Been a busy few weeks with the kickoff of both forms of football and while my free time has gladly taken a corresponding nose dive as I get to know the latest iterations of each of my teams and which ones might be decent, I thought it was worth taking a break to share some finds so you have something better to listen to while you watch other than that same Miller Lite commercial for the five billionth time. (“It is both! It is both! [Funny the first time and increasingly annoying every subsequent time you see it!]”) We’ll start with some southern-inflected songstresses whose sounds span everything from doo wop and country to folk, sometimes sprinkling all three on their excellent albums. The first is from a duo down in New Orleans, the Lostines, and their aptly titled debut, Meet the Lostines.
The band is comprised of lead singers Camille Wind Weatherford and Casey Jane Reece-Kaigler, and while the pair may struggle to fit names that prolific on a business card, their voices fit together far more seamlessly, offering eleven fantastic examples to luxuriate in before you’re left wanting more. Both singers grew up in musical families in Oregon before each moving to New Orleans as young adults and quickly getting sucked into that marvelous city’s rich musical and artistic culture. (There’s something fitting about these two meeting at a campfire one night, as their harmonies call to mind some special kind of witchcraft.) They started singing together and working on songs, releasing a pair of EPs the past six years (their self-titled EP came out in 2018, while Heart of Night came out in 2022), but they’ve really pulled out the stops on this one, throwing everything from guitars and strings to theramin, fiddle, and piano out to accompany their angelic voices.
There’s a slew of guests on the album, too, with everyone from Sam Doores and Howe Pearson from the Deslondes to Sam Gelband of Mr Sam and the People People showing up to give it a warm, family feel. (Doores also produced.) And while this may be a communal affair, Weatherford and Reece-Kaigler’s voices are the undisputed stars, calling to mind forbears like the Everly Brothers or modern day disciples such as Lucius. Songs like the opening “A Tear” and “Neon Lights” remind you of the latter, while tracks like “After Party,” “Playing the Fool,” and “Southwest Texas” conjure the former, nailing their uplifting, country-tinged dynamics. The album’s slow-burning ballads pack almost as much of a punch, stripping back to scarcely more than the power of the pair’s smoldering voices on tunes like “Come Back to my Arms,” “Eye for an Eye,” and the closing dream “Last Night.” There’s nary a bad one in the bunch, giving us an extremely polished, solid debut to enjoy. Give the Mamas and Papas style “No Mama Blues” a spin here, which is one of my current faves as it bolsters the pair’s voices with a handful of their friends’ as they build to booming four or five part harmonies in the chorus. Really solid stuff…
We’ll head up to West Virginia next to spend some time with the rising star that is Sierra Ferrell and while most folks (myself included) might just be getting to know her, the album generating all the buzz (the excellent Trail of Flowers) is actually her fourth since she got started six years ago. (Her debut Pretty Magic Spell came out in 2018.) Ferrell seems to have survived some rough times, first growing up in a trailer with her two siblings and single, working mom before leaving to live as a nomadic rail-rider in her twenties, bouncing between Seattle and New Orleans to scratch out a living busking. It was during this latter time that Ferrell picked up a pretty serious drug habit, one she claims killed her five times due to a string of overdoses, before she decided to get clean and chart a new course.
This peripatetic lifestyle seems to have informed her musical styles, as her album hopscotches across genres as she used to traverse state lines. There’s traditional country tracks like “Dollar Bill Bar” (winner of a fabled #FridayFreshness title over at our ‘Gram) and “Money Train,” as well as bluegrass/folk style songs like “I Could Drive you Crazy” and “I’ll Come off the Mountain.” There’s more esoteric influences as well, like the Native American feel of “Fox Hunt,” the barbershop elements of “Lighthouse,” and the old school murder balladry of “Rosemary,” which all shine. And there’s even more modern imprints like the Decemberists/Squirrel Nut Zippers vibe of “Chittlin’ Cookin’ Time in Cheatham County” or the Chuck Berry/Bing Crosby mashup “Why Haven’t You Loved me Yet,” which calls to mind their classics “You Never Know” and “Mele Kalikimaka,” respectively. Somehow it all fits together, despite the ever shifting tones and colors. My current fave of the bountiful bunch is the opening “American Dreaming,” which is a lush, powerful punch in the chest. Give it a listen here:
Last but not least is the lass from Livingston, Montana, Abby Webster, and while she may not be from the south her music definitely reflects that landscape and vibe. She’s a bit of an unknown — she’s released a handful of singles stretching back to 2017, but they never culminated in an album (or even an EP) until this year. (Webster is a self-described “recluse,” saying she “only recently found the confidence to share her music,” which helps explain the trajectory a bit.) Whatever she did to overcome those fears I’m certainly glad she did, as I’ve been listening to the album repeatedly since I discovered it a month or so ago.
Similar to her list mates Webster glides through a number of styles on the album, from country and folk to more introspective ballads, but what sets her apart is the acid sense of humor she subtly slips in to some of the songs. While Ferrell sprinkled a dash of humor in occasionally (as on “Crazy,” for example), Webster does so more frequently, taking chunks out of both herself and her misbehaving mister several times. On tracks like “Calliope” and “BBQ Chips” she attacks both parties, saying “don’t mind you’ve got an addiction to leaving me… [or] balls deep in a bald faced lie” and “just like BBQ chips it’s so hard to resist cursing the ground that you roam, but I’m too cute to have anything to do with the future of your godforsaken soul,” respectively. (She follows these up with equally excellent lines like “I drank all your booze and smoked all your tobacco, but I let you take me like a pill” and “All my life just wasting time didn’t know I was already home — when that became clear I ’bout spit out my beer, [you’re] just a f&*kboy on a pedestal,” from the pair.) Other times she ditches the tough talk and exposes some naked vulnerability as on the plaintive “Entertainers” and “Somehow” or the Fleetwood Mac-flecked “Sorry.” (“When you tell me that you love me I look for the ways it can’t be — heard a waver in your voicebox or the way you put on your socks. It seemed angry, it seemed judgy, it seemed like you didn’t love me,” leaving her “busy drinking in my closet with my imaginary friend” on the latter.)
