‘American Goldwing’ is the title track taken from Blitzen Trapper’s 2011 effort, and much like ‘Love The Way You Walk Away’, a taster from the record that leaked earlier this month, it persists in affirming an amended direction in which the American pop band substitute their future-folk for desert-bound traditionalism.
What with a rocketing esteem for the new breed of country-crafting troubadours and whisky swigging urban cowboys indebted to the Canyon clan, Blitzen Trapper’s sixth validates that their dormant aptitude for harmonica tooting tales has exposed its slack-jawed slur at the right time.
From what I’ve heard so far, these two songs suggest that their previous album, ‘Furr’, marked the dying gasp of waving dysfunctionalism as they take a leap into the past while pulling on the strings of modern ramblers like The Only Sons. Banjos cling to coarse and smoky harmonies while harps stomp their snake skin boots upon the spat tobacco that lines the sawdust of honky tonk bars from Atlanta to Alabama.
Even the title, ‘American Goldwing’, suggests a tipped Stetson towards Nelson and the Outlaws, strengthening the fact that this is much more for the Drive-By Truckers tribe than the angelic folk of Peckenfold and co.
Eerie tribal beginnings open upon the gate to Outfit’s newest single, ‘Two Islands’. Spirits from the chasm of The Jesus and Mary Chain are quickly counteracted by vocals that, despite trying to accompany the gloom, actually heighten its air of spook to a neo-pop bubble that trips through Phoenix chirp with disrupted pools of Animal Collective digital effervescence. While the static undergrowth fails to capture the colourful vibe that Outfit possess, one hopes that in the future they embrace the sunshine and hang loose in acid-doused Washed Out vibes.
The expectant veil of prospect that looms above the heads of Dawes must be a weighty one. They hail from the North Hills of Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles, a place rooted in musical heritage. It’s been a fortress of demise and uprising for singer-songwriters since the late 60s, and more recently, Jonathan Wilson, the mystically nostalgic troubadour who bought us ‘Gentle Spirit’ on the Bella Union label, has triumphed as the best thing to sprawl from the Canyon since, well, the last best thing.
For Dawes, however, it’s not been a such an easy rise from the eucalyptus shrubs that coat the Canyon’s dusty paths. After the departure of co-songwriter, Blake Mills, back when the band was called Simon Dawes, brothers Taylor and Griffin Goldsmith went it alone with Wylie Gelber and Tay Strathairn and substituted the previous post-punk rabble in favour for a dabble in sun-drenched folk.
And what better place to catalyse an adulation in folk-rock than the woodland isolation of this Hill dwelling arcadia?
Now on their second album, ‘Nothing Is Wrong’, Dawes have edged into the territory of their forefathers. ‘If I Wanted Someone’ blends the ambience of Treetop Flyers and The Mountains and The Trees with Glenn Fry lyricism, humbly paired with the emptiness of the country music that influenced the early ramblers. ‘Maybe ‘cause I come from such an empty hearted town’ Taylor questions before declaring, ‘I want you to make the days move easy’ in typical Jackson Browne fashion.
'All it does here is rain' croons Willy Vlautin in a typically forsaken tone on 'The Meeting on the Logging Road', a track taken from his forthcoming Richmond Fontaine album, 'High Country'.
Desperation in both literature and music have always been pivotal in the desolate themes of Vlautin's work. 'The Motel Life' and 'Northline', two classically barren Americana novels by the wordsmith, are both recklessly forlorn tales of suffering attributed by the burden of addiction and bludgeoned pride. They ache and they crave acceptance. They desire balance and they delineate images of lower class America and its enduring struggle through a wasteland of urban decay, torn families and broken needles.
The importance of Vlautin's work lies in his facility to expose this abandoned side of America, the evil twin that Hollywood has shackled to the abyss. The people we hear in his songs and read in his written words are lonely and miserable. They are ruined and they are lost.
'I need help', a voice cries on 'Claude Murray's Breakdown' before 'The Eagles Lodge' begins in Oberst-like simplicity and swells into a sonic undergrowth of discontent. The surge of up-heaving gloom that begins to develop on this track cements a theme of versatility throughout this record that morphs from acoustic country simplicity to Marlboro-rock. 'Lost In The Trees' and 'The Chainsaw Sea' both advance with comparable barks of Reckless Kelly and Rich Hopkins, fearfully clinging to the ghosts of rock and roll. 'Everyone was tripping except me', snarls Vlatuin before shaky bass lines continue to ramble on, 'heaven was listening to a mix tape of Judas Priest', he continues.
'Inventory' is another narrative of alienation told through a female voice which fails to numb the heartache of this trailer park demise. Its sweet Raitt-like chatter accompanies the theme of hopelessness and unavoidable peril as financial weights and eventually, the collapse of human life, go unnoticed as America goes about its business and the insignificant reach their inevitable passing.
This album, after the first listen, then shows its teeth under the light of loss. It's a concept album built upon a tale of love and madness in a small logging community. A gothic country ballad stretched upon the stark plains of neglected America, this is one of Fontaine's darkest efforts to date.
There are a number of destitute entries in this album that bare their solemn heart in between songs. They sit woefully beside the dusty country and the coughing rock comfortably because they are one and the same. The fallen hope of these spouting accounts are as meaningful as the songs. They provide a basis for loss but no answer to it. Richmond Fontaine don't have an obsession with the harsh concept of failure that's omnipresent in their albums and Vlatuin's books, they simply believe in telling these stories because they're as important as righteous depictions of cosmic triumph. Damaged souls and broken homes construct as much as society as the success of an individual, if not more. Why should victories only pout their smug grins upon the face of idealistic rock and roll? We will not learn from our accomplishments we will only enjoy them. We build from our mistakes and we grow from our misfortune. The desperate, as Richmond Fontaine expose, often paint a bleaker yet more veritable picture of life because ultimately, they have survived.
While we all kneel to the submission of the sweeter things in life, the guilt of enjoyment often rises its head with a tutting finger and a smug grin that confirms for each flash of fulfilment you inhale, something equally shitty will bite you on the buttocks.
It’s the pessimists way. Expect nothing and you will never be let down. Enjoy something and you will pay for your happiness because aint nothing free. Girls, cigarettes, fast food, Big Brother…it’s all there waiting to fuck you over. And don’t think for one second that music will console your dying anguish because it wont, it’s there to further your longing, antagonise your dismay and poke fun at your pathetic life.
