Reviews – Page 2 – Mack's Musings

REVIEW: Life On The Road: Sarah Shook & The Disarmers and The National Reserve Rev Up Their Engines at the Ardmore Music Hall

As published in Americana Highways on February 25, 2019

Watching The National Reserve and Sarah Shook & the Disarmers play back-to-back at the Ardmore Music Hall last Saturday night, I realized that I was witnessing two nascent Americana bands literally headed in opposite directions.

Shook & Co. were on their last stop of a four-shows-in-four-nights East coast mini-tour, having been on tour — not only across the U.S., but in Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Canada, the Netherlands, the U.K. and Spain to boot — almost non-stop since early March of 2018. The National Reserve, on the other hand, were just about to embark on the European leg of their ongoing tour, with shows starting next week in Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Germany in support of their debut album Hotel La Grange.

Having caught Shook & the Disarmers, along with Zephaniah O’hora and Grady Hoss & The Sidewinders, at the tiny Dawson Street Pub in Philly in April of 2018, I was curious to see how the notoriously hard grind of life on the road might have affected them. The most obvious result was that the band was tight as hell, rolling through the best songs from their two albums (2017’s “Sidelong” and their 2018 follow-up “Years”) with precision, finesse and intensity. Shook’s voice was in fine fiddle and got stronger as the night went on, while guitarist Eric Peterson and pedal steel player Phil Sullivan took turns laying down tasty, Bakersfield-inspired licks. Bassist Aaron Oliva made playing barroom-brawl country on an upright bass look easy, while drummer Kevin McClain held the band’s groove steady throughout, shining particularly (though unobtrusively) on their trainbeat-driven numbers.

The band had clearly developed a solid sense of showmanship since I last saw them, when they came across as more of a fun-loving bar band that didn’t take itself all that seriously. Last March, Shook’s banter was carefree and edgy in that tough-chick, “I- don’t-give-a-shit” way of hers, the band happily chatted with the audience and the other bands’ personnel both on-stage and on the tiny patio by Dawson Street’s side door, they drank a just a wee bit (a-hem!), and they seemed genuinely to be having one hell of a good time.

This time around they seemed more self-aware, image-wise. Perhaps it was just that they are now playing bigger venues (the Ardmore Music Hall is easily eight times the size of the tiny Dawson St. Pub) as well as to more popular acclaim, with its attendant critical microscopes. Peterson, for example, came dressed up for the occasion, resplendent in a black silk top-hat decorated with a bright red band; with his lean, black-clad frame, dark-framed glasses and distinctly parted fu manchu- like grey beard, he looked the part of a poster-ready rock star.

The other band members were less nattily attired though. Except for Shook, who wore her usual combo of leather jacket (quickly removed), tattoos and fitted tee, they came casually dressed in grey t-shirts and jeans. Still, combined with the stage’s greater remove (compared to the stageless Dawson St. at least), the relative lack of between- song banter, the professional staging and light management, the overall impression I had was of a band that was less casual, but by the same token more professional and intent on taking their craft seriously.

The humorous moments I caught during the band’s time on stage at the AMH came when the singer ceremoniously tipped her plastic cup of whiskey with an over-hearty “Cheers!” to the crowd, and then later when I caught a glimpse of the band’s set list, with its cute, inside-jokey replacement of several abbreviated song names with titles like “Farting” (for “Parting Words”), “Home Fries” (for “Keep the Home Fires Burning”) and “Whut” (for “What It Takes”).

The crowd ate it up, singing along knowingly with several numbers. Those included “Fuck Up,” onto which the audience added an incongruously merry gloss to Shock’s weary, simmering anger, and “New Ways to Fail,” during which the crowd gave special emphasis to the line “I need this shit like I need ANOTHER HOLE IN MY HEAD.” By the time they got to “Damned If I Do, Damned If I Don’t” — during which Sullivan’s pedal steel quickly rose to the feisty occasion — a bunch of white- haired older gentleman in flannel shirts, jeans and trucker caps were crowding the front of the stage and shouting along with every word.

The only rumble of dissatisfaction I sensed from the crowd came when the band limited its encore performance to a single song. (In response to Shook’s ”We’ve got one more for you,” the crowd responded pleadingly: “How about two more?!?”) But what a performance that encore was! — with Shook spitting out the “Nah-AIILL in this here coffin” like an angry Appalachian cast-off, Peterson cueing up yet another habañero-hot Telecaster solo, and Sullivan following that with a series of well-lubricated pedal steel lines that prompted a chorus of “Yee-haw!!!’s” from the balcony.

Two earlier moments in the show shared the energy and joy of that encore. The first came when Shook delivered the recently-released ballad “The Way She Looked at You,” digging in passionately on the mournful chorus while Sullivan’s pedal steel wept openly behind her. The other big bump in energy, which sent a perceptible electric zing through the crowd this time, came when Peterson and Sullivan traded fours about 2:30 into “What It Takes,” while drummer Kevin McClain alternated deftly between delicate rim taps and rock-solid pounding. The ensemble playing was as tight as on the recording, but hearing and seeing it performed live was absolutely thrilling. It was clear at these moments that the band was not only clicking on all fours, but actively enjoying itself.

In short, Shook and her Disarmers delivered on all counts and clearly matched or exceeded the audience’s expectations. They did so in a regal, professional manner — rather than, in contrast with last year’s pre-European tour show at Dawson St., a band that was excited to be raisin’ hell out on the road, meeting new folks every night, and basking in the glory of a great new record.

On the other hand, the latter was exactly the vibe The National Reserve gave off during their thrilling 75+ minute, 11-song set. While I’m not sure the Reserve is quite “there yet” (to use a hack-critical phrase) in terms of the level of their songwriting — which is not as memorable and distinctive as Shook’s, for example — and their approach’s originality, they brought an impressive energy and verve, along with a white-hot level of musicianship, to their set at the AMH.

Like Shook and her Disarmers on their last two passes through Philly in 2018 (the second was at Johnny Brenda’s in mid-September), the Reservists seemed intent on kicking butt and taking no prisoners at AMH. Led by the towering songwriter, vocalist and multi- instrumentalist Sean Walsh along with Jon LaDeau on vocals and guitar, The Reserve came out rocking right off the bat with a Walsh-led power-poppish number that incorporated three-part harmonies and (naturally) a jangly Rickenbacher guitar. Walsh is a BIG guy and a strong vocalist with a rough-edged, soulful voice, and with his long dark hair and beard, American flag-adorned jeans jacket and hiking boots, he projected a powerful yet laid-back presence.

LaDeau, who grew up about a half-hour from Ardmore, took over the lead vocals on the second number, and the two continued to toss the lead vocal baton back and forth for the duration of the set, with bassist Scott Colberg and drummer Brian Geltner intermittently contributing tasty harmonies. LaDeau adorned this bouncy, melodic number with a scorching Les Paul solo featuring a nifty descending slide lick, which was followed by a second solo by Walsh that actually drew screams from the crowd.

This back-and-forth dynamic, with their talents intertwining at times, continued throughout, much to the crowd’s delight. The Reservists followed those first two numbers with a wide variety of tunes, including a swampy blues rocker highlighted by a Freddie King-like solo by Walsh; a folksy-twangy Americana singalong number called “Abe Lincoln”; a southern rocker featuring “Sweet Home, Alabama”-ish chord changes, a dual guitar attack AND dueling vocals; and a cover of Derroll Adams’ “Roll On, Babe” that incorporated a vaguely Caribbean shuffle beat, a glissando solo over chimey rhythm guitar effects, and a superb Les Paul slide solo by LaDeau.