Webster is equally adept at crafting mental images, whether to the idylls of summer as in “Long Weekend,” “Swimming,” and back half entry “River Rats” (“summer days melting through the hourglass, cherries stained my lips as the minutes passed. I’m collecting pits and bottle caps…” from the latter) or to the varying heights of a relationship as in “Bad Bad Bad” and “Cat Steven’s Greatest Hits!” (“I traced your name in my leg with my index finger” from the high times and “I put all the records you gave to me in the dishwasher at the Holiday Inn” from the down ones.) My current fave is “Camping,” which combines a little bit of everything — the humor, the melody, and the imagery. Give it a listen here:
We’ll close our sonic Sadie Hawkins dance with a trio of songs from the men, starting with the return of Killer Mike. The heftier half of beloved rap act Run the Jewels just released his well-received seventh solo album Michael last year, but he’s already back with another one, this time on the gospel infused Songs For Sinners & Saints. It takes some of the songs from the last album and reimagines them, with The Mighty Midnight Revival choir adding the fireworks this time around. Occasionally they achieve new heights, as on this one, which is a perfect fusion of Mike’s linguistic gymnastics and the lush soul of the choir. Check out “Nobody Knows” here:
Up next is another side project, this time from Foals frontman Yannis Philippakis. It’s an outing eight years in the making — back in 2016 Philippakis went into the studio with Afrobeat founding father and drummer Tony Allen (of Fela Kuti fame). His band had just released their fourth album What Went Down (their last solid one in my opinion, it landed at #7 on my 2015 list), but Philippakis was looking for something different. The two jammed and what resulted were a handful of songs that were mostly completed, but never finalized until Allen’s death in 2020 sparked Philippakis to do just that. The songs definitely bear the fingerprints of both men’s main gigs — from Allen’s afrobeat and jazz leanings to Philippakis’ knotty guitar parts — and they remind me of fellow British frontman Thom Yorke’s side project The Smile with their syncopated percussion and jagged edges. It’s a pretty decent listen, but this one edges out lead single “Walk Through Fire” and is my current fave — check out “Clementine” here:
Wrapping things up is the most surprising entry here, at least based on his recent material and how it’s rubbed me. It comes courtesy of former White Stripes wildman Jack White and his latest solo album No Name, his sixth overall and first in two years. (Entering Heaven Alive came out in 2022.) While I remain a huge fan of the Stripes, White’s solo outings have been consistently disappointing and even his renditions of Stripes classics live indicated just how important Ms Meg was to the magic of that band. (Seeing them in those early years where they seemed to be performing only for each other — staring at/facing themselves and turning the stadium full of onlookers into peeping Toms and Tinas — remains a top ten experience.)
Whether a byproduct of boredom, of aging and its inherent urge to recapture past glories, or even a simple dare, something got White to revisit his garage rock roots and it’s like he hasn’t lost a step. He rips off an album full of trashy, bluesy gems, letting his biggest Zeppelin impulses run rampant to showcase a fieriness and flare I’d long since thought had been extinguished. White hasn’t sounded this good in years (this one will definitely be showing up again here in a few months…), particularly on this one, which swaggers along with almost Elephant era power. Crank it up and give it a spin here:
It’s been a busy couple of weeks — parades, festivals, races, culminating with even the simple act of breathing turning into an arduous affair — but with the prospect of crawling into a long weekend thought it was time to finally surface again so the legions of fans who hang on my every recommendation could enjoy their time away without stress. (More importantly, if there’s anything as synonymous with mindless celebration and endlessly transmitting your thoughts as wisdom as this country on its birthday, it’s the unsolicited, unread ramblings I pass off as posts.) As such, get ready for your own personal fireworks display as I share some of my favorite finds of late, certain to brighten your barbecue and dazzle your days off.
First I wanted to share some reading material for those of you who may be heading to the beach for the long weekend. I recently finished Steven Hyden’s Twilight of the Gods: A Journey to the End of Classic Rock, which was one of many recent finds at my newest used book store. It’s a really fun read — Hyden (who used to write for the AV Club here and has several other books in my queue — one on Radiohead, another on Pearl Jam) systematically explains his love of classic rock by taking us on a tour of some of the biggest names in the genre. It’s part history lesson, as he talks us through dozens of legendary acts — from Springsteen and Dylan to the Beatles, Stones, Who, AC/DC, Aerosmith, Sabbath, Neil Young, the Dead, and even less respected acts like REO Speedwagon, Styx, and Phish. (Hyden says classic rock starts with Sgt Pepper and ends with NIN’s The Fragile, just to bound the debate.) It’s also part travelogue, as the topics often surface based on Hyden’s trips to the endless nostalgia/reunion tours these acts put on, part of his decades-long dedication to them, whether past their prime or not.