Lucy Rose is no different. Sure, her twee name suggests fields of heart-shaped smiles and happy endings, and yes, her saintly hum matches the alluring pitch of the sirens who lead sailors to their immortal peril and obviously her eyes look like diamonds cast from a secluded ocean in the heart of Babylon, but if you listen to ‘Middle of the Bed’ too much you’ll go and fall in love with her and trust me, she’ll never call you back.
Dexters wordsmith, Tom Rowlett, thinks that his band are arriving at just the right time to give the British music scene what it needs: Anthems.
Bought together through disbanded musical experiments of the past, Dexters are still at the early teething stages of emerging band status. Careful not to pull a Viva Brother and formulate claims of grandiose satisfaction, they’ve remained relatively under the radar and a little mysterious.
I saw (and put on) their first show at the Old Queens Head around six weeks ago and the striking prowess of Rowlett’s engaging on-stage frivolity was mirrored by his effervescent lyrical tangents of urban glories and urchins done good.
With only one song floating around it is hard to gauge the potential might of this developing outfit, but ‘Start to Run’ suggests gallant strides of inner-city indie-rock are on the menu. Mention ‘lad rock’ and I’ll set the hounds on you, it’s far more than that…
Country music is the one genre of music that's bludgeoned by preconceptions at every turn. Those confederate flag-waving, right-wing, sweet-tea drinking, Bush supporting rednecks who sing about the righteous throne of man and the deteriorating wealth of the South. You know the type...
In the U.K, more than anywhere it seems, the fiddle-wielding yelps of the Nudie shirt clan is so detached from what is considered to be cool that it almost crosses the line of embarrassment. Maybe your parents have stacks of Alan Jackson records that used to haunt your childhood, maybe Gretchen Wilson's screeching howl gave you nightmares or maybe your disgusted at the right-wing ideals of these swamp dwelling individuals...
Look deeper though. What do you really know about this broken music? probably nothing. You've cast assumptions from hearsay and perhaps a few dulcet tones that are more pop than country. I understand that the high-pitched hick bark of Elizabeth Cook or even the Dixie Chicks can be unappealing, but pick up some David Allan Coe, some Charlie Daniels, hell, some Willie Nelson and Steve Earle, because country music, as it stands, is about outlaws, it's about societies misfits, it's about a fight for your identity and it's about crushed souls by small town girls.
Charlie Daniels 'Simple Man' (No connection with the Skynyrd song) might be a bad song to plead my case with as he sings about uprising and shooting people, but there's more to it than simple lawless redemption and vigilance. While working at a website some months back we used to listen to Spotify and I put this song on. The raging guitars and the Marlboro slur are all elemental to the songs success as a country-rock growl, but someone commented on the songs lyrics, then stating that they were 'racist' and 'right wing'. While they fail to comment lightly on the state of America, there is no racism in this song, nor is there anything to suggest so. Following this, that person then put on Odd Future. The homophobic, woman-baiting, misogynistic, faggot-calling, middle-class rap troupe posing as hard-grafting, street-dwelling die-hard rappers. Now call Daniels a right-wing lyrist.
Country music is basically folk with balls and soul. The barren grace of an acoustic guitar and some lost words, hummed through a broken heart, illustrate the authority of this music's virtue, paired with the rapport these singers embody through their woeful tales of loss. When Townes Van Zandt sung...
The poets tell how Pancho fell
Lefty's livin' in a cheap hotel
The desert's quiet and Cleveland's cold
So the story ends we're told
he was singing about losing something so close to him but gaining something legendary in status. And that's how the great Outlaws are remembered. The lives they chose to live were fraught with violence and heavy drinking, quick-fire love affairs and an inevitable descent to the pits of despair, but this existence is one they chose because it was their only way.
Now, while the Country music Billboard charts thrive with the likes of Toby Keith and the foolish mummers of Alan Jackson's pro-Yank bile, you must realise that this is a pastiche of the country legacy, much like the way that British pop is now a shell of its former self. Times transcend generic tendencies and although the roots may remain they can be deformed and distorted, thus the product is not a product of its legacy, it is a product of the times.
But there are saviours of the scene. People who have lived and grown up on the road. No formulated faux-image, no stage school, nothing is contrived, it's all drawn from experience and the highs and lows of the concrete they march on a daily basis. And, fortunately for us, these figures of importance are the new generation of dust-road troubadours who will pen the next chapter in this vibrant and twisting tale. As Robbie RObertson once said, 'It's a God damn impossible way of life', but it's one that's necessary to keep the stories alive.
The first time I saw Laura Marling she was 16 years old. On a boiling hot summer's day in Brighton I found myself cramped in the basement of a venue called Sumo which no longer sits down one of the many seaside alleyways.
Jamie T was the headline act. It was a few months before his album came out. 'Back In The Game' and 'So Lonely Was The Ballad' were knocking about and the Eel Pie Island cartel were beginning their short lived rise to the top of the indie charts. It was definitely a time of diversity, a time where the odd bared their scars from under the leather-clad image of 'cool' and the left-field was welcomed. Records were gloriously under produced, dry wit was something of a welcomed counterpart to idealistic Bohemia painted by The Libs and the indie groups of this time drew the guts from pop music and added their own twist. It was the emergence of a new scene.
Yet while Good Shoes have struggled to record a second record, Larrikin disbursed for careers alongside Courtney Love and Burberry and Mystery Jets inhale from the dried up lungs of the 80s, Laura Marling, the pup of the revue, has blossomed into the most mature song writer in Britain.
Laura's third record is due out on 12th September. 'A Creature I Don't Know', as its title may hint towards, suggests that the elegant beauty is still trying to find her feet in the murky waters of folk, when in fact, this couldn't be further from the truth.
At 21 years old, Laura is certainly still growing as an artist but her records suggest that she's been an adult for some time now. The early bare folk of 'Failure' and 'New Romantic' solidified an aptitude for lyricism that drafted early comparisons to Joni and Joan Baez. Her hymnal and angelic tones, even when I first saw her, before she was legal to drink, accompanied the acoustic guitar like a brother in arms and something extremely potent was embedded in Laura's performance. Unlike the gaggle of countless other acoustic singer-songwriters, Laura has a knack for writing lyrically vibrant tales and it's like the words she sings were made just for her.
