Wilkinson Blades

4:00 AM
Shiftone Records

Singer/songwriter/frontman Steve Wilkinson has been plying his craft around Portland for going on twenty years. Jeez. I remember him as a young pup with Gravelpit, back in the days of Belmont Inn. Why do I recall Steve as the original drummer in the band early on? And a different lead vocalist? Or maybe he sang lead from the drums. Or maybe it was a different band. Thrillbilly? It was a long time ago. Anyway, when Steve took over the duties as front-man, that was in the earlyish mid ‘90s, Gravelpit seemed to jell as one of Portland’s chief purveyors of Post-Nirvana grunge.

Steve has always projected a Vedderian sense of operatic grandeur. With Wilkinson Blades, his angst seems to have mellowed to a ragged apprehension. Whether or not that is a positive psychological arc, I am in no position to judge. But, here we are.

grant — Grant Cumpston (Photo by Kirsten Fussell)

Gravelpit had to change their name, when it was discovered in 1998 that there was already another Gravelpit in Godknowswhere, West Virgina—or some place. Hell, there’s gravelpits all over the country—I grew up near one. Well, so our Gravelpit ended up becoming Mission 5. And Mission 5 went on, in one formation or another (always with Steve as loci and guitarist Grant Cumpston orbiting very near by), until just a year or two ago. Which brings us to the recently formed Wilkinson Blades.

One wonders why in the hell a band would name themselves after a relatively well-known British manufacturer of razor blades. Especially after having already been through the whole “Gravelpit” debaucle. But some seem doomed to repeat history until they finally learn something about litigation.

By the way, that’s “Wilkinson Sword Classic Double Edge Razor Blades [which have been] improved by Wilkinson’s famous triple coating process of chromium to resist corrosion, ceramic for added durability, and PTFE for less irritation.” Hey man, if anybody’s gonna score some cash off of this fiasco, it might as well be yours truly. If I can swing a promotional deal with the real Wilkinson Blades, why, ka-ching!! Watch for a link coming to this page soon.

Where was I? Oh, yes. This Wilkinson Blades. Apparently the razor blade company has yet to notice the tarnishing of their good name by these nefarious grizzled misfits. At least not so much as to bother issuing a routine cease and desist order. Be that as it may, the newly created Shiftone label, a Portland via Austin collaboration (the commutes must be horrendous) have chosen to throw in their lot with the Blades, for better or worse.

With the weight of all this TMI bearing down upon us like some Sisyphusian boulder, we are given to this place. 4AM . It’s a familiar stop along the weary highway, a dusty outpost for the misbegotten where troubles are coin of the realm. There’s a certain gray brown aspect to all of this, similar in shade to Richmond Fontaine’s Wily Vlautin’s perspective. Although the material here (let’s start with the two covers—Lee Hazelwood’s “Some Velvet Morning” and Chris Newman’s “Crippled Mind”) is absolutely cheery by comparison.

Long ago, before he was an American music icon, Neil Diamond was a Solitary Man. He spoke to the brooding (primarily male) loner in all of us, writing and recording an incredible number of great songs—many of them hits—for the Bang label. Songs such as, “Solitary Man,” “Cherry, Cherry,” “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon,” “Kentucky Woman,” “Red, Red Wine,” “I’m A Believer,” “Shilo,” and many more. An amazing string.

And that is where we pick up our tale. Because on “No Exit” Steve Wilkinson sounds a great deal like a young Neil Diamond, specifically singing “Shilo.” Matt Berninger of the National comes to mind as well, but Neil Diamond is the one. There is a yearning quality in Steve’s barren baritone. A sense of resignation and remorse etches the chiming drone of guitars. Grant Cumpston’s fiery solos burnish the song to a polished sheen.

The first time I heard “Bug River Blues,” I thought it was Fernando Viciconte singing. Jagged electric guitar ripples across the western skyline with rustling acoustic guitar beneath. The song’s style and setting vaguely recall Greg Kihn’s “The Breakup Song” from the early ‘80s, while capturing that traditional prairie wind of songs like “Ghost Riders in the Sky” and “Thunder Road.”

There is also strong melodic and structural resemblance to Townes Van Zandt’s “Rake” in there somewhere—and Steve’s voice and delivery bear some similarity as well. On top of all that, the slashing guitars of the bridge sound very much like early-day Love, circa “7 and 7 Is.”

The shimmering, electric 12-string descending bass line of “No One Alive” calls to mind that on the Byrds’ song “Chestnut Mare,” with a Tom Petty veneer overlain. A hint of Vedder-like intensity creeps into the vocal, intense, but not angry. A sparkling guitar solo in the middle ratchets up the zeal factor by a power of ten.

prof gall — Professor Gall/Drew Norman (photo by Scott Docherty)

A horse of a completely different color is the old-time, blues-on-acid voogum of “Scared of You.” Some sort of mini-marimba, along with eerie banjo and slide guitar from Professor Gall (Drew Norman) lend a general creepiness to this short piece. Vocally, you have Steve portraying a young John Lee Hooker. Cool.