The second half of their set included the title song from their album Hotel La Grange, a slow ballad about meeting the “queen of Bowling Green” at that hotel; a mid-tempo country rocker with Allman Brothers overtones; a slide-centered blues rocker that evolved into an extended jam that showed off all of the band’s skills, drawing wild applause from the crowd and the exclamation “MAN, this is fun!” from Walsh; and a tasty roots-gospel-country rock singalong with the refrain “Let me ride in your big Cadillac, Lord Jesus / Let me ride in your big Cadillac.” The audience happily crooned along on the latter.

They closed with a jammy southern rocker that featured more tasty harmonies and snazzy tempo changes. Walsh and LaDeau cut loose on the breakdowns and solos during this one, without the song’s ever getting raggedy or wooly. Tight in concept and delivery, it was a fitting finale to the band’s impressive set.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention local duo Hannah Taylor and Rekardo Lee (aka, Jesse Lundy), who opened the evening with a fun eight-song set of blues-based numbers. With her big up-draft of bright red hair and blonde cowboy boots, Taylor belted out these tunes — which encompassed everything from mellow mid-tempo numbers, to a rockin’ Ricky’ Nelson number (“I Believe”), to some obscure, low-down 1920s blues ditties and even a slow, sweet version of “Blue Bayou” — with a twangy yet robust voice reminiscent of early Bonnie Raitt. Alternating between a metal resonator guitar that was “double-signed” (the first signature had rubbed off) by Johnny Winter and a jumbo acoustic, Lee complemented Taylor’s voice perfectly with his good-’n’-growly slide accompaniment and Chuck Berry-inflected blues licks. Their good-natured, diverse set proved the perfect aperitif for the night’s main courses.

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Merch, videos, and tour dates for Sarah Shook & the Disarmers can be found at: https://www.disarmers.com

Tour dates, band info, recordings and merch for The National Reserve are available at: https://thenationalreserve.com/home

Info and links for Hannah Taylor and the Rekardo Lee Trio can be found at: https:// www.facebook.com/htrl3/

REVIEW: Hezekiah Jones Unveils Its Charming Cabinet of Snail Curiosities at 118 North

As published in Americana Highways on February 11, 2019

What if I told you I’m in love with a band that was named after its mastermind’s pet snail? And that said band promoted itself for a time by representing its music as having been produced by a snail — and that its label (Yer Bird) was fine with that? And that the band’s website to this day features a page containing nothing but photos of snails?

What if I further told you that the same band decided, after finally agreeing to self- identify as humans, to obscure their identities by adopting the family moniker “Jones” and letting each band member preface his or her common surname (though none are related) with a jokey, old-timey Appalachian name?

Thus we have: Hezekiah Jones (aka, songwriting snail-lover Raphael “Raph” Cutrufello); Pocono Jones (Brad Hinton); Roy G. Biv Jones (Daniel Bower); Kiwi Jones (Kiley Ryan); Tones Jones (Andy Keenan); and Peter L.V. Jones (Alex Luquet).

Welcome to the surreal, humorous, sometimes dark, sometimes darkly humorous and always strangely magical world of Hezekiah Jones, the best and certainly most unique folk / Americana / sui generis band you probably haven’t yet heard of.

Orbiting around the fertile imagination and songwriting talents of Cutrufello, this collective of Philadelphia-area musicians — often featuring Phil D’Agostino in place of Luquet on bass and on this night featuring Keenan, recently returned to Philadelphia from Nashville, on pedal steel and banjo — has been quietly compiling a strong catalog of quirky, mundanely-yet-transcendentally beautiful and always hummable songs since the mid-2000s. A good number of those songs have the morbidly comedic feel of an Edward Gorey illustration; some seem to harken back to a vaguely Civil War-era America that history books could never capture, while others live in a weird, semi sci-fi time & space all their own.

In short, Cutrufello’s aim is off-kilter and intentionally headed off the beaten path — though his songs simultaneously seem hauntingly familiar, like misheard hymns or battle marches. As “Hundred Miles In,” from the band’s most recent, 2015 full-length album In Loving Memory of oosi Lockjaw (yes, you read that right) puts it: “I know you’re kinda strange / ‘cause you’re not really into the normal stuff / You know you’re kinda weird / when you’re not really into humans that much.” (He prefers snails, obviously.)

If you’re curious about this curious band, …oosi Lockjaw is a decent ledge from which to leap into their eccentric universe. Have You Seen Our New Fort? — a 2011 release that features 14 different players and incorporates such unusual instrumentation (especially for a “folk” album) as glockenspiel, waterboards, sleigh bells, trombones, baritone saxophone and clarinet — is another one.

Though you may not have heard of them, Hezekiah Jones has been a pretty big draw in Philadelphia for a while now, filling places like Johnny Brenda’s, the Ardmore Music Hall, and on this particular evening, the newish venue 118 North in Wayne (on the western side of Philly’s “Main Line”), where Cutrufello hosts a weekly Wednesday night open mic / jam that draws many of the area’s best musicians.

That same venue was packed to the gills with Hezekiah aficionados last Saturday. Darlyngton, the love-child band of Jack Shoudy and Emily MacDonald (who grew up in Wayne) — led off with a set dominated by danceable Grateful Dead jams and lesser known covers, including an interesting rendition of John Prine’s classic “Sam Stone.” A tall redhead with a strong voice and swirling freeform dance moves, MacDonald was the visual focal point, while the rest of the band played their parts more than competently, luring a good portion of the audience onto the dance floor by set’s end.

The Hezekiah Jones sextet then squished onto the smallish stage to play two long sets, performing 25 songs en toto, and re-peforming a snippet of one of those songs (their cover of Sonny & Cher’s “I Got You Babe”) at least eight times, by my count.

To be completely honest, after the third or fourth annoying repetition of that snippet, my reaction was WTF?!?

Cutrufello later reminded me that Februrary 2nd was Groundhog Day, and that that particular snippet — introduced heartily each time with the phrase “Okay campers, rise and shine, and don’t forget your booties, ‘cause it’s COLD OUT THERE!” by drummer Roy G. Biv Hones / Daniel Bower (who also serves as the regular drummer for central Pennsylvania Americana veterans Frog Holler) — plays on the radio as Bill Murray wakes redundantly to his alarm clock in the 1993 comedy of that name.

Now I’m not just annoyed; I’m thoroughly amused.

Cutrufello, you see, is a charmingly wicked, wickedly charming fellow, in his mild- mannered, sweet-natured way. He’s the kind of guy who can annoy you by pulling your leg but then instantly disarm your distemper with a wink and a warm grin (or perhaps a shot of gin). His songs have a similar effect, reeling you in to what feels like a joke that may or may not be on you, but then unreeling them out so that they come to resonate, sometimes immediately, sometimes only in hindsight, like a Zen master’s firm knock on an initiate’s head.