Her debut album 'Alas I Cannot Swim' showed that the young girl from Reading had a darker side to her than earlier songs like 'Mexico' led us to suggest. 'Night Terror' and 'Ghosts' portrayed a girl, wise way beyond the years that her age hints at, penning these absolutely divine musings that were both pensive and completely confessional. She had the ability to make each and every phoneme bleed with intensity and feeling, elongating that sense of unaffected and broken-hearted passion for just a snippet longer. Overall, this was a record about love and being in love. At a young age these sort of pensive ramblings can come off as entirely cliche and even sloppy in their construction - but this didn't. It was refined and paved the way for her sophomore effort.
'I Speak Because I Can' was one of the record's of 2010. While Laura's debut suggested womanhood was already upon her, 'I Speak...' dealt with it first hand. An affirmation of development, songs like 'Made By Maid', 'Rambling Man' and 'What He Wrote' were open-souled revelations to the world. The songs grew in depth and texture and Laura's style blossomed to emulate a bleaker side of folk that, when paired with her cracked words, could slice even hearts made of stone. 'I wouldn't want to lose something I couldn't save' she chirps on 'Darkness Descends'. These aren't the words of a twenty year old woman from England's forgiving lands, these are not the tentative teething steps of a young song writer, this is the sort of perfectly crafted, completely love-struct, open-wounded barrings of an individual whose life has been fraught with experience. How she conjures some of these lyrics is best left untold, but while pop music becomes sodomised by the ill-fated vampires who suck the originality from the world, Laura's words must not go unnoticed or unappreciated because, if we look to the bones of it, she is possibly the greatest female songsmith in the U.K, if not the world.
Earlier this month, the video for 'Sophia', Laura's forthcoming single, appeared online. Delicately, the song begins with melodious picking and soft hums as she states, 'Where I've been lately is no concern of yours' before gouging on tuneful conviction that builds into a slowly developing folk crescendo. As the drums begin to beat in the background, lyrics progress and build into wooing hooks with each instrument contributing wholly to the soothing tone. As the song grows in pace, the sonorous echoes mirror the advancement of the accomplished singer Laura has blossomed into. It's resplendent in its cleansed vision, sophisticated and beautifully primed, this marks the arrival of another incredible record for Britain's brightest hope.
Simon Felice has come a long way since departing from his brothers band, The Felice Brothers, some two or three years back.
Upon leaving the raspy, dust-kicking folkies, Simon embarked on a new project with a more subdued direction. The Duke and The King was his next port of call. Their debut record, 'Nothing Gold Can Stay', drew blood from The Felice Brothers more mellow moments of dreamy ambience. There were no riotous fiddles waltzing their way through drunken barn dances but there were those hints of acoustic clarity that Simon bought to the band.
Following the first Duke and The King record, their second effort was coined as having funk and gospel roots. Country music, the likes of which Simon made with his brothers, has always been influenced by the church-going realms of gospel and soul, it just transcends differently differently when sung by white boys on washboards and acoustic guitars.
Self recorded in a woodland area north of New York, Simon was joined by Nowell "The Deacon" Haskins and Simi Stone to make an album that would go on to fuse the funkadelic vibes of Sly and The Family Stone with the harmonious properties of CSNY. The results are sublime as Simon and his new band ring out the blues like seasoned professionals.
I'm weak at the knees for Beatitudes pensive musings. ‘Mary’, a self-recorded swoon from the Hampshire based band will have the quivering lust-fuelled lovers opening their weary hearts to all passers by via its over-coming melody that calls on Etta James and new Duke and The King material. While high school dances might not always end in romance fuelled exchanges across the virgin punch bowl, this 50s influenced twang of desire will soundtrack the heartache perfectly. And to get over it? Try ‘Seismic Magnitude’, a wobbly indie-pop husk that counteracts its woeful predecessor with glitzy charm and a faster pace to brush away those tears.
London's Life In Film have been grafting the capitals gigging circuit for some time now. Around three years, I think. It's a God damn minefield out there. Promoters are slack and uninterested, money is elusive, breaks are hard to come by - each turn presents a new problem, yet they keep on plugging and thank God for that.
The two striking attributes that launch Life In Film above the rest of the London indie cartel is their distinct Steadman-like melodies and their richly vibrant vocals. Earlier songs, 'Get Closer' and 'Sorry', demonstrated that pop hooks are not a problem for these guys, and after Christopher Bailey approached the band to film a video at the Burberry store in Milan, the high life beacons for Life In Film.
I had only heard this record yesterday but reviews from Uncut and comparisons towards Springsteen sparked intrigue that was matched by the adhesive gaze of this Americana beauty. Although Kurt Vile, whose 'Smoke Ring For My Halo' is one of this year's best records, left at the end of 2008, his lo-fi inflictions still remain, with 'Baby Missiles' in particular, demonstrating that Tom Petty's 'American Girl' also had its part to play. Also, if Vile's sound can be coined as Philadelphian then so can The War On Drugs. A dreamy and expansive record that continues to thrust and drive from start to finish.
Whenever the sun casts its rays upon the numb matter that sits beneath it, the pop bands of the world feel obliged to repay these mysterious Gods of rare-casting light by hounding out ‘songs of summer’, or something equally as droll.
The last time we had a band trying to replicate the tan lines of the glory days it was The Drums, who, it turned out, made an entire record comprised of the same song at slightly different speeds. Then apparently The Vaccines were placed on this earth to rid the pop spectrum of pretension via three-minute bubbles of chipper distortion and optimistic wailings that were over quicker than a horny teen’s first trip to Amsterdam. What both these bands failed to do, in any sense, was inject an element of surprise into the predictable mix, thus being under-whelmed is something we’ve come to expect from these marketed mugs. Lacklustre and safe seem to be the objectives of these unambitious, grin-bearing smart arses.
What we really want is a little filth. You can be poppy with being grubby, and adding little rough to the glitter ball gives it character, the likes of which the comfortable players on the scene fear more than anything.
So to commemorate those who are trying to strut with a little more pout and prowess, I’ve got a handful of slacker-popisms here that adorn to the three-minute demographic and hook-heavy chirps of idealistic pop but aren’t afraid to put their nuts on the chopping block.
Gross Magic - Teen Jamz
Possibly the best band to come out of Brighton in a long time, Gross Magic are the lank-haired, weed-smoking, fuzz-crafting layabouts who provide the missing link between Teenage Fanclub, The Lemonheads and Dinosaur Jr. The brainchild of Sam McGarrigle, Gross Magic’s brazen and edgy rhythms chug down fuzz like a litre of free Slush Puppy while dreamy lyricism clips the ear of Smith Western’s and tells Cloud Nothings they’re a bunch of losers. Their debut e.p, ‘Teen Jamz’ is a reet belter.
