Category: American Folk


Watch how things take shape as Sassparilla’s The Darndest Thing. “New Love” walks in as a pulled back neo-swing blues carrying with it echoes of Tom Waits and Squirrel Nut Zippers (in a quieter moment). “Same Old Blues” picks up with an almost Dixieland trombone as the eclectic instrumentation circles around the blues, bluegrass, and swing. Accordion and harmonica create the lazy river feel for “Bone Colored Moon,” as if the sunnier side of a Greg Brown song painted over with some Mississippi Delta jazz hints.

“Overcoat” and its slide guitar brings back some more Tom Waits dark corners played through that Greg Brown folk and a sultry Norah Jones jazz. Banjo leads into “Confession” as the swing feel of the earlier tracks recedes into the background and lets an Appalachian blues rise up from the foggy hollers. “Fumes” works right into a finger-picking folk that starts heading out of town on the train, slowly swaying side-to-side into the pitch black Texas night.

Then you arrive at “My First Lover.” It’s a frank, adult-language kind of reminiscence of the speaker’s first girlfriend—seemingly an older, more experience woman who led him down the wrong? path. Perhaps it’s a good memory, but the language makes it seem like just rebellion and far from love as if boredom just led to experimentation. The song goes back to that time with energy and rock ‘n’ roll, but with an air of melancholy hanging over the whole thing.

“My First Lover” could easily be edited like Mumford & Sons’ “Little Lion Man” so that it could get airplay, capitalizing on the track’s blend of rock and everything from earlier in the album: blues, folk, and bluegrass. The haunting harmonica drenches the song with suffocating kudzu as the lyric says,

Lock up all your windows
Shutter all your doors
Burn bright that porch light
Because my lover’s in your town
Yes, she’s in your town
Devil’s in your town.

The album closes with “You’ve Got It Bad,” almost a return to the swing of the early tracks, which makes it an odd choice to end the album. All the other tracks seemed to point towards the combination of rock and warning on “My First Lover.”

Meanwhile, as I contemplate The Darndest Thing, I return to track 3, “Bone Colored Moon,” as the lyric delves into the spiritual and foreboding. Picturing what it might mean to get left behind by Jesus and those headed for eternal life, the song begins: “She said, ‘Where were you when the saints left town?’/ ‘I was standing on the corner with my hanging down/’neath that bone colored moon, child of God passing time/The devil don’t want much, but he surely wants he’s owed.’” There’s hunger to be a rescued child of God, lifted out of the devil’s schemes to bring us down. Follow that up with a Gospel tune, and you’ve got quite the liturgical folk punch.

Sassparilla
Fluff and Gravy Records

In the middle of the blissed-out, folk jams of Brushfire Records’ This Warm December, A Brushfire Holiday Volume 2 collection, Bahamas (Afie Jurvanen) plays out an incredible version of the Band’s “Christmas Must Be Tonight.” Written by Robbie Robertson, it’s a beautiful song from the perspective of the shepherds who saw the angels and went to Bethlehem to greet the baby Jesus. Jurvanen settles into the song with echoes of the Band, to be sure, but also the warm folk of fellow Canadian Bruce Cockburn. The chorus sends up a gang vocal that brings out a campfire quality to the song—reminiscent of the Band’s cover for Northern Lights—Southern Cross on which the song first appeared. I love what Jurvanen’s done with the song to highlight the incredible story of that first Christmas.

Come down to the manger, see the little stranger
Wrapped in swaddling. Lo! the Prince of Peace
Wheels start turning, torches start burning
And the old wise men journey from the East

CHORUS:
How a little baby boy bring the people so much joy
Son of a carpenter, Mary carried the light
This must be Christmas, must be tonight

A shepherd on a hillside, where over my flock I bide
On a cold winter night a band of angels sing
In a dream I heard a voice saying “fear not, come rejoice
It’s the end of the beginning, praise the new born king”

I saw it with my own eyes, written up in the skies
But why a simple herdsman such as I
And then it came to pass, he was born at last
Right below the star that shines on high

Meanwhile, This Warm December features tracks by Jack Johnson, G. Love, Neil Halstead, Matt Costa, and ALO, among others. As you might guess from a Brushfire Collection, the air is mellow. While Jurvanen’s selection may be the most focused on the spiritual significance of the season, This Warm December still could make a fine complement to your Christmas celebrations, especially as the evening winds down, the party’s dwindled to a few friends, and you’re draining the last of the wine.