In short, if you’ve never seen Hezekiah Jones live, you’re in for a treat when you do — especially if you like your folk and/or Americana mysterious and a bit offbeat (in a good way). To give you some hint of what you might see and hear, highlights from the Groundhog Day show included:

Cutrufello’s warm vocals on “Spare the Whiskey,” complemented beautifully by violinist Kiley Ryan’s harmonies
Similarly lovely harmonies and guitar accompaniment on “Agnes of the World,” the lead-off song from their debut album, Hezekiah Says You’re A-OK
Keenan’s mournful pedal steel accompanying Cutrufello’s clever lyrics on “Cupcakes for the Army,” featuring such Zen koan-ish lines as “Who needs keys when you got logic? / Who needs logic when you’ve got doubt?” and “No one wins a war anymore with compromise and smiles / Real religion’s in the mind of a child”
The second set’s consecutive sequencing of six of Cutrufello’s best songs, including the 2018 release “If You Harden on the Inside,” which led into a truly astonishing drum solo by Bower. That was followed by the short, cryptic and quickly accelerating “That Panel Where the Soap is at on the Machines” and the crowd-pleasing quartet of “Albert Hash,” “Yeshe and Horus,” the carnivalesque waltz/singalong “Cannonball (I’ve Got a Little Room)” and the Squirrel Nut Zipper- ish “Mind Malaise,” adorned by Hinton’s superb Telecaster solo

The band capped the second set with tasty renditions of a couple of cover tunes: Sparklehorse’s “Knives of Summertime,” on which the Joneses laid out for an extended jam, and the Palace Brothers’ / Bonnie “Prince” Billy’s “I Am a Cinematographer,” featuring tastefully effective fiddle and guitar solos by Ryan and Hinton respectively.

Though they’re not touring widely these days (“With kids and mortgages and such, sleeping on floors and making minimal money just don’t make the sense it used to make,” says Cutrufello), Hezekiah Jones does play fairly regularly around Philly, and Cutrufello and the other band members are mainstays at the Robin & Beth Fest each summer. If you’ve never seen them live and are in the area, you owe it to yourself to check them out.

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More info on the band (plus snail pix!) is available at (http:/www.hezekiahjones.com).
The group’s songs are available on Bandcamp (https:// hezekiahjones.bandcamp.com), Spotify (https://open.spotify.com/artist/ 20lXQKFXIjJfHdgl7Um0XA), iTunes and most other digital distribution platforms.

REVIEW: Sarah Borges & The Broken Singles Take Philly’s Dawson Street Pub by Storm

As published by Americana Highways on February 4, 2019

The Dawson Street Pub is a tiny neighborhood bar in the hilly Manayunk section of Philadelphia, where parking is damn near impossible and — if you do manage to find a space — you’re sure to be graced (like I was) with a ticket by the ever-zealous Philadelphia Parking Authority. The Pub itself is dark and cluttered, with just a few tables and a tiny little “stage” at the far end of the room, right by the exit to the side patio / smoking area, the door to which sometimes pops open and shut all night long.

On a cold night this can be a serious distraction for the band, since the door is immediately stage-left, with the incoming wind blocked only by a tiny stand for the sound board. A retreat to the green room isn’t really possible either, since said “room” is really just an ancient couch shoe-horned in between an ATM machine and the restrooms, on the path to the bar’s tiny kitchen.

Yet despite these limitations, the former biker-bar-turned-craft-beer-haven is a wonderfully intimate place to see a show, and production manager / booking agent / sound guy Russ Eisenlohr has managed to lure in some top Americana talent. Sarah Shook & the Disarmers, Cowboys in the Campfire (aka, Tommy Stinson and friends), Hank’s Cadillac, the Luck Brothers and Tool Shed, as well as such local favorites as Pawnshop Roses, Dope Pinheads and Wheelhouse (who shared the bill with Borges and the band), have all played the pub over the past year or so.

Add Sarah Borges and her latest, road-ready version of the Broken Singles, featuring longtime bassist Binky, newish guitarist Alex Necochea and recent addition Jeb Williams on drums, to that list — as well as quite possibly to the pub’s list of “most rockin’ shows ever.”

The evening started off a bit oddly though, to be honest. One song in, after commanding the crowd’s attention with the rockabilly-inflected “Streetwise Man,” Borges couldn’t resist asking: “What the fuck is that THING going round & around back there?!” She gestured toward an object orbiting a small fake Christmas tree mounted to a wall near the middle of the bar. “That’s Santa!” the audience enthusiastically responded. “Oh,” she replied, sounding not quite as enthused.

Williams then launched into the floor tom-heavy beat for “Same Old 45,” but Borges’ had let the proverbial genie out of the bottle by asking the crowd to identify the spinning ornament. From that point on, several show-goers — including a tipsy 6’5” linebacker type named Jordan for whom Borges claimed (jokingly?) to have bought tequila shots before the show — seemed intent on getting into the act.

Borges seemed fine with that though, for the most part. A master of comically edgy between-song banter, she used her wickedly whipsmart Boston sense of humor to keep the crowd alternately energized and at bay as required. When she wasn’t rocking out like nobody’s business, she jokingly commented on a variety of subjects, including the neighborhood’s tight streets (“It’s like Armageddon, parking out there!”), her outfit (“I let the boys pick it out tonight; does it match?” — um, not really), the craziness of Philly and New Jersey drivers, and bassist Binky’s love life (by way of introducing her humorous take on it in “Band Girlfriend”).

She and Binky even “went there” — where few performers dare to go when playing in Philly — by alluding to the fact that their Patriots, and not “da Iggles,” were headed to the Super Bowl this year. Eagles hat-equipped Jordan (of the tequila shots) was NOT amused.

Luckily, the band’s crowd-pleasing set kept things loose, preventing a barroom brawl from breaking out between the football hooligans. Highlights included a spirited rendition of “Caught by the Rain” that brought out the Sheryl Crow in Borges’ powerful voice; Necochea’s Allman Brothers style guitar solo on the catchy, trainbeat-powered “Daniel Lee”; Borges’ passionate performance of “House on the Hill,” the lead single from her new album Love’s Middle Name; and the band’s cover of Greg Cartwright’s “Stop and Think It Over,” a song Borges said she “loves” (and her performance certainly proved it).

Borges’ voice was at its soulful best on the mournful “I Can’t Change It” (by Francis Miller) from the new album, which also featured a fluid, tasteful solo by Necochea. At the heart of the set were a razor-sharp, rockin’ version of “Lucky Rocks,” followed by Borges and Binky’s duet on the chugging “Get As Gone Can Get” from Love’s Middle Name (sans producer Eric “Roscoe” Ambel’s distinctive vocals and biting guitar, unfortunately).

Things got a bit more wild and woolly during the latter part of the set. Having learned from Jordan the linebacker that the greenroom couch where she had eaten her dinner was his former “makeout couch” from 1998, Borges peered out from her long bangs to ask, ”Still crazy after all these years, eh?” Later, introducing her version of the NRBQ song “It Comes to Me Naturally,” Borges did a hilarious, scarily accurate impersonation of a sleepy-sounding Al Anderson talking to her over the phone about the song. The crowd loved it.

With the rhythm section fully locked-in a few songs down the road, Necochea laid into a blues-rock solo that caused the aforementioned Jordan to start dancing in the aisles. Necochea segued mid-song into the main lick from the Beatles’ “Day Tripper,” followed by the same from Led Zepplin’s “Dazed & Confused.” Borges suddenly interrupted his guitar pyrotechnics, however, saying “I just want to show you a couple of things” — whereupon she proceeded to play a bluesy solo on his guitar while standing BEHIND him, her arms flung out on either side. “I’m not even sure if that’s legal in Pennsylvania,” Binky commented, before the song morphed into another classic blues number, Necochea now churning out Chuck Berry-crazy lead licks.