This Californian four-piece couldn’t be more, well, Californian. The static production of their group echoes make the Drums sound like urban monkeys chasing stray cats down alley ways. There’s glints of buoyancy sweeping through the waves of lo-fi surf that take ‘Drop The Act’ and place it upon a plinth of righteous perfection, dude.
Not quite as wave-laden as the first two, Blitzen Trapper’s husky swell has a country tinge to it, reminiscent of Roman Candle and Neutral Milk Hotel. ‘I‘ve been feeling hard to get, like a dog hiding down underneath the step’ coo the alt-folk Oregon collective, unashamedly brandishing a yearning sense of acceptance when the tagline, ‘I love the way you walk away’ hits, re-opening all the broken souls that have ever dealt with such downtrodden beatings.
The first time I saw The Music was with my Dad at The Forum in Kentish town. The show occurred just before their second record was released, and it was a night that changed my perspective on music forever.
I had been to shows before. I had just hit 17 years old and I was really starting to get into music. It was a winter night when we went to see them, I don’t quite remember the date but I remember the show clearly. The band played songs from their debut record, which I had not really heard, and about half of the second album, I remember ‘Breakin‘ was being played on the TV quite a bit (ironic considering it‘s possibly their weakest tune). I always had a prudish attitude towards live music that I’d never heard because part of the fulfilment for me was singing along to the words and burying myself into the vibe of the tunes. That night, however, my cynicism was disbanded beneath the glare of The Music’s combustible indie-dance that span webs of noise throughout the venue and my mind, in equal measures.
In a short space of time I became absolutely hooked with the band. I had never quite heard anything like it before, nor since. The undeniable groove that cascaded the underbelly of these fiery riffs and Plant-like vocals that reached the top of mountains, howling side by side with Gods - it was the most untouchable, authentic and mind-blowing rock and roll that I had ever come across.
It must have been around 2004, something like that. Pretty soon, once my Dad realised my adoration for this band, it became an occasion, as many times a year as we could, to go and see this band play all over the country. I’ve seen them in London countless times, Leeds three times and Sheffield once, quite far considering I live in Brighton, but in retrospect, I would travel to the ends of the fucking earth to see them one more time.
Something thing that hit about The Music were there fans. While we’d travel all over the place, there were people who had always travelled further. I always recognised faces at the shows, the same people there to catch the same buzz that I was after. Even at University, once I found out someone liked The Music, whoever they were, I felt like I could talk to them for hours about the intricacies of ‘The Walls Get Smaller’ or ‘Raindance‘ - I never usually saw them again though, ha. There has always been that bond between fans that I have never encountered any where else. No pretension, no gimmicks, nothing to prove. It was as real as it got. Dedication at its rawest.
One of the highlights for me, as well as a Cockpit show, I remember seeing the band at the Brunel Social Club in 2009. This scraggy hub in the centre of a dodgy looking estate seemed the most unlikeliest of places for a rock show to happen but it couldn’t have been more fitting - a band of the people, playing for The People. Always expect the unexpected, yet always expect to be wowed. The quality of the sound in that venue was crystal while the cheap drinks and a support slot from The Mouth made it one of the greatest nights of music that I have ever witnessed. Consistency seemed to be something The Music have never had an issue with.
It has always baffled me why The Music have lacked further commercial success, owing to the fact that they make the most anthemic, face-melting indie-rock of my generation, yet, as I always go back to, I’m glad I’ve got to share these revolutionary nights with people whose faces I know yet their lives remain a mystery to me, much like the band. And in a way, I’m glad they remained relatively untouched. They always came out and spoke to the fans after the show, and it wasn’t like a celebrity had walked into the room, it was simply, ‘Oh look there’s Rob’, despite the fact that these four men from Leeds were heroes to many. Untouchable on stage, up for a drink afterwards.
The undeniable mysticism behind the sublime etherealism of ‘Too High’, ‘Disco’ and ‘The Dance’ was unconventional yet completely perfect, to me. The music towered above anything I’ve heard, emotionally rich and rife in the sort of potency that should make modern rock bands think, ‘why bother?’. ‘Welcome to the North’, ‘Freedom Fighters’ and ‘Bleed From Within’ followed with an amped-up fervour that was a little less ‘acid-doused’ than their debut but equally vibrant. Although album number three didn’t quite punch with the strength I was hoping for, ‘Drugs’ and ‘The Spike’ were strobe-heavy anthems that still rise above the majority of modern music. The still had the flair. I’m not disowning that record, it’s just impossible to follow up their first, I think most will agree.
And when I think about ‘The Music’, album number one, I know it’s something I will go back to for the rest of my life, no matter how many times I’ve already listened to it, it will be there, sound tracking my existence forever. It embodies the underdog and the good times. It represents the talent of this country and the unspoken heroes of music who will never be rewarded yet require no reward but acceptance. It represents me, everyone who ever went to the shows, every night you’ve ever listened to that album.
I went to their second to last show in Leeds on 5th August 2011. I wanted to see them out on their home turf, the same way I’ve followed them for the past six or so years. Looking back on it, there was no better way to end. The set list was perfect, the lights were perfect, the band were perfect. I was almost in tears as I thought ‘this will never happen again’ when the closing reverb of ‘The Walls Get Smaller’ faded into the abyss. Never. Never again will I go out with my Dad and my friends and the friends I don’t know to see this band that mean so much to me. It’s sad, but it’s best to go out on a high, and there was no higher point than that. So, here’s to The Music - My band. Our band.
Francis Lung is the pseudonym of Wu Lyf bassist, Tom McClung. And, in typical Wu Lyf fashion, little is know about this ethereal side-project, and I expect it to remain cryptic for a while to come.
What we can grasp from this is that the rumbustious growl of Wu Lyf's spittle tone has been replaced by McClung's equally sombre coos. While Wu Lyf evoke excitement through riotous delivery, edgy in its unpolished and raspy shunt, McClung does the exact same thing through honest and bare sincerity. Equally as ghostly is the minimal approach which confirms, if you did not already believe, that the Manchester group are far from a PR hyped, industry stunt. They are the real deal.