I almost categorically refuse to go see shows like this — the bands are often years (sometimes decades) past putting out new material (or material that’s any good, at least) and often have undergone so many lineup changes the only original entity left sometimes is the second bassist from the third album and the sound guy from the 60s. As such, they’re shells of their peak incarnations and thus almost always recipes for disappointment for me — so to hear some of the arguments from a fellow fan as to why he keeps going was interesting and enjoyable. (And I’m not made of stone — I briefly bypassed my boycott and went and saw the Walkmen recently, as I wrote about last time, and that was a solid showing from a long dormant fave.)
The whole book has that loose, engaging feel, as if you’re at the bar having a rolling debate with a similarly obsessed best friend. “Are you insane? There’s no way *** is a better band/album than ***!” or “That’s what I’ve been saying for years! *** really IS the best band/album!” (At least for me — though I am a similarly obsessed music fiend who’s spent decades writing a blog that next to no one reads, so maybe I’m the narrowly targeted demographic here…)
Sometimes he’s just debating himself — his internal dialogue over Pearl Jam vs Wilco (and subsequently Ed Ved vs Tweedy), provoked when he has to choose between which show to see as both bands are playing in his town on the same night, is fantastic. (Verdict — he chose to see Pearl Jam, but feels Wilco has the better discography, listens to it more often, and wishes to apologize to Mr Tweedy and the rest of the band as he feels guilt and remorse (though not regret) about his choice.) For the most part, though, it feels like Hyden is having the conversation with you, teeing up topics and statements almost guaranteed to generate a response.
He starts by establishing common ground, gradually growing into his potentially more provocative statements as the book carries on. Hyden’s early encapsulation of what drew him to the music is an example of the former and was particularly resonant to me — “What I loved about classic rock as a kid is it seemed to have been around forever. Classic rock was there before I was born, and I was sure that it would still be there long after I was gone. Plugging into that made me feel part of classic rock’s impermanence. Classic rock represented a continuum that had started long before me and reached all the way to the grunge bands that I loved in the present moment. It felt like the opposite of pop music, which was proudly disposable and all about the here and now. Pop was inherently nihilistic, whereas classic rock had roots that you could trace back as far as you cared to go.”
As a kid classic rock was this amorphous thing that I knew from listening to ‘CKG on the radio and from the records my mom and dad endlessly played around the house. The Beatles and Boss for mom, the Stones, Who, and Zep for Pops. Plus countless other bands whose songs I knew all the words and melodies to, but took years to eventually learn who they actually belonged to, as my parents and the radio didn’t announce every track they played. (Or they got tired of me endlessly asking “who was that? Ooh who was that?” after something caught my ear.)
It was this established lineage that first appealed to my investigative spirit — this band was influenced by this one who had this guy on their album who worked with this other artist who used to be in this other band who opened for this other gal who was the daughter of this guy and on and on it went — you just kept pulling the thread and chasing it down countless rabbit holes until something else sparked your interest and sent you traipsing down other trails. This, in contrast to popular music of the day, which seemed either manufactured in a lab or deliberately opaque (or worse, actively rejecting the things that drove them to make music in the first place).
Fittingly — as they were the first classic rock band that felt like my own as a kid, as I wrote about a few posts ago — there’s a chapter early on about Zeppelin and it’s a good example of what’s in store for the other acts that follow. There’s clever, funny observations — “Led Zeppelin IV was so cool that it wasn’t technically called Led Zeppelin IV — it didn’t have a proper title…Fans called it Led Zeppelin IV, as opposed to Led Zeppelin 4, because Zeppelin albums had the weight of Super Bowls.” Or “Most albums — even others recognized as Greatest LPs of All Time — typically…[have] at least one or two tracks that are considered filler…but that’s the thing about Led Zeppelin IV — every song is important…Side one of Led Zeppelin IV is so great that it’s actually a little dull to talk about…it’s like explaining why oral sex is an enjoyable pastime — don’t blowjobsplain, dude…”)
There’s rules and structure to the analysis — “There are two unwritten rules about Led Zeppelin IV and the first is that your favorite track must come from side two. The other law is that Led Zeppelin IV is too popular to be your favorite Zeppelin album; this is why rock critics who try too hard always make a case for In Through the Out Door being Zeppelin’s best.” (In no way, shape, or form is this last bit even remotely plausible — gun to my head I still think I pick the original, just for top to bottom brilliance and overall importance (you never forget your first love, I guess), but NO ONE can make an argument for Out Door that isn’t laughable. To riff off his earlier analogy, that’s like someone talking about all the oral sex their ‘friend’ is having and how you don’t understand the obsession/mind that you don’t get any/want it even if offered — just ask nicely and maybe you’ll get what you’re after, buddy, but please stop spouting nonsense…)
And there’s just flat out great lines (which also double as good topics for separate debate) — “‘Stairway’ is what happens when the lights are on; ‘Levee’ is strictly lights-out material, conjuring the feral sound of pure sexual and spiritual foreboding. Never in recorded history has [something] seemed so seductive and terrifying.” (FWIW I pass both this and his previous test as “Levee” has always been, and probably always will be, my favorite Zeppelin track — and not just on IV — whereas I skip “Stairway” to this day when it comes on. The haunting harmonica and those incredible, otherworldly drums — which as we know from the Bonham post was a miracle we almost didn’t get to enjoy — destroyed my brain the first time I heard them and have continued to after decades of listens.)