The show’s highlights were yet to come, though, in the form of a couple of unexpectedly quiet moments. First, Borges shunted the band off-stage to perform solo, by request, a stunningly beautiful version of “Grow Wings,” a ballad she wrote in response to her experience at the 2017 Women’s March. A couple of tunes later Borges unleashed the full power of her vocal chords on the classic “Cry One More Time for You,” while Necochea supplied a thrilling solo that started off legato on the two top strings and wound up wailing off into the stratosphere by song’s end.

That performance was followed by one last, humorous interruption, this time from the bartender. Vigorously mixing a chilled vodka while the band tuned in- between songs, he startled everyone with the sound of ice cubes rattling against stainless steel. As the din banged loudly across the room, Borges couldn’t help but make one last quip. “All that for some cold potatoes?!” she asked.

It was an oddly perfect way to end an unforgettable show.

REVIEW: Scot Sax and Suzie Brown Bring Their Nashville-Philly Soul Party Home to The Locks At Sona

As published in Americana Highways on January 21, 2019

Imagine you’re Philadelphia born-and-bred, Grammy award-winning songwriter Scot Sax. You’ve been living in Nashville for the past few years, making inroads on the local music scene and showcasing your performing chops via a rollicking “Philly Soul Revue” that pays tribute to your former hometown’s rich R & B, soul and funk heritage.

You and your wife, a singer-songwriter who also happens to be a cardiologist (providing the best t-shirt promo line ever: “Saving Lives and Playing Dives”) get invited back to Philly to play at The Locks at Sona, a new venue that has hosted such Nashville and Americana-associated acts as Jim Lauderdale, Caitlin Canty, Jeffrey Foucault and Fred Eaglesmith.

It’s a bit of a conundrum. Do you stick to your Philly Soul schtick or play up your new Nashville leanings?

For Scot and wife Suzie Brown, the answer was simple: You do both. And you do them full-bore, no explanations or apologies needed.

For the Americana side of the equation, you enlist your East Nashville neighbors Shelby Means (formerly of Della Mae) and Joel Timmons, who play under the moniker Sally & George, to open the show with some lovely, down- home ballads and country rockers. Their sweet harmonies complemented by Means’ supple upright bass playing and Timmons’ bluegrass-meets-Neil Young guitar solos, the duo set an intimate, familial tone for the evening with songs from their 2017 CD Tip My Heart, including the originals “Stowaway,” “Baby,” “Love is Gonna Live” and “Nashville Beach,” along with a moody cover of Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game.”

Suzie Brown joined the duo on stage to sing harmony on their final number, the trio’s obvious comfort with each other evoking the intimate vibe of a gig at a small East Nashville venue — like, say, The Family Wash.

Means and Timmons returned the favor by backing Brown on her set, which opened with the upbeat “Good Everything.” Brown followed that tune with some mid-tempo numbers that coaxed out a distinctly Loretta Lynn-ish twang to her vocals. She alternated lovely ballads like “Masterpiece” with more upbeat numbers like “Everywhere I Go” to powerful effect.

Confessing at one point to feeling nostalgic for Philly, Brown shared the tender “Almost There,” a song she and Sax wrote when she was living in nearby Ardmore. “Settle In” was a happy crowd-pleaser highlighted by stirring harmonies from Brown, Means and Timmons.

The trio followed that with a rockin’ cover of Linda Ronstadt’s “You’re No Good” before Brown closed the set with another Philly-specific song, “Our Little Show,” which she explained was “about just hanging with Scot on a summer evening” in her former backyard nearby.

After a break, the hyper-energetic Sax jumped on stage clad in his trademark blue onesie jumpsuit, heart-shaped rose colored glasses, floppy knit cap and work boots. Having collaboratively resolved a technical glitch, the band launched into the humorous “I Can’t Decide” (that is: which side he prefers to sleep on, the song explains) and “Poopy Doopy Situation,” derived from his experience changing diapers for his two baby daughters.

The tight band consisted of local rhythm section Chris Martin (father of Nashville’s Molly Martin) on bass and Chris Giraldi on drums, Sax on a funked-up Telecaster and a quartet of top-notch backing vocalists: Jeanne Petersen of Nashville, plus Deb Callahan, Talia Genevieve and Cliff Hillis from the Philly area. Despite minimal rehearsals, they giddily dug in and delivered on Sax’s brand of spirited and highly infectious — “Somebody, call a doctor!” — Philly funk.

Sporting a goofy falsetto, Sax proceeded to answer the musical question “What Was I Gonna Do (With the Rest of My Life)” with quips like “Probably start some kind of hobby… like crochet?” At one point he launched into a long bizarre monologue about a dream that reminded him “how weird it is to be able to use your legs,” which led improbably into a cover of Isaac Hayes’ “Hot Buttered Soul,” featuring Jeanne Petersen’s gale force vocals.

As Sax explained a bit later, it took moving to Nashville for him to fully appreciate his Philly funk-soul roots. Providing a shorthand example, he mimicked a Nashville waitress’s drawled greeting: “How’re y’all doin’? We’ve got sawmill-buttered biscuits today…” — at which point Sax’s impatient Philly self jumped in with an emphatic “Aw, go FUCK yourself!”

As the locals from the Philly neighborhood in which The Locks is located might say, “Dat’s how we roll in Manayunk.”

Following the faux-egotistical “I’m the Shit,” Sax and band launched into a series of classic R & B covers. ”And Then Came You” featured Petersen on vocals, while Deb Callahan took the lead on “Back Stabbers” (which according to Sax, reveals “how we REALLY feel about each other in Philly”).

The band then segued into The O’Jays’ “For the Love of Money,” during which Sax apparently wise-cracked something that caused Petersen to forget a verse. A mock-chippy blame game humorously ensued.

Sax invited his niece Alison Taylor onstage to sing a lovely version of the not- so-cheesy-after-all 70s pop number “Stoned in Love With You,” after which Talia Genevieve led the band on a raucous version of “Love Train.” Several audience members spontaneously formed a dance train that snaked through the crowd.

Sally & George plus Brown joined the band for a closing rendition of the fittingly one-chord “Love is a Simple Song,” which provided the perfect warm and cozy cap to the evening as snow began to fall quietly outside.

And that’s how Brown and Sax ended the battle between the Philly and Nashville tribes: with a big juicy kiss and hug for ‘em both.

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More info on Brown and Sax along with song samples and show dates can be found on their website at suziebrownsongs.com and https://www.scotsax.com . A short YouTube video of the Philly Soul Revue playing at the show reviewed above is available at: https://youtu.be/uMGYVgckfaI

REVIEW: Delbert McClinton’s Roadhouse Blues Energized the Crowd at Wilmington, Delaware’s Grand Opera House

As published in Americana Highways on January 2, 2019

It’s not every day you get to see a universally acknowledged master of his craft do his thing. At 78 (!) Delbert McClinton may no longer be at the very top of his game — though he’s still impressively close to it — but the Texas roadhouse blues master put on an energetic and memorable show at The Grand Opera House in Wilmington, Delaware on Friday night.