This Warm December
Brushfire Records

Among the Americana gems on Amos Lee’s soulful Mission Bell is the Gospel-fueled “Jesus.” Handclaps and dirty guitar lead the way into the call-and-response chorus. It’s as pointed as any of the complaint Psalms, the Psalms of the Old Testament that take the pain right up to the throne of God. The chorus is a cry for God’s help, even while the verse admits to feeling wild and free, feeling as if life could go on without acknowledging the divine. But then the speaker admits that his heart “was a skipping stone/But now the world has jaded me/Oh, corrupted and defeated me.”

Then the turning point of faith:
You know I never felt you hated me,
But I never felt so alone.

As much as the speaker is feeling alone, feeling separated from Jesus, feeling as if he’s alone in a world that’s left him “corrupted and defeated,” still he senses God’s love. Jesus doesn’t hate him. There’s still hope. There’s still some way in which he can be restored to God.

This psalm of complaint closes out with the cries for Jesus’ help while the instruments clang and challenge the present state of affairs. It’s as bluesy as the album gets, and it’s a deep-seated blues ripe for prayer vigils, counseling, meditation, and preaching inspiration for days when we need to know that we can walk right up to the throne of God, approach Him through Jesus, and call upon Him in every kind of trouble.

Amos Lee
Blue Note Records

Pieta BrownSometimes you just need someone to speak hope for you, speak words that you cannot speak yourself, hear words spoken out loud that you only hope you can say to yourself. That’s why I go to church: to hear someone speak the words of hope in Jesus. They’re words I believe, but they’re not always words I say to myself. They’re words that I have heard before, but they’re words I so quickly forget.

That’s how it was when I went to a Saturday night service in St. Louis on June 12. The date is important, because it was also the night that Pieta Brown was playing at the Old Rock House. The plan was simple: Go hear the words of God from the preacher, and then go listen to Pieta Brown sing.

Except this preacher at this particular church didn’t speak words of hope—at least not ones that I heard. He spoke about our need for God, alright; he spoke about our inability to remain faithful to God. I know he meant then to bring us to a place where we could hear words of hope, forgiveness, and love in Jesus, but I couldn’t hear it. His other words were too crushing; his other words were too heavy on judgment. To me, he didn’t seem to be turning the corner towards hope in Jesus. So I walked out. I’ve never walked out of a church, but that night I did.

I walked out of church and went to hear Pieta Brown sing.

And sing she did. She sang, she played her guitar, and Bo Ramsey sang sweetness on his guitar. She sang, and whether she intends it this way or not, I heard the words of hope I had been wanting to hear. Sometimes you just need someone to speak hope for you, and Pieta Brown did just that.

Her song, “Faller,” from her new album, One and All, says: “I’m a faller/I’m falling just like you.” I take that in a way of talking about how we’re all fallen creatures, all broken down people, all sinners who need redemption, we’re all fallers. The song itself is what turns the corner towards hope, the song speaking hope in its melody and folk charm, but she also speaks of actions of hope: “If I had a table/I would pull out a chair/Let you rest/Awhile there.” She’s going to enact hope, love, mercy, and grace towards this other faller. She’s going to act in the way of Jesus who comes alongside all fallers, comes to forgive, lift up, and restore.