In the newest issue of Uncut magazine there is an 'Unsung Hero' type piece on Jim Ford. Around the time this issue came out a friend also emailed me a Jim Ford track called 'Go Through Sunday' and it was this double-pronged attack that got me hooked to the singer-songwriter who Sly Stone called 'The baddest white man I've ever met.'
I thought, if soul's notorious coke-sniffing, girl-baiting, bling-wearing madman is casting such labels upon a curly haired country-soul singer who looks like a Southern John Martyn, then this guy must be a rebel. And he is.
Over time, Ford's unhinged ballads become deeper in emotive context, both political and love-fuelled. His angelic but telling tone rolls between Van Morrison and Gram Parsons, painting images of broken country homes over revolutionary visions. His song's content is formed in such an unmanageable quality and delivered in a completely gut-wrenchingly beautiful manor, that no one but Ford could sing them.
Earlier on today I talked to Alice and Kasey, the girl-boy duo who make up introspective-grunge two-piece, Big Deal. But, as their debut album confirms, there's more to it than Sonic Youth and Nirvana...
While the full interview will come soon, I thought that their confessional diversity was worth a shout. They differ from the likes of Tennis and Summercamp and other girl-boy duos because their sound sprawls into different territory throughout the record, despite only containing two guitars in the whole heart-busting epilogue. 'Talk', the track below, is a stripped back, harmonious grope at the groin of depression and loneliness and inability to understand or question.
San Francisco duo, Girls, return after the relative success of their 2009 indie-pop debut, Album. Attributed by a jangly undercurrent of neo-hippie optimism, they forgo such Summer-coated, field-chasing idealism in their new track, 'Vomit'.
If this expansive canvas of dream-pop and towering Spiritualized-like gospel is anything to go by then Girls have delved deep within their souls with the intention of exposing the most honest of gutsy innards. To begin with the delicacy of Bright Eyes and then crash through to Lush meets MBV distortion would never usually nip at the heels of the heartfelt, however, when soulful yells scrape through the gritty surface, something quite beautiful bares its tentative heart upon the horizon. And we didn't even mention the 70s guitar licks...
I wont bore you with my Laurel Canyon obsession, I will, however, pin-point the fact that Jonathan Wilson is one of the most refined troubadours to spawn from the Canyon's post-acoustic scene in a long time.
Guitarist for the early 70s original country-folk sweetheart, Jackson Browne, Wilson's debut album is a dreamy whiff of stoned-out ambient refinement. It calls upon everyone from Taylor to Browne to King, while also owing just as much to Stephen Stills in its drugged-up, mythical enchantment.
'Gentle Spirit' is an alluring folk charm that's built upon a world gone but not forgotten. Evoking and magically conjuring images of lost spirits, the real seductive winks of this record can be heard, specifically, on the incendiary guitar that skips through 'Desert Raven' like a peyote fantasy in which Morrison's finally calmed down, Crosby's not trying to punch someone and Joni's giving you the eye.
Brian Fallon's relationship with words is one rife in blue collared romantacism. That much was established early on with all three of the Gaslight Anthem's L.P's.
His Springsteen comparisons, however, have began to flourish more under the cinematic glare of his new side project, The Horrible Crowes. Standing by the side of Ian Perkins, the inked New Jersey punk-rocker has rounded the edges of Gaslight's Americana to create something slightly more gallant, adorning those old time Move Star heroics that were always a little dormant beneath songs on 'American Slang' - that's not to say they didn't impact with with a valiant spark.
'Behold The Hurricane' portrays yet more triumphant rock and roll imagery as the optimistic bellows of the refined classic rock mini-epic builds into crescendos of grandiose brilliance.
While not a million miles away from Gaslight, The Horrible Crowes are something of an open playing ground for Fallon who can really cut his teeth amongst the mythological flare of nostalgia.
It's no lie that some of the best British bands who made seminal records in the last twenty years were high off their skulls on drugs. When discussing Primal Scream and The Stone Roses, I imagine a hefty dose of E, a handful of joints and a smidgen of psychedelic's would have just about done the job.
Not wanting to pin-point anyone as junkie or even a drug taker for that matter, I would not claim that the above substances had anything to do with Cashier No. 9's swelling technicolour outcome. With that in mind, it sounds like this Belfast four-piece were more susceptible when under the influence of The Byrds and and The Beach Boys perfected pop. However, Brown and Gillespie have definitely had their part to play...
The Lemonheads have announced that they will play a ten date U.K tour this winter, playing 'It's A Shame About Ray' in its entirety.
Evan Dano has an aptitude for penning perfected three-minute pop songs, the likes of which are often under appreciated, considering their lyrical brilliance. They take their seminal 1992 record on the road, ending at the Shepperd's Bush Empire on 13th December.
One of Dando's finest drug-induced songs. Astutely written, but ultimately, one of the most tragic and troubled songs you will ever hear.
My adoration for the players of Laurel Canyon has probably bored everyone I know to death.
Recently I got hold of a copy of 'Troubadours', a new DVD documenting the rise of singer-songwriters in early 70s L.A. It tells the wonderful story of how rock and roll took a breather after the Manson murders and the problems encountered with the Hells Angels at Altamont, to make way for the unplugged wordsmiths who changed a generation.
It seems that people needed something personal to once again attach them to the heart of music. While rock and roll was thriving, and we cannot take anything from that, there was something incredibly authentic and personal about the songs Jackson Browne, James Taylor, Joni and Carole King were writing. These sincere emotions were not accessible in the riffs of rock music that pranced about in egotistical poses, however, when Taylor penned 'Fire and Rain' those who had seen the L.A riots, the Vietnam War and the oppression of modern day America could relate to something, albeit sinister and heart-breaking...
The film also looks into The Troubadour itself. A club owned by Doug Weston on Sunset Boulevard that later spawned the likes of the Whiskey Go Go and The Roxy, owned by label titan, David Geffen.
Uncovering the dream is a beautiful and upsetting journey. As Crosby says, 'Free love and pot are a good thing but they're not the basis for a functional society.
We're hardly in a drought when it comes to music circling the dream-pop ilk, or any other genre for that matter. One a near-minute basis, labels are being crafted by musicians and band's who are creating a variety of melodies and swoons that splice classifications into pieces.
But innovation and new ideas will always be welcomed. So that's irrelevant.