If you’ve never been to The Grand in Wilmington, that 1871-era opera house is a regal sight, with its multi-arched facade, balcony portico trimmed with ornate, gold-leafed designs, and stage topped with a giant golden eagle. At first blush it seemed a rather incongruous venue to host a rockin’ roadhouse blues band, but McClinton knew just how to loosen up the joint. Wearing a brown polo shirt, crinkled khakis and a fedora hat, the Lubbock-born bluesman and his likewise casually dressed 8-piece band (two guitars, keyboards, bass, drums, sax and trumpet) launched quickly into a series of gutbucket tunes including the searing “Blues As Blues Can Get.” They seemed intent from the start on taking no prisoners — and by night’s end, leaving no attendees still planted in their seats.

The repertoire ran the gamut from older hits like “Two More Bottles of Wine,” “Old Weakness (Coming On Strong)” and “Giving It Up for Your Love,” to 2000s-era numbers like “Going Back to Louisiana,” “Starting a Rumor” and “People Just Love to Talk,” to newer tunes like “Rosy” from 2017’s Prick of the Litter and “Oughta Know” from his 2013 collaboration with Glen Clark, Blind, Crippled and Crazy. They even showcased a couple of recently-minted tunes (one titled “Mr. Smith is Back in Town”) off McClinton’s next album, due for release in the spring.

The three-time Grammy winner’s voice was inimitably craggy and fine, especially on classic ballads like “Starting A Rumor” and “Rita’s Gone.” McClinton seemed to be in a buoyant mood, casually chatting and joking with audience members and band members by turn. He drank beer from a small bucket of bottles placed nearby on stage, played cowbell, hammed it up during instrumental solos, orchestrated key bits of songs with stretched out arms, and even called a couple of audibles — including one new tune the band members weren’t sure they all knew. He seemed to be genuinely enjoying the hell out of himself.

His down-home, teasing sense of humor popped up a couple of times too. “Everybody in the giving mood?” he asked during a short interlude. “Then give me some money!” Later, assessing the audience’s off-key singalong during the first tune of his three-song encore, he taunted in his north Texas drawl, “You sound like a dyin’ cat in a hailstorm.”

McClinton’s band, Self-Made Men, was a super tight, top-notch team that added just the right amount of gritty roadhouse edge to its virtuosity. When McClinton took a brief break from the stage mid-concert, saxophonist Dana Robbins thrilled the audience with a wailing sax solo on the band’s hopping version of “Tequila.” James Pennebaker, who has played on and off with McClinton since he was 19, then belted out Bobby Womack’s “I’m in Love,” before Telecaster titan Bob Britt sang Bob Dylan and The Band’s “I Shall Be Released.” McClinton snuck back on stage to sing backing vocals during the latter; he threw in some jazz-hands while yucking it up with the horn section.

Kevin McKendree on keys, Michael Joyce on bass, Jack Bruno on drums and Quentin “Q” Ware on trumpet rounded out McClinton’s collection of world-class players, which played nonstop for about an hour and a half and then tacked on 20 minutes more for the encore without seeming to break a sweat. You can see why McClinton says they’re the best band he’s ever had.

McClinton left the stage to a standing ovation from the happily dancing and fist-pumping crowd. As the band departed and the house lights went up, “A Real Motha For Ya” blared from the opera house’s P.A. So much for the high- class pomp and circumstance! It seemed a fitting eye-winking adieu from the traveling blues band to that palatial showplace.

Next up for Delbert and company in the New Year is a headlining stint for the Sandy Beaches Cruise, after which they return to touring with stops in Durham, NC (January 19), the City Winery in Nashville (Februrary 1), the Sumter Opera House in South Carolina (February 2), Austin’s Paramount Theatre (February 9), the Newberry Opera House in South Carolina (Februrary 15), and Atlanta’s Variety Playhouse (February 16). Full details can be found on delbert.com . Whether on a cruise liner, in an opera house or at a winery, you owe it to yourself to catch McClinton and his killer band in action.

REVIEW: Marah Delivers Another Memorably Amazing Christmas Show

L-R: Dave Bielanko, Serge Bielanko, Mike Brenner

As published by Americana Highways on December 19, 2018

Marah’s Christmas shows are justifiably legendary. Now based in central PA but originally hailing from the Conshohocken area of Philadelphia, the band clearly knows how to throw a kickin’ party. This year’s festivities were held at the City of Brotherly Love’s Underground Arts, a dark, industrial basement venue that probably hasn’t experienced such pure musical joy since… well, LAST year’s Marah Christmas show.

Marah’s recipe for a jolly good time blends several simple, deliciously entertaining ingredients. First ingredient: A slew of beautifully crafted songs courtesy of Dave & Serge, aka, the Brothers Bielanko — the kind that paint memorable pictures while conveying poignantly literate yet down-and-dirty stories that probe the core of real, deeply lived human situations and emotions.

Stir in some unbelievably gorgeous melodies (courtesy again of Dave and Serge, supplemented by lap steel maestro Mike “Slo-mo” Brenner), some kickass, crunching rock guitars and/or fine acoustic strumming (thanks to Dave, Serge and longtime sideman Adam Garbinski), plus some alternatingly soaring, then purring lap steel licks from Slo-mo. Maybe even add a banjo (by Dave) and some funky percussive accents by the always exploring yet ever tasteful Hoagie Wing.

Ground that in some booming, driving bass licks by Adam or Slo-mo and nonstop, balls-to-the-wall skins-pounding by a monster of a drummer who clearly has rock ‘n’ roll in his soul, i.e., Dave Peterson.

If that ain’t tasty enough for ya, top it all off with a bit of soaring and deliciously soulful horn playing by the masterful Philly trumpeteer Matt Cappy and Tony Gairo on sax, aka the Poppin’ John Horns. Past shows have also included a cheery, holiday-clad choir consisting of former members of local girl-band the Shalitas, but alas, this year they weren’t included. (Perhaps the stage just wasn’t big enough?)

To set a cheekily festive, Philly-themed vibe, Marah started the whole thing off with a grand entrance to blaring “Rocky”-themed music. The diverse crowd — which included, along with the band’s regular diehard fans, folks from all ages and stages of life, from white-haired 60+ year-olds to young urban hipsters with extensive tattoos and nose rings, plus a few camouflaged, straggly-bearded guys who looked like they had just strolled in from the set of Duck Dynasty — ate it up as the band dove straight into “Christian St.”

Oh yeah — don’t forget the Santa costumes, constantly swirling simulated snow (which eventually left the frontmost band members completely drenched and dripping), and a late visit to the stage by Santa himself, accompanying the band on rollicking versions of seasonal classics like Chuck Berry’s “Run, Run, Rudolf,” “Holly Jolly Christmas,” “Auld Lang Syne” and even “Hava Nagila.”

As Dave shouted in glee at one point, “It’s Christmas and Grandpa’s got his fuckin’ banjo out!” And then there was the ceremonial drawing of tickets from a hat for Xmas presents from the band, while Serge sang “White Christmas” off-key in a white curly whig to which he slowly added the rest of Santa’s gear, awkwardly transforming himself into jolly old St. Nick before the audience’s eyes.

As they say, you can’t make this shit up.