Hyden has similar highlights for scads more bands/things along the way, almost always inviting a response as you read — here are a few others (along with my thoughts in parens, essentially capturing the dialogue I was having with the inanimate book in my hands as I read — and people say I’m crazy…):
On the importance of albums — “I still care about albums, because I want to believe in albums…Our current world is a place where algorithms help us find an approximation of what we think we want. But the best albums deliver something you never knew you wanted. And it might take years of listening to the same record — over and over, because it hasn’t yet quite connected — before you finally get it.”
(There have been lots of these for me over the years — notable ones I remember being Portishead’s debut, which I loved the single from but couldn’t quite wrap my head around the rest of, before ultimately becoming one of my ongoing obsessions in college and overall faves. Or Nirvana’s In Utero, which I thought was good, but was so loud and raw sounding compared to Teen Spirit that it took me a while to come around to (its singing about turning black from cancer while my mom was slowly being destroyed by the same disease didn’t help either) but now I actually prefer to its predecessor.
Or NIN’s Downward Spiral, which I almost took back immediately after buying it at Best Buy and listening to it on the drive home. I loved the single there, as well, but the rest was just so different. So ANGRY. I hadn’t yet been knocked onto the path of grizzled, almost obstinate resistance and fighting that would characterize my following two-plus decades, so wasn’t ready for that level of ferocious rage. (I would be very shortly thereafter when Moms finally succumbed to her near-three year fight — then that album (and Rage’s first two — two other examples I didn’t really like/get at first) would become veeeeeeeeeeeery close friends…))
On guilty pleasures —“Now there’s even cachet associated with appreciating joyously inane mainstream culture. Which means that if you’re a forty-five-year-old man who loves Carly Ray Jepsen, you probably don’t ever shut the hell up about it. However, guilty pleasures haven’t completely gone away, the definition has just shifted. There are plenty of music opinions that you’re not allowed to share publicly without shame, it’s just that most of them have little to do with silly, frothy pop. Loving Carly Rae Jepsen is now acceptable, but loving, say, the jam-band stylings of Phish is not. I know this because I love Phish, and I can already feel you judging me about it…Phish proves that it’s possible to be well-known without being famous; for decades, they have existed in a bubble that has only slightly grazed the mainstream on a small handful of occasions. The only thing most people know about Phish is that they hate Phish.”
(I’m not a big fan (phan?) of the band — though I do still really like disc one of the double live album that came out when I was in college. And I DID spend a summer on the road serving pizza at shows on their (then) farewell tour, sleeping in the back of my Honda Civic and mesmerizing stoners with my dough tossing skills (and the stuffed crust pizza I created with them, subsequently stolen by the evil corporate henchman of Pizza Hut). And while I’m probably never going to say “hey let’s put on a Phish album” or go to another show, I appreciate the enthusiasm their fans have and the happy, joyful vibe of their shows.
Case in point, one of the shows during that summer was at a cow farm somewhere in rural Pennsylvania (or maybe New York? Or Vermont? It was a LONG summer) and as a result there was a literal mountain of cow shit right next to the camping grounds — maybe two, three stories tall and half a city block wide (or at least that’s how it looked/smelled when you sized up its impact.) It had rained (and continued to) for about 24 hours straight, turning the ground into a soupy, smelly miasma that everyone had to miserably trudge through — to get to their tents, to the port-a-potties, to the stages and back — and it was a hundred degrees outside once it finally stopped downpouring. So the conditions were miserable, every person/thing was covered in a mix of mud, sweat, and liquid cow shit (and the swarms of flies and mosquitoes prone to feed on said substances), and yet somehow almost everyone was in a great mood for the affair. People were pumped for pizza, pumped for Phish, pumped for LIFE, maaaaaan! Which taught me two very important lessons — a) some people — either thanks to their wiring, discipline, and/or sheer obliviousness — are able to be happy even in the most miserable conditions, which is something laudable to remember and strive for and/or b) marijuana is a hell of a drug, able to lift your spirits even if they’re drowning in a sea of patchouli and manure.)
On the Beatles —“Sgt Pepper is to Magical Mystery Tour what Is This It is to Room on Fire — the first Strokes album gets all the hype, but the follow-up that everyone always dismisses as crap is actually stronger.”
(I get what he’s saying here and mostly agree — both these second albums catch sh#$ for being disappointments, particularly in light of their much-hyped predecessors (although who in their right mind is going to say Room is a BAD album and dismiss it as crap?! That’s just ridiculous.) And I may actually prefer Mystery to Sgt Pepper (or at least don’t go back to the latter much, but do occasionally spin the former), but there’s no way Room on Fire is better than Is This It. At best you might be able to get me to entertain it as a close second, but there’s zero chance you’re going to get me to agree that it’s BETTER than that debut. I still have the British version of that one on a burned disc somewhere (before they re-recorded/balanced it for the US version, stripping out the rawness (and “NYC Cops”) and it’s still a near-perfect listen. So while I agree Room on Fire is a really GOOD album (“Automatic Stop” is still one of my absolute favorites) you’re out of your mind if you think it’s better than that classic.)
On Dylan — “Dylan’s methods have always been primitive and slapdash compared with the pop geniuses of his time. He gets bored playing anything more than once. He’s quick to say ‘good enough…’ For years he routinely left some of the best songs off his albums…It’s not an exaggeration to suggest…that bootleggers have had better taste in Dylan’s music than Dylan himself.” [Which begs the question] “Does Dylan intentionally make it hard for his most ardent followers to hear some of his best material? Or is it possible that he’s held back so much music because he honestly believes that the best versions of his songs don’t yet exist?”