Hailing from Vancouver, Shimmering Stars create the sort of spacey pop that Memory Tapes are known for, throwing in a little dreamy Cults and an up bringing embedded in the delightful whitened grins of The Everly Brothers.
They look like extras from Rebel Without A Cause but that pearly preppy preconception is quickly extinguished when their galactic popisms transcend upon the three-chord muffles of their love-lorn hip-shakers. 'I lost my mind, I'm losing you, it's just as well'...They may croon like lost teenage hearts but they have bold souls and even bolder songs.
While Ed Sheeran finds a new home on Radio 1 (and fair play to him), singing songs about heartbreak and bags of shit drugs passed around at house parties, Benjamin Francis Leftwich has been dealing with the hangovers and break-ups that Sheeran has yet to encounter.
Sounding like he was bought up on the morbid, no-hope depression of Death Cab, this atmospheric folkie delves into the reality of ambient, soul-crushing truths. 'Atlas Hands', which appeared on his 2010 E.P, 'A Million Miles Out', makes a reappearance on his 2011 debut album, 'Last Smoke Before The Snowstorm'. It's melodic and equally majestic, sweltering beneath the waves of picturesque neo-folk.
Treetop Flyers 2009 E.P, 'To Bury The Past', was a dusty country-rock debut that bought the eucalyptus trees and the stoned air of passed joints of Laurel Canyon to British shores.
It's enigmatic woos of 'Deja Vu', harmoniously rinsed through the shadows of a post-Manson L.A were oddly British with a clear adoration for a scene that spawned the infamous troubadours of the early seventies acoustic boom. There are inflictions of both Browne and Taylor throughout 'To Bury The Past', with the homely 'Old Days' beaming like 'Sweet Baby James' through the overcast English coast.
Two years later, the Treetop Flyers released their 2011 effort, 'Things Will Change'. While their debut was reflective of their hero, Stephen Stills, and his earlier work with Crosby and co. 'Things Will Change' mirrors both his and their progression in the form of Stills 21 track monster, 'Manassas'.
Standing at only four tracks it's obviously not a comparison in any literal sense. Given free reigns as the 'boss' on 'Manassas', Stills was devoid of Crosby's prying ego and the unpredictability of Young, thus thriving in a creative hub that he could truly call his own.
While ambitious and a little limp in parts, for the majority, 'Manassas' is a throbbing rock and roll sandstorm of burning guitar riffs and insightful lyricism that's as open as anything Stills have penned before or since. 'Colorado' is a heart-wrenching, mountain-trawling country hum of husky refinement. 'How Far' and 'Song of Love' blister with a glare that scours into the soul of rock and roll, completely dismantling it and rearranging it into dusty, country mannerisms that seem subdued but equally ache with the fervor that burned beneath Stills hunger to succeed.
'Things Will Change' mirrors this with eclecticism and hunger.
'Long Cold Winter', in particular, is more of what we want to see from the Treetop Flyers. It's soulful verses ebb and flow with winking pop-like hints, while the chorus' flicker through eager rockin' hooks and straining vocals. I think we can expect a stunning record from these guys, especially if these two E.P's are anything to go by...
The search for new music is not without intent. Every hack, fan, die-hard blogger and hipster who scours the multiple sources of access is searching for enlightenment and enigma. It’s not something we do promote some faux-image of rock and roll, nor is it an allusive badge of underground-cool that can be flashed from the depths of a Rough Trade shoulder bag, it’s something we do because we want to feel that fluctuating bubble of excitement rise from the depths of our gut as we traipse over something completely new and brilliant.
It’s a quest fraught with disappointment and broken souls, but in the rare occasion when that negative slump is juxtaposed by the most glistening moments of euphoria, the reward is incomparable. Something clicks, and it’s not always an instant grasp of the gonads, as Josh T. Pearson’s latest entry proved, sometimes the hard work comes once you’ve found the record.
White Denim, however, take a short cut to satisfaction in their newest record, ‘D’. With another extremely gifted guitarist on board to take the band to a quartet, the garage-Texan rockers have shifted the plates of their being. From brawling, sharply-stabbed, unhinged indie-rock, they’ve come from the depths of their practice trailer reeking of booze, smoke and the spirit of The Dead.
‘D’ has marked itself with razor sharp talons, scrawling deeply into the skin of modern rock and roll. It’s an album of levels and stunning, dust-coated perfection. From the ramshackle splatter of ‘It’s Him’, the tooting, country-whistle of ‘Keys’, the impacting chorus of ‘Is And Is And Is’ to the sublime potency of ‘Street Joy’. I want to avoid reviewing the album but I did want to post a couple of videos that display their virtuoso musicianship along with their aptitude for compelling rock ‘n’ roll. Behold, bitches.
Having been pulled from the jaws of financial collapse by Converse a few months back, The 100 Club has now joined the long line of venues fed by the hand of sponsorship.
Until recently, the ‘iconic’ venue offered little more than apparent nostalgia that only really appealed to those who once owned a ration book. Riding on the coat-tails of the past will only last for so long, and in 2011 when romanticism and rock and roll are quick fix folders you download off the internet, you need to ensure excitement at every turn.
This seems to be something taken on board by the Oxford Street residents. Alice Cooper is booked to play this coming Sunday, Macca played there some six or so months ago and tonight, and Graham Coxon has forgone his usual Camden haunts for a punk show under the sidewalk of the capital.
The Blur guitarist is as brilliantly brief and humble as ever. Quickly chirping “a’right” to the crowd of competition winners, hacks and industry heads, Coxon kicks his heels and spits into crisply clear punch-drunk numbers, with ‘Standing On My Own Again’ getting an early airing. Its mountainous crescendos of grit-laden guitars and Coxon’s fret-play throw them in the direction of indie-rock, but when transferred live, as is often the case with band’s weaned on Weller and The Clash, their urgency to formulate riotous proceedings eclipses the undertones of melody. Far from this being a downer, Coxon’s live performance benefits from this transition, adding a little more bite to his bark.
The majority of tracks come from the first two records, ‘Happiness in Magazines’ and ‘Love Travels at Illegal Speeds’, with a present shying away from his more subtle moments on ‘The Spinning Top’. ‘I Can’t Look At Your Skin’ and, for obvious reasons, ‘Freakin’ Out’, thrust into action to confirm Coxon’s aptitude for instant, sharply honed, distinctly London rock and roll.