This is what Brown’s music can do as she sings a smoky folk, a bluesy country of pastoral dreams. Ramsey—long-time guitarist’s for Brown’s father, Greg Brown—sparks drifting clouds above Brown’s painted fields; he can sing backup with just his guitar. They can set a train track rhythm running or pull it back for some station platform musings. There’s the bluesy folk like a lonely, small town alley at 2 a.m. Then a song like “Remember the Sun” brings hope out of the darkness, a song that starts in a small space and vamps like a memory getting more and more vivid. “Even When” emerges from a quiet bedroom space when you’re wishing for “healing” (Brown’s word) to come from the radio.

Sometimes you just need someone to speak hope for you, and Pieta Brown and Bo Ramsey did just that.

Pieta Brown
Red House Records
Bo Ramsey

It’s Lyle Lovett And His Large Band without the large band. As Richard Julian’s Girls Need Attention opens, it’s as if Lovett is playing a solo, coffeehouse show. Julian’s voice has that tender way of working its way into your psyche—warm, wistful, distant, and observant. Julian is also similar to Lovett in the way he strikes up a jazz-influenced country folk rock.

As the album builds, more and more instrumentation is added—never quite a large band sound, but more than a solo show. Nels Cline’s electric guitars adds a bluesy spark to the stomp ballad of “Words.” Clarinet, banjo, and tuba swing “Georgie” like a play on Hoagy Carmichael’s “Georgia on My Mind.” The bass and drums on “Stained Glass” contribute to its stagger.

“Girls Need Attention” is a call to action for all men. Rather than wasting away our days and nights drunk on whatever we use to forget our obligations and care for the women in our lives, Julian rings the wake up call.

By the way, Julian’s past album, Sunday Morning in Saturday’s Shoes, sneaks up on the listener, its singer-songwriter stance preparing to put melodies in your head. Meanwhile, the title seems to be a great metaphor for what it means for us to come to church on Sunday. We’ve got out Saturday nights, our sins of the week with us, as we stagger bleary-eyed into the sanctuary. Which is exactly how Jesus calls us to come—with all of our faults, acknowledging our need for him, receiving forgiveness for our Saturday night sins, and sent by His Spirit to live for Him.

Richard Julian
Compass Records

It was a folk show dance party at Turner Ballroom in Milwaukee as the minister of peace, harmony, joy, and love presided over the whole affair, raising up his acoustic guitar as he kicked his legs playing that anti-folk.

Gathering the fairly good-sized Tuesday night crowd to himself, Langhorne Slim opened the service with the redemptive themes of “Be Set Free” and “Rebel Side of Heaven,” forming a couplet for the intersections of love, hope, dreams, and perhaps God. Langhorne Slim compels the listener to step into his quirky, Freewheelin’ speed folk world, because the music comes from a restless soul resonating within each person singing along at the edge of the stage.

Watching Langhorne dance, march, kick, fall (hit his head), and spin while playing guitar, he moves around on stage as if he wasn’t playing guitar. This was equally matched by the drums of Malachi Delorenzo, son of Violent Femmes drummer Victor. Dubbed by Langhorne as “Milwaukee’s fourteenth favorite son,” Lorenzo completely smashed up the sound throughout the set and into the triple encore stompdowns.

Meanwhile, unlike any other show called Dylanesque, the crowd stood, bounced, punched the air, and kicked up their own feet, caught up in the spirit of Langhorne air, and his rhymes of truth and grace.

April Smith and the Great Picture Show
Like the radio of the 50′s and 60′s, April Smith and the Great Picture Show play a whole variety of sounds. Most of it is within the bounds of the apparently timeless rock ‘n’ roll, but it rings with so much borrowed clothing from the dusty wardrobe. You can namecheck today, but it’s draped with yesteryear.

She’s KT Tunstall with plenty of good ol’ swing. They’ve got Grace Potter smashes with plenty of 50’s rock. She can sing a bit like a showtune, playfully lean into a vaudevillian kick, and then land onto a bluesy bluegrass stomp, before throwing in a bridge of “Whole Lotta Love” on a final Potter smash.

Langhorne Slim
Kemando Records
April Smith

She writes great songs that don’t transport you beyond your normal life. This isn’t a voyeur’s windowsill outside the musician’s tour bus. This is what you know, what you experience, what you’re living at the moment that the CD spins in the minivan stereo.