(Dylan, for me, is something of a mystery. I understand the importance and like some of the albums/songs — Blonde on Blonde,Bringing it All Back Home, and Highway 61 are albums I listened to a bunch in college and the greatest hits albums were filled with good stuff, but nothing since the 70s ever caught me and I don’t often find myself going back even to the aforementioned ones much — but don’t get the undying devotion so many folks show. (And definitely don’t get the continued “genius” critiques — or Grammy noms/wins — for recent outings.) I guess he’s sort of like the pyramids to me — they’re iconic, they’ve been around forever, and were the site of worship to a dedicated band of followers, but they look (/sound) a little ragged now and I’ve no real interest in seeing them in person.)
On women — “Since the beginning of time, women have been the greatest rock fans. No band has ever formed with the intention of attracting a room full of guys. A guy-heavy audience is the absolute worst for rock ‘n’ roll — who wants to play for plain, basic, boring-ass dudes? Women dance. Women scream. Women look glamorous when they’re sweaty — unlike men, who just look sweaty. Women also have the best taste….Women will stand by you even if you’re considered uncool by so-called experts. They’re always the ones you want in your corner.”
(Women are great — no argument here. If you know any who love music, Chicago, and bald dudes with bulldogs and beards, let me know.)
On the irrepressible allure of Fleetwood Mac — “Just try to find an uncompelling photo of Fleetwood Mac taken at any point between 1975 and 1987. I’ve spent hours scouring Google Images in search of a single Fleetwood Mac band photo to which I am not sexually attracted, and failed every time.”
(This is an attractive band — no argument here either. Let’s drink some cranberry juice and just bliss out to “Dreams,” shall we?)
Over the course of all these conversations I very rarely was not nodding my head in agreement — I’m still not a huge Springsteen fan (though obviously respect the craft, impact, and dedication to playing 3-hour shows every night for this many years), nor do Dylan or Phish do it for me (though really enjoyed both those chapters, as cited above). The one exception probably was when he took a shot at the Prodigy (“Virtually nobody remembers them now, but for about six months in 1997, some very overexcited music critics tried to convince readers that the Prodigy were the Sex Pistols of electronic music.”) (A) I very much remember them and B) still think their ’97 album Fat of the Land i) rocks and ii) remains a classic of the genre. (And there are plenty of good tracks off their first two albums — and the follow-on to Fat — too, which actually makes them more productive than the Sex Pistols, even if those other albums didn’t shred quite as hard as that big one.)
Overall, though, whether you like the bands/artists he’s describing, I think you’ll undeniably enjoy the journey — and maybe even be enticed to go back and revisit some of these bands, just to see if maybe you missed something before. Hyden’s summation at the end on the continued importance of classic rock brings it all home nicely — “When I was a kid, classic rock was a fantasyland populated by the impossibly cool and occasionally wise, where revelatory feats of daring and moxie were perpetuated in smoky concert halls and expensive recording studios by damaged geniuses and noble fools. Inside every album lay mystery, danger, sex, laughs, and maybe a good tip or two on how to live. It was a seductive place that I never wanted to leave, even after I grew up. And, I guess, I never did.”
So the next time you see an announcement for one of those ancient acts of your parents’ adolescence coming to town, don’t scoff and speak of them derisively — think of the Stevens in the crowd (or the Phish pholk!), showing their gratitude for what they were, not necessarily what they now ARE, and if nothing else maybe give them another listen. You might remember something you’ve loved/left behind!
In honor of the 4th we’ll close with a quartet of albums getting frequent spins lately — the first of which comes from RTJ fave Killer Mike, back with his first solo album since 2012’s R.A.P. Music. It’s got a bunch of guest appearances (including from the elusive Andre 3000) and has some solid beats to back up his ever-impressive verses, but gets a bit preachy for me at times (lots of talk about the Lord and what she’s done for him). That said, there’s enough good stuff outside of that to keep you coming back for more. (On album or otherwise, Mike almost always has something interesting to say, whether you agree with him or not.) The track with fellow jewel runner El and the opening track with former Goodie Mob mate Cee-Lo are two of my faves — give both of em a spin here:
Next we’ll jump to the opposite coast and a polar opposite in terms of tone and content — from Atlanta to Seattle and from rap to folk, courtesy of singer/songwriter Dean Johnson. I posted about him over on the ‘gram a few weeks back (lead single and #fridayfreshness champ “Faraway Skies” remains a little slice of heaven) and thankfully the rest of the album is every bit as good as that opening foray hinted. It’s Johnson’s debut, and a bit of an odd one at that (apparently he recorded its nine songs five YEARS ago?!), but is well worth the wait. Johnson’s voice is great (“soothing and pure like a soak in a cool, crisp creek,” to cite myself) and his playing is as steady and stately as that cowboy on the range conjured in the aforementioned single. “Acting School” and “Shouldn’t Say Mine” are two faves on a rather flawless half hour — check em out below!