Without his glasses on, Graham’s well-known image is slightly shifted, and with his Harrington also absent, you could be mistaken for thinking this is just a normal, average, mundane man; but he’s clearly not. Slipping out a slight grin every now and then, he looks to be enjoying himself, and despite the stationary glare of the crowd, they could well be having a bit of fun themselves.
The beautiful thing about underground venues like The 100 Club is that there could be a goddamn zombie apocalypse kicking off outside and we’d be none the wiser. They provide hubs of solitude for a snap-shot evening where beer and sweat and the dirtying of new shoes come together. We benefit from no windows and a sense of ragged, unorganised community because it seems so uncontrived. But most importantly Graham Coxon is made for places like this: up close, personal and unmistakably authentic.
Founder of the Mean Fiddler empire and curator of today‘s festival, Vince Power is something of a new-age Peter Grant. His stocky and pugnacious stature is reflective of his frequently praised antagonistic work ethic. As an Irish man, Power knows better than anyone that the emerald island has scoured its influence onto the surface of modern music since Gutherie was kicking dust down the box-cart trails of Kerouac America.
To mark 21 years since the introduction of the deceased Fleadh events which ran in North London between 1990 and 2004, Power and his clique of efficient staff are putting on an Irish influenced anniversary event. In a relatively organized manor, Feis begins in a dignified fashion…
The Waterboys make an appearance on the main stage at 3pm. Prior to entry, Mike Scott’s microphone height is precisely measured to ensure the infamously fastidious front man doesn’t throw a Cher Lloyd and declare himself a worthless diva. With considerable enthusiasm the Boys excitedly throw themselves into things. Their fiddle-aided folk reeks of the untouched sea air, musky and brutally honest, they burst out the fondly digested ‘The Raggle Taggle Gypsy’ and ‘Fisherman Blues’ before ‘The Whole of the Moon’ gets a brief airing, just as it's rushed onto a Father’s Day Hits CD.
Brian Fallon and the Gaslight Anthem chaps are left underwhelmed by a seemingly odd placement. Their quarter Irish roots do the best they can in rickety conditions, kicking through blue-collar Americana-punk from their first three albums. ‘High and Lonesome’, ‘Diamond Church Street Choir’ and ‘59 Sound’ are shot from the powerhouse barrel but the damp and sodden sound fails to travel further than Fallon’s nose, and despite their admirable persistence, Gaslight are lost in the wind.
With the weather continuing to hold out, the smaller two stages are abandoned in favour of catching a distant glimpse of Bob Dylan. Although unable to see his grizzly, weathered features, when his viscose growl grazed into ‘Gonna Change My Way of Thinking’ and soon after, ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue’, Dylan's ravaged tone becomes hard to consume.
Cheers erupt during harmonica moments to let Dylan know all aspects of his musicianship are still held in high regard. ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ is almost unrecognisable, however, as the music is cut up and disjointed in order to accommodate his growing lack of vocal conviction and, it seems, his inability to conjure up sizeable verses.
The lyrical potency of ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’ obviously doesn’t stab with quite the same fervour as it did back in Greenwich Village, but we all expected something slightly off key anyway. It’s difficult to remain grounded when watching Dylan. His importance is obviously immeasurable, but as this moment goes, his languid performance tells us more about exhaustion and old age than it does about rock and roll.
Compared to other Dylan shows, we’re treated to a rather hit filled set. ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’ and ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ are all present and to see those performed by the hand that crafted them is something to take from the rubble.
‘It’s amazing that he’s 70 and he can still pull a crowd’ some plonker remarks nearby. Resisting a full-frontal slap I remain content knowing that that person is in fact an idiot. Trying to ignore my elated experiences watching Springsteen and Neil Young I accept that people age differently, and a mixture of chain-smoking, drug taking and fast living forces some into hunched images of their former selves. Sure, it’s good to see Bob today, especially when he cracks a slim smile, but it’s a one time event that I'll never repeat. Ever.
From very early on, even before they’d released anything of heavyweight substance, labels were drawn to the allure of Tribes like bees to nectar. Something good was certainly brewing in the Camden camp, and with Island nipping at their heels like a teething pup, the band needed to release something almost omnipotent to justify all the hype that had been built up.
When ‘We Were Children’ hit the internet midway through last year, it was a record that was rooted in new-age nostalgic simplicity. Standing at only four tracks long, it squashed expectations beneath a raging rampage of early 90s influenced Americana rock. It was just a shame there was no scene to release it into.
Almost 12 months on, and the difference is staggering. Tonight, Dingwalls is absolutely throbbing. The show’s sold out and the bar is a damn cattle market. This is Tribes' largest headline show to date and Camden is hungry for the four young leather-draped, scruffy rock 'n' roll urchins.
Their second song ‘Girlfriend’ brings with it chunky riffs that slowly begin to elevate along with the exuberant crowd. While they continue to feast on distortion, Smashing Pumpkins influences infuse with the jagged drive of Pixies and the smoke begins to lift. ‘Sappho’ confirms my suspicions: bathing in lo-fi Pavement-like warmth as Johnny Lloyd questions, ‘How’d you tell a child that there’s no god up in the sky’. They’ve grabbed the 90s by the gullet and added them on Twitter. This is a musical renewal.
‘Coming of Age’ is stripped back to basics, ringing with clarity and hints of Blur at their anthemic best, iPhones out, hands up - you get the picture. It really is quite a flawless moment. Here we are, in a room rammed to the rafters with hoards of boozey people, consumed by this new band who evoke the imagery of our childhood.
That’s what makes it all so damn special. Tribes are our age, they grew up with Blue Peter and Oasis and Americanisation and broken hearts. Our parents quiver when listening to ‘Thunder Road’ and ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ because it reminds them of Knebworth and acid and Thatcher. We go weak at the knees of Tribes for this very same reason, they’ve revived a sense of ‘90s romanticism that we’ve not yet had the chance to hear because those years have only just passed.
By the time ‘We Were Children’ howls in, the echo of ‘we were children in the mid-nineties’ sends the crowd over the edge with joy. Maybe all these emotive lyrics are triggering an unsuspected attack of age but for half an hour or so, no one gives a hoot.
In all honesty, the feeling is not too dissimilar from when the Libertines began smashing up Bethnal Green council flats. Britain has been crying out for something like this, something at the darker end of rock revivalism, and I think it’s finally arrived.