Emily Dunbar is a little bit country; she’s a little bit folk ‘n’ roll. She sings of married life and motherhood and the whimsical, poignant fantasies one has while perhaps contemplating doing the dishes piled up in the sink.

Her songwriting rose out of third person narrative charms like her signature “Boone’s Farm Wine,” a tribute to the fruity malt beverage and its partakers. As much as these narratives fulfill the obligatory country songs about trailer park queens and such, they speak of what even boring suburban families know—love, loss, wanderlust, and stilted dreams.

Dunbar has moved into her own as she’s moved into her own stories. She is telling her own love, loss, wanderlust, and stilted dreams now. She doesn’t need Paris, because she has her family (“Barcelona”). She’s content to wake up on a Saturday for “One Cup of Coffee.” Yet, she still wonders what she’d do if John Cusack came to sweep her off her feet (“John Cusack”).

“John Cusack” is one track in which it would be good to hear Dunbar try it with a different style—more of the folk ‘n’ roll and less country, more angsty in tempo and less ballad. She’s dreaming of John Cusack, and there’s a wry humor here the ballad seems to paste over with too much melancholy. One way this might work is to go over the top with the melancholy like the Gena Rowlands Band does with Jeanine Garafalo on “Garafalo, C’est Moi” (review).

For now, though, Dunbar is writing songs for home. She’s invited the listener in, and she’s invited herself into your home. She’s singing about rejoicing in the day that the Lord has made (the title track, “Catch It When You Can”), but instead of some sentimental syrup, she’s made it a song about laughter and aprons. She’s singing about recognizing it when it hits you. Dunbar invites you into these reflections with her charming voice. And you might not realize it at first, but she’s singing your life.

Emily Dunbar

I expected more? Too much? Something different? Whatever it was, my expectation didn’t match what I heard in Iris Dement’s performance at the Stoughton Opera House in Wisconsin.

Her song selection—originals and covers—is incredibly rich as it walks through realms of past and present, faith and doubt. As far as where her songs lead, she is definitely challenging a listener with equal parts hymnic Gospel and universalist ponderings.

For me as a Christian trying to allow this philosophy to inform my view of the world, the experience became like the challenge of reading Brian McLaren’s A New Kind of Christian—a postmodern, less-concerned-about-truth approach to the Truth of Jesus. I don’t know that I was up to such a challenge that night, although it was fitting that it occurred during the season of Lent, a time of meditation and contemplation.

Whether or not I was up to the spiritual challenge, I clearly wasn’t up to the musical challenge. Dement’s voice doesn’t country warble as much as stays invariably in the same whine. I know many people really appreciate Dement, the small amount of recordings I’ve heard are nice, but that night, it all failed to capture me. It may take Dement fans to explain it to me—which is okay. Challenging walks—spiritual and musical—often require guides.

If you’re up to the task of guiding, please email me.

Pre-Show Thoughts
They’re in small cities and mid-size towns everywhere—arts series which bring an eclectic season of shows to communities, tapping into Boomer and older nostalgia while periodically gracing them with current gems. It always creates an odd atmosphere of audience members—equal parts season ticket holder and single show attendees. Showing up for a current gem means sitting next to season ticket holders who are here but do not know anything about the performer. They are prepared to be informed but perhaps not thoroughly engrossed; they’re amused and befuddled at the same time with a slight wish that the series director would book Manhattan Transfer more often.

That’s the rockist talking—that rock music snob which is mildly-to-severely offended by ignorance concerning all things in rock, blues, and folk music. The rockist is amused this evening to receive a program at a folk show which I read as if it is a Playbill.

Lest I become too conceited in these moments before the house lights go out, maybe it’s best to remember that friends of the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra probably had a similar disdain for me when I only showed up for Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra performance of his 1994 piece, Blood on the Fields. Those symphony supporters knew much more about what they were seeing than I did. They knew what it meant to be in Powell Hall. My lack of understanding was probably very apparent, although I was thoroughly enthralled by the music. It met a rock fan on a common ground.