Next we’ll shift to the south and LA’s Cory Hanson whose recently released third album (the terribly titled Western Cum) just dropped and has been beguiling me ever since. In contrast to his last one (2021’s lovely Pale Horse Rider), this one finds Hanson plugging in his guitar and rattling off heroic rounds of riffage across the album’s eight songs. (None moreso than on the epic “Driving Through Heaven,” which stretches for over ten glorious minutes.) His voice is a chameleon — at times I get Chrissie Hynde, others Thom Yorke or Neil Young. As such, the songs sometimes call to mind early Radiohead or Crazy Horse, as well as Wilco, White Denim, or even Skynyrd as the guitars double or triple up their attack. And just as soon as you think you’ve got it pegged, you hear a different influence coming to the fore as it shifts off in another direction. No matter who you’re hearing, it’s a really good listen — my favorite has shifted almost daily ever since I started listening, but these two remain high on the list. Check out “Wings” and “Motion Sickness” below:
Last but definitely not least we’ll close with the one I’ve been listening to most, the eighth studio album from faves Queens of the Stone Age, which has been a bit of a grower. Initially, aside from a couple of tracks I was a bit disappointed — there weren’t as many immediate face melters as on previous outings and what surrounded them was a somewhat underwhelming mix of Homme’s corny puns (“Obscenery,” “I don’t care what the peephole say” as replacement for “what the people say,” etc) and the band’s dark carnival music. At least at first. Then this thing sank its claws into my brain and I’ve been listening to it obsessively ever since. Thundergod Jon Theodore’s drums on “Negative Space” and the closing jam “Straight Jacket Fitting” got in first, then the blistering guitar riff on “Carnavoyeur” or rollicking bass on “Peephole.” Basically everyone got a turn after that. (Though I still kind of hate “Made to Parade”) The two that grabbed me immediately remain on constant repeat, though — so give “Paper Machete” and “Emotion Sickness” a listen and get your fireworks started early:
That’s all for now — enjoy the holiday, amici…
–BS
On the country’s big day I thought it was only appropriate to highlight a couple albums also celebrating anniversaries, in this case a trio of them turning 20 this month. They’re from an interesting mix of acts — two of the three are still around, releasing music as a unit on a somewhat reliable basis (as reliable as 4-5 year gaps between albums can be). The other called it quits years ago, much to the chagrin of their faithful fans (myself included).
Two of the albums mark the beginning of the releasing band’s rise to stardom, rocketships they would ride into the relative stratosphere (at least for indie-loving music nerds), and both would follow this release with what turned out to be their best album. The other maintained its global recognition while continuing to explore their odder, more isolating impulses, with this album essentially serving as the start of their strange new chapter. Each are worth remembering, though, and giving a listen on this long holiday weekend — especially if, like me, it’s been a while since you last did so.
We’ll start with the two star makers, the first of which comes from the White Stripes, and their third album, White Blood Cells. This was not the band’s masterpiece — that would arrive two years later in the form of the aptly named behemoth, Elephant, the perfect blend of the band’s blues/garage sound, their quirkiness, and mind-melting levels of power. (Although I can make a pretty good case for this album’s predecessor, too, which may have lacked Elephant’s swagger, but had arguably higher doses of the first two elements.) This was the album that made them famous, though, as its run of singles were plastered everywhere on MTV and the radio.
In part this was thanks to some incredibly creative videos (Michel Gondry’s Lego-laden treatment for “Fell in Love With a Girl” being but one great example) and a case of great timing — this was right as the early-aughts rock renaissance was raging, with bands like The Strokes, The Hives, and so many others stoking feeding frenzies at the labels, as recently recounted in Lizzy Goodman’s excellent Meet Me In the Bathroom. It would never have mattered, though, if there weren’t some really great songs to latch onto, too, which this album has plenty of.
Truth be told, I remember being a little disappointed with this album — I’d fallen hard for De Stijl, which I’d stumbled onto at some point in my Napster-fueled explorations and still consider a close second for their best album — but there’s a lot to love here, as lovingly recounted in this piece by Stereogum. “Expecting” and “I Smell a Rat” were always deeper faves, but the oddball aside “Little Room” still grabs me by the ears and slaps me around today. Give it another listen here:
The other star-making turn comes from an even more unexpected corner, a batch of New Mexicans playing pretty pop songs sung by a falsetto-flashing frontman. This, of course, refers to the Shins’ debut Oh, Inverted World, and their singer/songwriter James Mercer. I discovered these guys the same way I think a lot of folks did, when Natalie Portman told Zach Braff “you gotta hear this one song, it’ll change your life” in the movie Garden State. The song was “New Slang” and while it may not have changed my life with the magnitude of other big life events, I did immediately fall for this band and scour the internet for more on who they were.
This was still early days interweb — no Shazam or Google to instantly answer the question — but in relatively short order I was able to find this gem of an album and begin indulging my obsession. At this point it turned out they’d already released a second album, too — the slightly superior Chutes Too Narrow — and the gleeful, glowing songs from both quickly became favorites. That movie undeniably took the band’s popularity to far higher levels, boosting them from relative unknowns to mid-tier festival faves for several years after, but each subsequent release saw that initial shine dim a little more.
For me, they never quite recaptured the joy and brilliance of these first two albums (although there’s still some really good stuff on 2007’s Wincing the Night Away), but that’s OK — two damned near perfect albums is something most bands would love to have even half of, particularly when they’re as good as these. The opening track has always been one of my faves (and its title a personal mantra), so check out “Caring is Creepy” again here:
Last but not least comes Radiohead’s Amnesiac, the fast follow-on to the more famous forebear, Kid A, and in conjunction with that one, the official start of the odder, more electronic (more esoteric, more eclectic…) version of the band that continues to run to this day. Recorded at the same time as that seismic sister album and released less than a year later, this wasn’t just an odd collection of outcasts from those sessions, this was another cohesive (and slightly less combative) album from the band, one that continued to challenge its listeners without as overt an isolationist bent this time around.