Matthew Houck’s latest record under the moniker of Phosphorescent came in the hazy-lazy form of ‘Here’s to Taking It Easy’. Although now living in New York City, Houck’s hometown of Alabama clearly runs through the veins of this dusty country-rock installment. It’s not quite an ode to his roots, more of a notification of recognition, indicating that you can take the boy out the South but you sure as hell can’t take the South out the boy.
Standing atop of the towering Heaven stage, Houck and his band looks as southern as ever. Lank hair drapes over faces, sleeveless Megadeath t-shirts sit upon inked frames and each member looks like they’ve inhaled something potent prior to entry. To remain compelling while in such circumstances has claimed many a-worthy individual, but those guys weren’t southerners…
Third song in, ‘Nothing Was Stolen’, and Houck’s subtle Will Oldham vocals swoosh upon country-licks that sound like subtle Steve Earle winks, while the lonesome lyricism on ‘The Mermaid Parade’ pushes Phosphorescent away from the new folk-rock borders of Deer Tick and The Cave Singers and further into the heartbreak of Neil Young circa ‘On The Beach’.
With certain beatific ditties, such as ‘Wolves’ and ‘Hej, Me I’m Light’, which Houck goes onto play solo for the first part of his encore, we get to see a side of a singer who grew up on the bedrock of Nelson, Van Zandt and Prine. There’s a barren and solitary stance to these songs that were made for deserted reflection, true broken-hearted americana built upon sadness played on abandoned stages with forgotten words: It’s the bread and butter of country. But despite the clarity of Houck’s voice when he sighs ‘staring with blood in their mouths’, Phosphorescent truly blossom when hoisting up the noise as a unified band.
Between ‘It’s Hard To Be Humble (When You’re From Alabama)’ and ‘I Don’t Care If There’s Cursing’, Houck and Co force the volume upwards, forgoing the sunny guitars and reflective optimism for shoulder-shaking, instrumental body-bashing. Pianos crash like Jerry Lee, solos rage like Robbie Robertson; the music dives into ass-kicking, booze-dripping rock ‘n’ soul just like that.
While New Yorkers may be hindered by that derogative stereotype that depicts them as rude, obnoxious, arrogant wise-guys with a disdain for manners, Phosphorescent are anything but. They’re from the Alabama, and judging by tonight’s show, that’s where their heart will always lie.
When the ever-elusive Cults announced back in January that they'd signed to Name Of, even the most astute underground minds began to rattle with speculation. It wasn’t until recently that a rep from Columbia records, of which Name Of is an imprint, confirmed that the label is in fact the brainchild of none other than Lily Allen. Clothing range, vintage stores, successful pop songs and now her very own label: the girl’s keeping busy.
For Brian Oblivion and Madeline Follin, the smitten Brooklyn couple who form the foundations of Cults, this is the beginning of a fairytale. Late last year the two anonymously posted recordings onto Bandcamp – no Myspace, no website and no fluffed-up hipster gimmicks to try and charm your musically over-saturated dome. A buzz was formed. Proof that when a song is good enough, all those other peripheral frills are simply unnecessary.
Tonight at the Scala, the duo is joined by three other band members. All amble on stage looking like suited-up extras from Lords of Dog Town with limp shoulder-length hair hanging lifelessly over pale complexions. But when ‘Abducted’ commences Follin and Oblivion spring to life and the veil of moodiness is lifted.
One of the set's highlights comes quickly: during the romanticism of early sixties soul influences on ‘Know What I Mean’. To place this incendiary vocal stretch so early on in their set almost seems like a waste. It’s a towering plot of heavenly perfection that you wouldn’t expect to hear from two long-haired Brooklynites. Follin’s vocals rise and rise, belting out elements of beauty that appear unexpected from even the most accomplished of singers.
‘The Curse’ displays that dormant shoegaze pout, which is unfortunately cut short, mid-mayhem, whilst ‘Go Outside’ is confirmation that Cults benefit from simplicity. It twinkles and glints, marrying their lo-fi credentials with doe-eyed pop. Xylophones and repetitive lyrics keep things grounded and at no point do these songs seem drowned out by the repeated wall-of-sound.
In this complex abyss of music, somehow Cults have married sweet pop with tones of darkness, and in turn, created a summer-heavy debut record that ascends into complete euphoria when they step onto a stage. Lily done good.
Way over a year ago I booked The Crookes to play a night in Southampton and subsequently, the Sheffield band came back and played three more shows for me, all of which were fantastic declarations of chivalry and the resurrection of gentlemanly conduct.
Monday saw the release of their debut album, ‘Chasing After Ghosts’ which has been put out on Fierce Panda. One thing that this was to signify was primarily a boost in production for the band. Their past e.p’s, although lyrically plentiful, were left impaired by weepy production that packed little bite of heightened edge.
‘Dreams of Another Day’ was their 2010 output and it just delivered a limp, lifeless gmaw on the underbelly of what could have been an accomplished selection of romantic pop songs. Thankfully, in part, things have improved some what on ‘Chasing After Ghosts’.
As well as including a handful of previously released demos (‘Chorus of Fools’, ‘Bloodshot Days’ and ‘By The Seine’) there are eight new tracks to gawp over. Evidently, The Crookes are still a band fuelled by Victorian romanticism and vintage china tea pots, eloquence, good behavior and the like, but with the punchier product comes more of a snap and ‘Godless Girl’ obscurely morphs, in parts, to an unexpected Kings Of Leon-esqe pop declaration that confirms they really aren’t as straight laced as you think. While the old demos remain my favorite, it’s worth checking out…
Hailing from Athens, Georgia, Phosphorescent is the moniker of Matthew Houck. Houck previously toured under the name of Fillup Shack and in 2000, released his debut album before transferring his thoughts and energy to Phosphorescent.
As a folk band from the Southern states of America they obviously that untainted artery of rooted soul flowing through their hardened exterior that runs all the way from the bust-ups of Bobby Womack and the insane drugged-up ramblings of Wilson Picket to the Alabama park where Eddie Hinton slept for a year.
I’m very disappointed in myself for not getting into Deer Tick sooner. Three albums down and the congealed, sandy rasp of this country-rock outfit has developed from waltzing Replacements-meets-Strange Boys country to the rendered gothic-soul of Deer Tick’s blackened soul – as heard on their most recent record, ‘The Black Dirt Sessions’.
Songs of bereavement and bereft have trodden the folk path for years since, and will continue to do so for years to come, but that doesn’t hinder the poignancy and heart-break of their haunting third effort.