Oh, and – look! – there’s Serge diving out into the audience for a long harmonica solo/stroll/comic monologue in mid-song, snaking his way (sans microphone – where the hell did that go??) all the way to the back of the cavernous room to hug a gentleman who seemed to be doing his best to remain a wallflower (yer outta luck, buddy, this here’s a MARAH show!) — and finally, on his way back to the stage, receiving a spontaneous kiss from an adoring fan.

Whew! I’m exhausted just recalling it all. Naturally the band was entirely, visibly spent after 2+ hours of hosting such a wild extravaganza. They didn’t do an encore — not a single one, which is kind of mindblowing for anyone who has ever seen them — but nobody seemed to mind. We sure as hell got our money’s worth, and our inner eardrums were pretty well wrung (rung?) out by that point anyway.

Plus there was the almost unbelievable fact that, as Dave giddily announced at the start of the whole shebang, the band had spent the earlier part of the day, on their way to the show, GETTING A BABY DELIVERED, in the person of little Johnny Peterson, the freshly arrived offspring of drummer Dave and his wife Martina.

How the fuck Dave P. managed to pound away through the entire show after all that excitement is a minor miracle and a major mystery. Pure adrenaline, I guess.

The other Dave’s (Bielanko’s) summary of the day’s craziness put a wonderfully boastful, Marah-style cap on it all: “We had a son TODAY. We had a BABY on the way here. I mean, we can get away with ANYTHING!”

And indeed they can, and did.

Bottom line: If you haven’t attended one of Marah’s Christmas shows yet, you owe it to yourself to enjoy that experience at least once before you kick off. Like I said, they throw one HELL of a party.

P.S. — The set list photo comes courtesy of superfan and “Queen of the Marahstafarians” Jennifer Husbands, who flew all the way from Chicago to attend the show. If you think that’s impressive another fan flew in from Iowa, and there’s a guy online who – having heard the word and seen the pix – is promising to fly in from Prague next year.

To tease us even more, Marah circulated a bunch of photos online from pre-show rehearsals in their new, partially-constructed recording studio in Central PA, and rumour has it they’ve been working up a batch of new songs to record. Make sure you get your tickets for the 2019 show ASAP!

REVIEW: Folksong as Anti-Spectacle: Richard Buckner at Johnny Brenda’s, Nov. 11, 2018

Jon Houlon and Mike “Slomo” Brenner of opening act, John Train

As published by Americana Highways on November 28, 2018

While the Eagles-Cowboys rivalry played itself out to exhaustion in an over-lit sportsplex a few miles to the north of Philadelphia’s Fishtown neighborhood, Richard Buckner treated his audience to the polar opposite of that corporate-sponsored mega-spectacle: an intimate, quietly soul-stirring evening of folksong and storytelling.

The evening’s warm, congenial tone was set by the John Train duo, with local slide guitar master Mike “Slo-Mo” Brenner complementing guitarist Jon Houlon’s quirky original tunes, including the title song for the group’s third album, “Sugar Ditch,” a euphemism in the South for a sewage run-off area. Their cover of Peter Case’s “Two Angels” was particularly stirring, with Brenner providing beautifully swelling, undulating accents.

Buckner took the stage casually in braided pigtails, a scraggly beard, work boots, a blue pocket tee and plaid western shirt — the visual antithesis of the telegenically high-gloss celebrities broadcasting from that gigantic football stadium up the road. Buckner’s homely “broadcasting” style involved his cinematically describing, in episodic fashion between songs, curious scenes from his current tour. As he drove west from his home in Kingston, New York earlier in the week, he explained, “It felt so good, talking to myself in my car.” The monologue continued on stage as he described discovering an offbeat family-owned hotel off the turnpike in North Lima, Ohio. He had checked out their Facebook page from the road and was drawn by its interesting history and homely videos: one of their relentlessly friendly desk clerk, and another of a couple of local characters playing acoustic guitar and drunkenly singing a song about the hotel. “So I booked it,” Buckner concluded with a wink.

Having tentatively tickled the audience’s funny bone, he then launched into a deadly serious tune, made all the more powerful and haunting by the amiable banter that preceded it.

“It was a drive-up beer store… with rooms attached,” he said of the hotel, abruptly resuming the running monologue about his tour adventures two songs later. This was followed by an uber-dark, Appalachian style ballad about poison eidleberry featuring the haunting refrain, “So take a little sip / and dream again.”

Buckner continued to weave his dark musical meditations with deft, between-song banter and tall tales throughout the evening. At one point he relayed a long, funny story about his luthier calling to report that Buckner’s 12-string lay in pieces in his workshop — which explained, Buckner stated, why didn’t have it with him for the current performance. “But don’t worry,” he offered, “you’re still getting your money’s worth.” When an audience member interjected, “If I had known I could’ve brought you one!” Buckner responded in a dead-serious tone: “So, can you run home… and get it for me?”

His comedic timing was perfect: the man clearly knows how to work a crowd.

His instruments of choice for the evening were a pair of dark sunburst, vintage Silvertone and Kalamazoo guitars with crooked, add-on pickups that looked force-fit into their sound holes, the guitars’ tops scored by time and intensive use. He apologized at one point that his effects pedals weren’t working but no one was disappointed, as the barebones guitar accompaniment made his songs all the more intimate and affecting.

Like his stories, Buckner’s songs are typically left unresolved, lyrically and harmonically suspended in a tentative, questioning thought-space. He deploys a heavy-thumb fingerpicking style in lieu of a pick, and his songs stick to simple, mostly minor chords punctuated by sweet, short runs and hammered-on accents. His dark tenor voice is close in tone at times to that of former Lemonheads frontman Evan Dando, at other times approaching a languid and more melodic Neil Young.

Another song, and Buckner abruptly resumed his tale: “So I sat in my car, and I thought, ‘Oh, I’ve gotta go in.’” While waiting in the hotel’s lobby to check in, another occupant walked in with a wet towel she had found left on her bed. “Oh, sorry about that,” the desk attendant breezily responded, offering her a free beer in compensation. Minutes later an

“old miner-49er type guy” came in and asked for a room. “But what about the other night, with the police and everything?” the desk attendant asked skeptically.

To allay Buckner’s presumed apprehension (which was mostly just bemusement), the attendant gave Buckner an end room and offered him a free beer from a prominently-located refrigerator in the lobby. Apparently free beer for every guest was one of the hotel’s unadvertised perks.

Buckner’s room, it turned out, was situated next to “a place where hoboes go to fight,” he said, prompting chuckles from the audience. “But the room was CLEAN,” he concluded, launching right into his next song, which began ominously: “Let’s waste the night / Pay the price and get out of here.” The audience stood, rapt and swaying in the intimate, trusting space Buckner had created with his off-kilter stories and comfortable, confiding presence.

You can see why Bon Iver cited Buckner as a major influence. Buckner’s songs evoke the dead of a winter’s night; it’s easy to imagine him singing against the backdrop of a crackling warm fireplace. Occasionally his lyrics strike one as impossibly unmusical, yet he makes them work quite expressively. “Hand me one of them little wallet pictures,” he intoned during one song; “Speak your lines when you talk that way,” he sang in another one. And in another: “It takes so many lives / One of them was mine.”

After a couple more songs Buckner continued his shaggy narrative, describing his last- minute pilgrimage to the home of the poet Kenneth Patchen in Warren, Ohio. “I look like a milkman on LSD when I drive into these little towns,” he confessed. “‘Wow, you look like a wild man today,’” the caretaker at the Patchen house said on greeting him, in fact. “Well, I FEEL wild,” Buckner responded with a crazed look — or so he claimed.