Perhaps that’s where we find Iris Dement tonight. . .a common ground for people who else while hear Branson artists, barbershop quartets, and the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Besides, she packed the Stoughton Opera House, built in 1901, and restored down to its hard-backed, wooden seats with top hat racks beneath. It’s a gem of a room enlivening the main street of their small city outside of Madison, a main street trying to hold onto its charm as a way to retain a drawing forces for tourists and daytravelers.

Iris Dement
Stoughton Opera House

When Leo Kottke came on the stage of the South Milwaukee Performing Arts Center, he looked a bit of a lonely, quiet figure, but when he touched the strings of his guitar, the world’s sounds, songs, and stories resonated strongly and loudly, the reverberations creating a community space within this beautiful auditorium. My thoughts came in quick runs much like the finger-style guitar playing that inspired them. . .

Kottke gets to every nook and cranny of that guitar sound—jazz, blues, folk—where a strum jumps out like a pop song after the running, finger-picking patterns. Or maybe those strums come within his songs like when a jazz combo hits that melody again and you hear what they’ve been vamping on.

He appears to be awkward with his stage banter, but really, he tells great stories, such as when he a teenager “lunging at the 14-year old Ramona who was repelling his advances” and yet he still spoke about the song on the radio and said, “This could be our song.” Kottke admits that he was the guy in high school who had a butterfly net and a stamp collection, although here he is in front of a filled auditorium, with a tremendous music career in his pocket, an amazing talent, and a humble set of stories that can even make the cool kids stop and wonder.

Singing just one verse of Christina Rossetti’s poem “In the Bleak Midwinter” (with the carol tune by Holst), Kottke’s gravelly voice is that of a guy whose experienced midwinter by almost losing both feet to frostbite but a guitar that resonates with the beauty captured by Rossetti’s verse.

Picking up a tune from One Guitar, No Vocals, it’s the blues that are run through a steel string vibration that reverberates like a metal outbuilding on the farm in a wicked wind humming with a comfort you wouldn’t have guessed you could find in such trembling.

“Gewerbegebiet” (Try and Stop Me) sounds like a German Latin torch/torchbearer song meant to be sung by Juliet from an Italian balcony while she cries her eyes out with a bridge that reaches beyond that to something much more like the stars of a lonely night, all seeming to spin around you and your brokenness until they come crashing around you.

From Standing in My Shoes, Kottke chose the traditional “Corrina, Corrina” on which his voice becomes a combination of the dark, bluesy Chris Smither and the country, whine, twang of Willie Nelson, with a hauntingly, halting guitar.

Kottke doesn’t like song titles much, and often wishes he could change old titles. Not yet available on a recording, “Ants” is a tune named as such because of a book he was reading about every genera of ant. However, he does admit that the song sounds ant-like. If they made full-on production music videos of guys like Kottke, imagine the “Ants” one like this: Kottke is playing the song as the floor of the auditorium became swollen with ants from back to front until they covered Kottke. He plays on; the ants dance and retreat.

After playing the song for us live at the South Milwaukee Performing Arts Center, he stood and acknowledged the standing ovation, holding out the guitar as if the guitar was the machine that kills ants. Woody Guthrie would be proud that those fascist Formicidae insects had been defeated.

Leo Kottke

The Music Spectrum Notebook Series digs into my handwritten notes and reviews on older releases still getting my attention.

It was about a year ago when I took a small group of people from my church to see Todd Snider’s sold out show at Milwaukee’s Shank Hall.

Sure, this small group had met for dinner before the show to discuss how to connect our Christian faith with Snider’s music. We found good connections, we found difficult connections, and we found disconnections. Yet, none of that really prepared us for what was to come from that evening.

Out of Todd Snider’s hippie folk, Kurt-Cobain-with-a-twang-music comes a Jesus that blesses, invites, challenges, remains present in darkness, and is mentioned more authentically than during some perfunctory devotional times in church settings.