These songs were nowhere near as jarring — maybe that’s by design, or maybe it’s because the fans’ foundations had already been shaken and readjusted by Kid A. Whatever the reason, this album has always been more embraceable for me and is the half of the pairing I more frequently return to. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still a lot of good stuff on the other one and I do enjoy it — I actually had it slightly higher in my Radiohead rundown a few years ago, surprisingly — but this one has some of my absolute favorites on it. “Packt like Sardines,” “Knives Out,” and “Dollars & Cents” are all killers, and the closing duo of “Like Spinning Plates” and “Life in a Glasshouse” became sleeper faves over the years. “You and Whose Army?” remains a top ten fave for me, though — an undeniable highlight on an often overlooked album. Give it (and the album itself) another listen here:
Insta Replay
It’s been a while since we captured some of the discoveries from the sister site, so thought it was worth a rundown to round out everyone’s weekend playlists. Here’s some highlights from over on the ‘Gram!
Gaspard Auge — I had previously highlighted the lead single from Gaspard’s solo debut, which found him continuing to mine the disco vibe, similar to his full time band, Justice (as their mentors, the now defunct Daft Punk, had been before their demise). Listening to the entire album you catch glimpses of that band, little riffs or sequences that sound familiar and momentarily excite, but those quickly disappear like an attractive stranger seen briefly across a crowded dancefloor. It’s almost like he took those early Justice albums and ran them through the disco filter, similar to photos on the ‘Gram. What he’s made is well-crafted and achieves its goal of ephemeral, gossamer delight, but I still miss the glorious thunder of his band’s early work, fusing electro with metal. Good background/atmosphere music, though. I like the new “Belladone,” as well.
The White Buffalo — I’d recently discovered the debut from gruff-throated Californian the White Buffalo, aka singer/songwriter Jake Smith, which is a good mix of uptempo country rockers and more staid acoustic folk. Smith’s lyrics roam from apparent personal/childhood memories to more fictional fare of folks from the titular locale (shootouts and dice games and the like). The aforementioned rockers burst forth on the back his quavering voice, which calls to mind a chicken-fried Frank Turner, shaking with sweat and emotion. Songs like “The Pilot, “The Bowery,” and “Hold the Line” are all good examples, while tracks like “Sleepy Little Town” and “Wish it Was True” showcase his softer side. Both work well – current fave is “How the West Was Won,” one of the former category, which you can picture Smith using to whip the crowd into a lather onstage. It’s a fun track and there’s plenty of comparable quality on the album.
Coachwhips — I was powering through a meltdown a while back and the sole album from early ’00s San Fran noise rockers Coachwhips provided the perfect soundtrack, 2003’s brilliantly named Bangers vs Fuckers. Packing in 11 songs in a blistering 18 minutes, it doesn’t give you much time to think (or breathe for that matter). Do I like this? Which ones are the bangers and which ones the fuckers? Can I tell what the hell frontman John Dwyer (also of Thee Oh Sees and their myriad variants) is saying? Do I care? The immediate answer (for me at least) is no. Fast, hooky, and loud, it comes in with an urgency that’s tough to ignore. The result is an album that’s sweaty, frantic, and a little uncoordinated – just what you want sometimes. This one’s a fun, messy bash.
Fat White Family — was listening to the London-based band’s third album, Serf’s Up!, lately, a ramshackle mix of moody noise, slow burn atmosphere, and grooves you could almost dance to. It’s a little like Arab Strap, Scissor Sisters, and Massive Attack got together for an album and decided to leave out the lyrics about sex and death and tone down the unhinged energy (while throwing in Ross from Friends on keyboard to round out the sound). It’s definitely an interesting listen as a result, covering a lot of ground over the course of its 10 tracks. On the whole it works pretty well, though. Songs like “Fringe Runner” and “Tastes Good with the Money” are midtempo movers, while “Kim’s Sunsets” and “Bobby’s Boyfriend” are slower burners that draw you into their fog. My favorite is the opener, though, which captures all the elements of those aforementioned bands and turns the energy up full blast. It’s an infectious track and sure to get you moving.
Arab Strap — speaking of, the latest album from the aforementioned Scottish duo is an equally interesting listen. True to form the songs are miniature movies — narratives that spool out in frontman Aidan Moffat’s deadpan brogue while Malcolm Middleton’s music provides the soundtrack. The lyrics are the band’s signature mix of sex, death, and dark, dry humor. The music is at turns eerie film score and 80s pop song. But it somehow works – it’s almost hypnotic. The best of the bunch for me so far is the opening track, the one that has all these elements and was the first one that grabbed me at the album’s release. There’s nothing else that sounds like it out there.
Julien Baker — had listened to her recent album a bunch when it came out, but kept neglecting to say anything about it for no real reason. I had initially been impressed with the epic, swelling vibe she captured for the lead single, “Hardline,” and discovered she manages the trick several more times on the album on tracks like “Faith Healer,” “Bloodshot,” and “Repeat.” The quieter songs work well too (“Song in E” is a hushed little devastator), but the swelling, surging ones are what keeps me coming back. I know I’m not the intended audience for this stuff, but I like it nonetheless.
John Andrews & the Yawns — the latest album from Andrews, Cookbook, trades in the late 60s psychedelic vibe of their first two albums and shifts forward to the following decade, almost verging on yacht rock territory at times with its soft edges and warm, steady pace. Nothing’s going to startle or endanger you here and that’s OK — Andrews retains his knack for digging up pretty melodies and scattering them throughout the proceedings. “River of Doubt” and “Try” are but two of many examples, and even the more easy listening AM radio tunes win you over once you settle into the new mood. (Their titles aptly reflect the vibe – “Easy Going, “New California Blue…”) Current fave is the hushed gem “Early Hours of the Morning,” which also perfectly reflects the vibe within – you can picture Andrews playing it on his couch before sunrise, softly strumming his acoustic while the rest of the house sleeps. Is a lovely track on a solidly pleasant album.