The song that followed contained a seeming comment on that scene: “What’s the name for people like us?”

Buckner prefaced the next installment of his side-trip narrative with a warning that it involved “a long story about a hot dog store and an angry librarian”(!). It ended unexpectedly with his description of a TV report about a guy who opened his car door

after not having driven the car for some time: “And about 50 pounds of pine cones came out.” Upon which Rhoda (from the hotel) mordantly observed: ‘Squirrels — gotta love ‘em.”

Buckner presented the night’s final song with a hushed, trance-like delivery that left the audience floored. “Well, he did all our favorite songs,” I overhead one concert-goer say to his companion as the lights flicked on and the house music started up. I’m pretty sure I heard, among the twenty or so songs Buckner played (whose titles he never relayed), “22” and “Bloomed” from his early album Bloomed, “Lil Wallet Picture,” “Song of 27” and “Ed’s Song” from Devotion, “10-Day Room” and “Ariel Ramirez” from Since, “Oscar Hummel” from his album of musical renditions of E.A. Robinson’s Spoon River Anthology, “Witness” and “Hindsight” from Our Blood, and “Beautiful Question,” “Foundation” and “Go” from 2013’s Surrounded. It was a stirring and compelling set, for sure.

So much so, in fact, the audience wasn’t quite ready to leave when the show ended. A fair number of attendees hung around afterwards, preferring to bathe in the afterglow of a sweetly intimate Sunday evening of song as Alejandro Escovedo’s latest record, The Crossing, quietly played through the P.A.

Eventually Buckner came out to check on his gear, chat with the sound guys, and casually greet his fans. His off-stage demeanor was as humble, good-natured and sincere as his on-stage persona, though a bit less intense.

Driving home past the still-packed, brightly lit football stadium — which from the elevated freeway looked like an establishing shot from an alien invasion movie — I thought of Buckner’s gracious, warmly funny, and disarmingly genuine persona and sighed. It was the complete antithesis of the stereotypical mega rock-star (say, Freddy Mercury), and the contrast between the hyper-event happening in that stadium and the stirring, intimate evening of folksong and yarn-spinning I’d just witnessed could not have been more stark. A society that prefers empty, overblown spectacles to such simple human acts of communion, I thought — resuming my own internal monologue — is clearly a sick one.

Upcoming tour dates, a partial discography, a few random recordings of covers (e.g., of The Car’s “Candy-O”) and video footage are available at richardbuckner.com

REVIEW: With “Back Roads And Abandoned Motels,” Gary Louris Highlights His Bandmates’ Talents

As published in Americana Highways on November 9, 2018

In discussing his own addiction to opioids with the Twin Cities Pioneer Press a few months after Prince’s untimely painkiller-related death in 2016, Gary Louris confessed to its having brought him to the realization — following the band’s brief, unfortunate reunion and quick re-divorce from former collaborator Mark Olsen — that he already had “the greatest band I’d ever want to play this music” and was “lucky to have them.” As he went on to explain,

All my life, I always felt the grass was greener on the other side, whether it was relationships or my career. Everybody else always had something I didn’t have, and if I just had that, I’d be happy. But one thing you learn after you have the clarity is to appreciate what you have.¹

It’s hard not to see Back Roads and Abandoned Motels, released July 13 by Legacy Recordings, as a conscious, public statement of appreciation by Louris to his longtime bandmates. Rather than relegating them to their accustomed back-line roles, Back Roads proudly showcases the other band members’ ample talents for realizing Louris’ haunting melodies and layered harmonic concepts. Louris’ appreciation begins right off the bat by showcasing Karen Grotberg’s considerable vocal talents on “Come Cry to Me.” Graced by a full set of horns (saxophones, trumpet AND trombone) manned by David Ralicke, Grotberg affectingly belts out this heartfelt tune of risk and resurrection to stunning effect:

You know how to fly on the wings of disaster/ You try to stand still but you keep going faster and faster/ You thought it’d be easy in California /The tables will turn and they won’t even warn you

Grotberg takes another lead (and harmony) vocal turn on “El Dorado” a bit later, while drummer Tim O’Reagan, who previously assumed lead vocal duties sporadically on previous Jayhawks albums, is likewise afforded more front-of- stage exposure here. O’Reagan’s fine grit sandpaper-scratched tenor and occasionally Dylanesque delivery work nicely on “Gonna Be a Darkness” and give the wistful “Long Time Ago” an apt tinge of world-weariness.

Though Louris penned most of the tunes on Back Roads with and for other artists (including The Dixie Chicks’ Natalie Maines, Martie Maguire, and Emily Robison, Tonic’s Emerson Hart, ex-Sugarland singer Kristen Hall, studio ace Scott Thomas, Bronx-based songwriter Ari Hest and Jakob Dylan), the Jayhawks’ versions nevertheless feel completely lived-in and definitive. This is largely thanks to co-producers Louris, John Jackson and Ed Ackerson, who instill cohesiveness by applying a consistent set of musical accents — acoustic and slide guitars, mandolin or violin, piano and Louris’ temolo- and chorus-laden

electric guitar modulations — across their alternately simple and lush arrangements of this diverse collection of tunes.

Particularly compelling, along with the tunes mentioned above, are the anthemic, Irish sea shanty-ish “Bitter End,” the lovely “Backwards Women” with its multipart harmonies on the catchy chorus and bridge, the yearning “Need You Tonight,” featuring lovely harmonies by Grotberg, and the quiet, finger- picked “Bird Never Flies,” with its lifting refrain (“I won’t give you up”) buoyed by pillowy backing vocals by Grotberg, O’Reagan and Louris.

Like a clean-up hitter in baseball, Louris sweeps in to clear the bases on the album’s final two tunes: the mid-tempo “Carry You to Safety,” with its sweet, lullaby-like chorus (“Don’t be afraid when the waves get too tall / Or when it’s cold and the snow starts to fall / I’ll be there to carry you to safety”), and the sadly beautiful, piano-laced closer “Leaving Detroit.” That last cut’s starkly heavy, at times cinematic lyrics — “You like it rough, or so you said / I hit you ’til my fingers bled … My wedding ring nicked your chin” — expose a dark, remorseful thread that runs just below the surface of this collection. “You’re already gone, this house ain’t a home / I’ll take the last flight / I’ll stare at my hands, we’ll take our last stand / I’m leaving Detroit,” Louris sings in the chorus, the sadness audibly weighing on him. It’s a devastating tune, and an apt reminder of just how perfectly Louris’ potent songwriting skills and his bandmates’ unique musical talents are mated.

For more info, check right here: https://www.jayhawksofficial.com/

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¹ Twin Cities Pioneer Press. https://www.twincities.com/2016/06/29/jayhawks-gary-louris-talks-about-prince-addiction-and-learning-to-appreciate-the-jayhawks/

REVIEW: Malcolm Holcombe Alternates Bittersweet Reminiscences and Poignant Provocations On “Come Hell Or High Water”

As published in Americana Highways on November 6, 2018

As I am not the first to point out, Malcolm Holcolm is a national treasure. He was sick and in the hospital for the latter part of 2019, but apparently he’s up and around these days. Let’s hope he recovers fully and is able to regale us again with his inimitable songs soon.