Snider began with a prayer of blessing of sorts on “Good Fortune” (“May some good fortune come to you”). He offered redemption in the hotel room of a friend who is a prostitute (“Just Like Old Times”). “Alright Guy” beautifully invites us into our own admission of imperfection. “Statistician’s Blues” brings us to that place where we’re “stuck between hope and doubt.” Snider despairs in a prayer-like way over Elvis, Hank Williams, Janis Joplin, and others in “Alcohol & Pills.” With “Enjoy Yourself” and “If Tomorrow Never Comes,” there’s a benediction to send us out into the cold, dark, neon-lit streets.

I met Jesus that night. Not because I had to import Jesus into what Snider said. Instead, Snider reveal Him–imperfectly, incompletely, but also authentically, honestly, radically, and surprisingly.

A prophet speaks forth the truth. Snider doesn’t speak truth according to the whole message of God, but in his sped-up John Gorka folk, his own opinions shared with us “because they rhyme,” his application of biblical principles to the Kingsmen and “Louie, Louie” (“The strong shall survive/The meek shall inherit the earth”), Snider speaks forth the truth.

Someone called out, “Snider in ’08.” He replied, “That’s crazy talk, man.” But it’s not crazy talk to say that Snider is a prophet.

Todd Snider
Oh Boy Records

Kevin Kinney
The opening strains of Kevin Kinney’s solo set took me back to a lonely parking lot in the dusk, waiting in the car until it was time to go to some high school required activity, listening to Drivin’ ‘n’ Cryin’s Mystery Road–an AltCountry, near to hard rock, Dodge Charger-meets-John-Deere kind of sound. I didn’t have a hot rod,; I drove a 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser station wagon. I didn’t wear muscle shirts, but the music made me think I should. I didn’t know that factory worker/farm hand/greaser/train track warehouse life, but I drove out of that parking lot searching out the forgotten places, behind the buildings, ends of the roads, spurs of the tracks that work as the Drivin’ ‘n’ Cryin’ backdrop.

But like I said, I was listening to Kinney, Drivin’ ‘n’ Cryin’s front man, and his solo set nearly 20 years later. The band been gone and back, Kinney’s had quite a journey, and now here he was on stage at Shank Hall in Milwaukee. My Cutlass Cruiser is relegated to a framed chrome side ornament on my wall. But when Kinney sang “Dear John,” it all came back–as he stripped the song back to its acoustic folk protest core.

After the song, Kinney said, “I miss the old days” [with the band], when he thought they’d “start a revolution with beer and a rock ‘n’ roll band.” Yet, the revolution is still brewing there under his fingertips on the guitar–whether he’s using a finger-picking style like Bob Dylan or Gordon Lightfoot, or he’s looping up some sounds on picked blues from Georgia that end up in thrash folk like Hamell on Trial.

On “MacDougal Blues,” he namechecks Buster Poindexter, Dylan, Patti Smith, Gordon Gano, and Carole King. The title track of his 2002 release, Broken Hearts and Auto Parts, is relationship advice, but there’s a way that it could also apply to a relationship with God. His namechecking continued on a little Marion, North Carolina, ditty called, “Which Jesus?” Challenging the typical Bible belt, Republican images of Jesus that Kinney heard from a hostile Pentecostal, he asks back, “Which Jesus do you know?/The Jesus I know says, ‘All you need is love.’” The Jesus he knows also goes to Willie Nelson, Allman Brothers, and Chuck Berry shows. There’s something to be said about seeing again that the Jesus we know really came to be in the middle of bad situations, hurting hearts, loveless wanderings, and garage service bays.

As I said of Todd Snider and our church outing to Shank Hall, Kinney is more of a prophet than we may want to acknowledge in the Church. Which Jesus do we know? Which Jesus do we preach? Which Jesus do we share with others? And could it be that Kinney and Snider share more of certain qualities of Jesus than we often do on Sundays?

Kevin Kinney
Drivin’ ‘n’ Cryin’

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