It’s been just over a year since I was walking the streets of Nashville caught up in the “I don’t know what words to use to describe the music” feeling while listening to Darrell Scott’s Live in N.C.. Now that I attempted to talk about that album (see review), Scott’s in my ears again with The Invisible Man, and I’m still at a loss for words, being so blown away continuously by Scott’s voice, guitar, and songwriting.
Perhaps part of the difficulty comes in that I’m usually trying to hear an artist’s influences in the music. With Scott, I don’t necessarily hear what influenced him, but rather, I hear the artists that have influenced my ears. There’s such an incredible list of my favorite artists that go through my ears while listening to Scott, and that’s part of the reason that I get overwhelmed, hearing all of these sounds that are near and dear to me come together in what Scott is doing.
There’s the world-weary storytelling of James McMurtry. When picking a more tender guitar, Scott has the soft-spoken twang of Pierce Pettis. Enchanting electric slide blues spark with the passion of Kelly Joe Phelps. Gruff-spoken Greg Brown observes the world with a similar prophetic distance. Intricate, intimate, world-flecked guitar accompanies Scott’s songs like Bruce Cockburn finding redemptive stories in far corners. Cliff Eberhardt’s sound seems to be a flourish blues guitar, acoustic pick/strum patterns that kick up a certain amount of dust while laying down a groove, a flourish Scott achieves in his own way. Finally, there’s the self-deprecating wit and world reflection of John Gorka—especially in the getting old tale “There’s a Stone Around My Belly.”
If you’re a fan of just half of the artists mentioned above, you can see how Scott can overwhelm a listener. In hearing in one voice all of these voices, styles, and sounds that are major contributors to my appreciation for Americana, the result is awe.
Perhaps this review only serves to confirm that Darrell Scott is the invisible man—a respected artist who has gotten little wide-ranging acknowledgement. However, perhaps it would be better to think of the experience as listening to an invisible festival.
The Darrell Scott Festival needs no other acts—save Scott’s own unfatigable bassist Danny Thompson and drummer Kenny Malone. The festival would need no other artists, because in Scott, the entire range of Americana rises above the plains. You will not see McMurtry, Pettis, Phelps, Brown, Cockburn, Eberhardt, or Gorka on stage, but you will sense all of those sounds coming together to make your heart jump into your throat, speak a deeply-seated “Oh, man,” and then ride that thing down toward musical bliss.
Thanks to Darrell Scott and Full Light Records for the review copy.