To nick the subtitle of a recent collection of essays on Texas songwriters,¹ Malcolm Holcombe’s approach to songcraft is “ruthlessly poetic.” Holcombe’s latest, the Marco Giovino-produced Come Hell or High Water (Singular Recordings), marks the 13th in a string of dependably strong collections bearing Holcombe’s distinct, darkly Appalachian imprint.

Featuring Iris DeMent and Greg Brown on vocals and backed by Giovino on drums along with Holcombe’s long-time multi-instrumental accompanist Jared Tyler, High Water showcases Holcombe’s trademark strengths as a songwriter and uniquely expressive vocalist. The arrangements are simple, uncluttered and tasteful, with the aforementioned collaborators providing exquisite sweet-and-sour coloring by turns. Giovino’s steady hand ensures that the supporting cast provides the right accents and never gets in the way of Holcombe’s inimitable, gravel road-evoking voice and percussive finger-picking. DeMent’s plaintive, occasionally breathy soprano harmonies in particular are the perfect complement to Holcombe’s wet baritone rasp, while Tyler’s quietly weeping slide-dobro licks stand out while never crowding the scene.

As always, Holcombe’s songs are peppered with telling details, startling twists of phrase and defiantly fierce moments of truth-telling. The lyrics here are darkly, often bitterly incisive; at times verging on inscrutability, they are always powerfully evocative. Though the openers “Left Alone” and “I Don’t Want to Disappear Anymore” are quieter in tone than many of the other tunes, there’s not a clunker in the bunch, and the best of them are compelling in the classic Holcombe way. Highlights include the bluesy “It Is What It Is,” with its kick-drum breakdowns reminiscent of the Stones’“Satisfaction”; “Old North Side,” featuring Tyler’s soulful slide-dobro and Brown’s rousing accompaniment on the choruses; the mournfully upbeat “Gone By The Ol’ Sunrise”; and the stunning closer, “Torn and Wrinkled.”

High Water includes some scathing socio-political commentary as well. Holcombe condemns the “billionaire barbarians” and “limousine liars” whose “old money drags the poor man down / New Damnation Alley,” lamenting how “Truth takes a whipping like a beaten boy’s screams.” In the mandolin-flecked “Black Bitter Moon,” a Biloxi bartender bitterly watches young men “shove off to the ocean fly up to the sky,” quietly bemoaning that there “ain’t a drop or lick o’ sense in Washington’s mind.” “That old black, bitter moon hangs over my head,” she sighs, “Come hell or high water / Comes the rain and the dread.” “Legal Tender” convicts both “them trailer-meth labs around the corner” that “make all the money” and the “pharmaceuticals that paint the sky” and “fill the cemeteries.” “As best I can tell,” Holcombe laments, “morphine’s legal tender.”

The collection climaxes with a final-four sequence of alternating DeMent and Brown duets (“Brother’s Keeper” and “In the Winter”), followed by the bittersweetly nostalgic “Merry Christmas” (“I never got what I wanted / I never kept what I got”), and the memorably melodic closer “Torn and Wrinkled.” With its wistful litany of lost opportunities and bygone memories — “Forgive me, when I turn away / And I mumble to the floor / The perfect words are gone for sure, / And the mirror’s torn and wrinkled” — the last serves as a powerful, apt closer for this beautifully melancholic collection.

Whether you’re new to Holcombe or a long-time follower, you’ll want to have and hold this one. It can be purchased directly at:

https://www.malcolmholcombe.com/cds/come-hell-or-high-water-cd

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¹ Clifford, Craig E. and Craig Hillis, Pickers and Poets: The Ruthlessly Poetic Singer- Songwriters of Texas. College Station, Texas: Texas A&M University Press, 2016.

REVIEW: Bit By “Bit Logic”

As Published in That Music Mag, 18 Nov 2018

Brian Henneman and his band of alt-country veterans the Bottle Rockets aren’t “old,” but they’ve been around long enough to see the futuristic prognostications of their youth fail to come to pass, or do so in unexpected ways. As the rousing title-track opener, of their 13th album, released by Bloodshot Records on Oct. 12, puts it: “In our technicolor childhood / We burned incandescent dreams / illuminating all these future things / that didn’t turn out like we thought they would.”

Bit Logic is that kind of reckoning: a mature artist’s ruminations and occasional exclamations on the good, bad and ugly of our weird, hyper-technologically inflected 21st-century situation. It’s a strange, transitional time marked by science that “ain’t no fiction,” debates with jaded waitresses about “cell phone selfie vanity” that get interrupted by (you guessed it) technology, and Highway 70 traffic jams featuring an odd mix of farmer’s trailers, Nissan SUV’s, and speeding cop cars, where “every big rig bus and Kia” has “got their own idea.”

In this brave new-old world where our scratchy-and-muddy but strangely comforting “Lo-Fi” ways keep getting replaced with challenging “new way[s] of keepin’ it real,” the information overload is so daunting that, as Henneman bemoans in his dark “Doomsday Letter,” “Whatever I can do to keep my chin up is a damn good thing.”

Amidst the disquieting cacophony — topped by the constant bombardment of shrill screeds from “chicken little,” bile-spewing soothsayers — it takes a constant, conscious effort to remain alert to those rare, passing moments of beauty and truth, like the one noted in “Human Perfection”: “Heard a ballgame on the radio In the background playin’ low Crack of the bat and the crowd went wild Looked at my wife and she just smiled Forgot about the damned election Replaced with human perfection.”

For Henneman, such sanity-saving openness is serviced by regular jaunts to old school honky-tonks like “Stovall’s Grove,” along with daily writing sessions in his closet-sized songwriting room in the attic — aka, his “psychiatrist/treehouse composite” (“Knotty Pine”). Such respites can help you keep your wits and perspective about you, he wisely observes.

And if the cultivation of said perspective doesn’t come to fruition on this particular day, the wisdom gained from sticking around reminds him (in “Maybe Tomorrow”) that time’s passage just might save the day — though ironically, Henneman strung together this bouncy pop-blues tune from the hashtags he appended to an Instagram post at the end of a failed songwriting session. One must remain alert to serendipitous messages that fall from the evening’s sky, after all — whatever technology gets ’em delivered.

As for making a remunerative living from music these days — or at least enough of one to be able to cover the unexpected HVAC and car repair bills — well… it probably ain’t gonna happen. As Henneman notes in the wry, Eric Ambel-prompted rocker, Bad Time to be An Outlaw: “ That Nashville pop it ain’t my deal Even though the cash’s real But these days “What Would Waylon Do?” Don’t make much money sad but true It’s a bad time to be an outlaw.“

Luckily, the enforced poverty hasn’t (yet) prompted the Bottle Rockets to abandon their almost three-decades-long musical adventure. It’s just shifted their focus to the modest rewards of having a decent-sized fan base and a label that believes in them — not to mention most importantly, being able to write some goddamn good songs that actually mean something to people. “Some things don’t need correction,” as Henneman rightly asserts.

In the end, through benign neglect of the naysayers, a humble awareness of your own limitations and mortality, and the constancy of beloved fellow travelers (as detailed in the lovely “Silver Ring”), it all comes out OK. That’s the survivor’s view from maturity, y’all: having pondered the accumulated bumps & bruises, you’re left with a kind of quiet wisdom and more than a bit of bemusement. On Bit Logic, Henneman and team hit that bent nail firmly on the head.