from last year’s Metals (“How Come You Never Go There,” “Graveyard” and “A Commotion”) and 2007′s The Reminder (the amazing “I Feel It All,” a jagged, psychedelic rendition of “My Moon My Man” and the closing “Sealion”).

Bon Iver took the stage—with elaborate candle-like lighting framed by netting draped from above—and began with a trio of songs from its Grammy-winning self-titled album: military marching drums guiding a bombastic rendition of “Perth,” the effervescent “Minnesota, WI” and “Towers,” with its chiming guitar and Southwestern horns.

The nine-member band features two drummers and a field of multi-instrumentalists, which gives Justin Vernon the power to deconstruct earlier songs like “Flume” live, injecting an experimental break into the high-and-lonesome acoustic song.

The gorgeous “Holocene” started the show’s strongest stretch (while drawing out numerous cell-phone videographers) with a segue that featured saxophonist Colin Stetson detouring into avant-garde jazz. After the rest of the band joined in a burst of noise, they launched into the pulsating “Blood Bank,” with the stage bathed in red lights. After that spellbinding cacophony, the rest of the band left the stage to Vernon, alone under four spotlights, for the aching, fragile “Re:Stacks,” the last song he recorded in his Wisconsin cabin before emerging with his breakthrough album, For Emma, Forever Ago.

“Skinny Love” was unmistakable from the opening steel-guitar strums. All but the horn players joined in the distraught chorus, and pushed by booming drums, the sound built like a gathering storm.

The encore featured the crowd sing-along of “The Wolves (Act I and II)” and the bright horns of “For Emma,” both songs that capture Bon Iver’s essence by pairing intimacy with a grand, expansive sound.

Published April 26, 2012 in the Tucson Weekly.

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Andrew Bird – Break It Yourself

“This peculiar incantation, I’m sure you’ve heard it before,” Andrew Bird sings on “Desperation Breeds …,” the first song on Break It Yourself, his sixth solo album.

As an introduction to the album, it’s an interesting notion, both true and sort of false. Break It Yourself is pure Andrew Bird—flights of whistling; creative violin-plucking; and looping and poetic, if veiled and obtuse, lyrics. But it’s also an album recorded with more restraint, more conventional song structures and a welcome looseness.

Bird’s earlier experimenting and perfectionism take a back seat to songs that are both more joyful and more tender. Ballads like “Fatal Shore” and “Sifters” unfold like slow afternoons, calming and comfortable.

First single “Eyeoneye” (which gives the album its title) brings out the clanging guitars for a strong burst of indie rock. “Danse Caribe” pairs sweeping violin and acoustic guitar in Irish folk style, then jumps to some island percussion and back to a stomping jig.

“Hole in the Ocean Floor” is Bird’s indulgent long song, an eight-minute journey that finds Bird at his most ornate and classical, providing an interesting contrast with the album’s folkier moments.

The album’s peak is “Lusitania,” an achingly gorgeous duet with St. Vincent that begs for a full album of collaboration between the two.

Break It Yourself makes the most of Bird’s incredible musical gifts and is Bird’s most listenable and most memorable album.

Published April 19, 2012 in the Tucson Weekly.

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Justin Townes Earle – Nothing’s Gonna Change The Way You Feel About Me Now

With rich, full arrangements that veer more toward Memphis soul than the country-rock-stomp of his father, Justin Townes Earle’s new record is a subtle triumph.

While there’s no reason the younger Earle should still worry about his father’s shadow, it’s right there in the album’s opening lines: “I hear my father on the radio, singing take me home again / 300 miles from the Carolina coast and I’m skin and bones again / Sometimes I wish that I could get away / Sometimes I wish that he’d just call / Am I that lonely tonight?”

At 30, Earle has a career-best album on his hands, a sophisticated mix of blues, country and soul that brings in piano, organ, pedal steel, upright bass, strings and horns that all blossom in the live recording and production of Earle and Skylar Wilson.

Lyrically, the album’s core theme is identity, and how much of that foundation comes from personal relationships. Careful with his words, Earle writes with a plainspoken style that evokes late nights and empty rooms, those stark moments of personal honesty and reflection.

Album highlights are plentiful in the record’s quick 31 minutes: the jazzy “Down on the Lower East Side,” the groovy “Memphis in the Rain,” the gentle cello and violin sway of “Won’t Be the Last Time” and the jaunty walking blues of “Movin’ On.”

Earle follows the excellent Harlem River Blues with an even better record, basking in the presence of a country-soul muse that fits him perfectly.

Published April 12, 2012 in the Tucson Weekly.

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