Night Shop — another recent discovery getting solid airplay is the 2018 debut of Night Shop (aka Justin Sullivan). Sullivan cut his teeth drumming for a bunch of bands, including Babies where he worked with fave Kevin Morby before jumping on the road as part of his touring band when he went solo. It appears that time had a positive influence on his songwriting as this album repeatedly calls to mind his former frontman. Sullivan’s more uptempo tracks get the blood flowing (“The One I Love,” “Road to Carolina,” “I Was Alone”) before settling into a blissful groove on slower tracks that make you lean back and drink it all in (the title track, “If You Remember,” “On the Island”). It all adds up to a really good listen/debut.
Arlo McKinley — I recently discovered the debut by Arlo McKinley while spinning through clips on Oh Boy’s website. McKinley was the last artist signed to Prine’s label and similar to that departed giant he walks the line between country and folk, making sure the stories and melodies of the latter balance out some of the good ole boy twang and imagery that could drive some folks away. McKinley has a nice, warm voice, which he twins on most of the tracks giving them a rich sound and feel, and while the stories may be country standards – heartache, loss, and addiction – they’re solid and sincere. Really enjoy his 2014 debut!
John R. Miller — I’ve been working the 2018 debut of West Virginia singer/songwriter John R. Miller hard lately in anticipation of his upcoming new album. (Depreciated, due out July 16.) Miller packs a LOT of goodness into the album’s brisk 30 minutes, shifting smoothly from standard roadhouse shitkickers to more serene, contemplative songs several times. What sets the album apart for me is Miller’s ability to strike that balance in the lyrics too, offering both vivid imagery and honesty across the album’s 10 tracks. They paint a rich picture, one made more resonant by Miller’s warm, somewhat forlorn voice. The first few singles from the new album have been good, so excited to hear the rest in a couple weeks!
The Bones of JR Jones — also been listening to the latest EP from the Bones of J.R. Jones (aka singer/songwriter Jonathan Linaberry) a ton lately. In the run-up to recording Linaberry decided to leave his place in New York and venture into the Arizona desert for inspiration and the open air seems to have made him want to lean more into the quieter, folksier side of his sound. (All but one of the tracks – the TV on the Radio reminiscent “Bad Moves” – would be perfect to hear while sitting around the campfire.) It’s a strong decision as they’re some of his most affecting songs yet. The title track, “Keep it Low, and “Like an Old Lover” are all lay on the ground and just LISTEN level pretty while the opening “Stay Wild” has a lush, pastoral feel that’s perfect for a drive to nowhere with the windows down. Nothing tops “Howl” for me right now, though – beautiful melody, haunting vibe, and when the steel guitar comes in at the end it almost breaks you. Beautiful, beautiful stuff.
Boo Hag — I’ve been listening to South Carolina duo Boo Hag a lot lately, whose self-described sound is “voodoo inspired rock ‘n’ roll… [with] an emphasis on the sinister,” which gets it pretty well. There’s bits of Bass Drum of Death, White Stripes, and Black Pistol Fire in there, as well as Squirrel Nut Zippers, which strikes me just fine since I love all those bands. Their albums are brisk, chameleonic affairs and the songs switch tempo and vibe frequently, giving things an urgent, irresistible edge. Frontman Saul Seibert sounds positively unhinged on some songs, shredding his guitar while drummer Scotty Tempo bangs away beside him. The image that keeps coming to mind as I listen is of these two busking in some subway station, making a tremendous noise while more and more people stop and stare, unsure of exactly what they’re seeing/hearing (is this guy an escaped mental patient? Am I in danger?) but unable to leave the glorious racket behind. Might have to make a trek down to see them if they don’t come through soon…
Glorietta — three years ago a group of six friends from Austin, led by Matthew Logan Vasquez of Delta Spirit, retired to a house in Santa Fe and holed up for the weekend, recording anything that came out while the tequila and camaraderie flowed. What they captured perfectly reflects the vibe in which it was created – a warm, loose collection of songs that alternately bears the imprint of its creator’s distinct style. There’s country (“Hard Way,” “Easy Come Easy Go”), straightforward rockers (“Mindy,” “Heatstroke”), and several hushed ballads (“Friends,” “Sinking Ship,” Lincoln Creek”), which end up hitting the hardest, despite their slower pace and softer sound. (The harmonies on “Someday” being just one of many excellent examples that’ll stop you in your tracks.) It sounds like it was a blast to record – the rough edges and high variety make you feel like you’re in the room listening to six different sensibilities take turns at the record player — and the vibe was so good Nathaniel Rateliff even showed up, as on the funkier “I Know,” another standout. It’s a fun listen – here’s hoping they try the trick again and give us 12 more songs soon!
And we’ll close with five one-offs to round things out — a nod to the passing of Gift of Gab (of Blackalicious fame) and one of my faves:
Another posthumous nod, this time to DOOM (along with Your Old Droog):
Another slice of happiness from two of Atlanta’s finest, Big Boi and Killer Mike:
A fun surprise from an equally unexpected collaboration, that of Damian Lazarus, Diplo, and Jungle:
And the latest single from the beloved Jetpacks:
That’s it for now — hope everyone enjoys the long weekend and holiday (now with real human beings again!)