The Blades’ take on Lee Hazelwood’s “Some Velvet Morning” is faithful, but Steve’s voice is more tuneful, like Johnny Cash, and guest Sara Jean Zito is everything Nancy Sinatra wished she could have been (on pitch, for one thing). Wendy Berner’s plaintive cello instills a sense of wary mystery.

Chris Newman’s “Crippled Mind” is rendered with consummate grunge oblige, smoother perhaps than Chris himself might do it—but there is no doubt that Steve makes the song his own with great power. The arrangement sews a thread of Neil Young’s “Helpless” into the cloth. And, speaking of Love, there’s an element of “Signed, D.C.” from their first album in Chris’ original composition as well. It’s a deep and heavy song. Very real.

anthony by foxxy cotton — Anthony Lambright (Photo by Foxxy Cotton)

It might seem sort of weird, but the verse of the poppy “Sunshine Now” vaguely hints at the verse of Kansas’ “Carry On My Wayward Son,” but with more of a Wilco/Jeff Tweedy feel. Yeah, see? Weird. Anyway, guest Anthony Lambright fires off a rocket of a guitar solo, while regular Blades stage drummer John Beyer contributes solid punch in the breakdown. The outro is solid Hollies, “Bus Stop” era.

“Holding Me Down” walks on the country side of town, a touch of classic Glen Campbell croonery and John Hartford deadpan, filtered through the darkened glass of Drew Norman’s prickly banjo and moony slide guitar phrasings. Steve’s somber assessment of the passage of time and emotional tide reflect hard-worn regret without spite or rancor.

Storming onto the audio landscape like Peter Buck on REM’s “Driver 8,” Lambright shines on “It Might Hit Me” with lead guitar that sounds like a bucket of bolts rattling around in the back of an old pick-up truck—amplified multifold. A brittle, broken cry creaks into Steve’s weary voice as he mutters solemnly, not unlike Soul Asylum’s Dave Pirner or Paul Westerberg of the Replacements mixed with Michael Stipe. Lambright’s brief, fiery solo in the middle compliments the tension created in the arrangement—in which Steve plays all of the other instruments. Powerful and memorable.

Tinges of remote bitterness and detached, introspective anger shade Steve’s lower vocal range, that early Neil Diamond-meets-Matt Berninger brusque edge, on “Wishing I’d Never Known You.” Rich Landar’s whining B-3 organ tones and Pete Vercelotti’s low-slung twang guitar add ambient angst to a tale of incipient drama. “Eyes are shut the mind is racing through the hours of the day/Time is moving slowly, I somehow find a ride to move away/Drifting off, faded out, washed-up in the center of our space/Wishing I’d never known you then.”

Producer/engineer Rob Stroup’s militant snare and haunted, moaning lead guitar cry supplement the pretty ballad “Walking In the Snow.” Vocally, Steve moves well beyond his comfort zone into new, very satisfying territory, displaying depth of feeling and a range of emotions he has previously not explored with such intensity. It’s his own voice. It doesn’t sound like anyone else. By George, I think he’s got it. A beautiful song beautifully rendered.

Steve Wilkinson isn’t re-inventing himself on this album. The actual band, the Wilkinson Blades, never actually perform together here. This is a solo album with benefits. In that regard, it is perhaps the most accessible album he has ever produced. While he does so occasionally, Steve isn’t required to at all times compete with the sonic onslaught provided by a complete rock ensemble. The more restrained instances afford him the opportunity for vocal reflection—which occasions the comparisons to Neil Diamond, which he would not necessarily otherwise receive.

Wilkinson Blades 2 Photo by Kirsten Fussell resize — Wilkinson Blades (Photo by Kirsten Fussell)

The songs here are solidly written, delivered earnestly and with substantial command. At this point Steve Wilkinson is a seasoned veteran. He is not likely to alter his musical stance or perspective much. Still, if he continues to mine the vein he explores in “Walking In the Snow” it is quite possible that there may yet be a diamond of his own to be discovered.

Wilkinson Blades celebrate the release of 4AM on June 9th at Secret Society Ballroom

Photos from Wilkinson Blades CD release show 6/9/2012

The Shins

Port of Morrow
Aural Apothecary

It’s been five long years since James Mercer and his band the Shins released the Grammy-nominated Wincing the Night Away. In those intervening years Mercer (that’s Mister Shins to you) divorced his longtime band mates and set off on numerous musical adventures. Those took him all over the world, real and conceptual. With the release of Port of Morrow, we find James Mercer exploring a deeper sense of introspection. His insights are now more resonant and mature. And now he is armed with a new batch of songs and a new bunch of Shins to help him play them live. Cool, right?

So in today’s lesson, students, we are going to study the fine art of the musical hook. What is a hook you may ask? In music, a hook is anything that drags you kicking and screaming into a song. Hence the fish allusion. You’ve been getting reeled in by hooks since your parents were kids. Hell, even “Silent Night” has a hook. Several of them actually. First one is “all is calm.” Second one is “sleep in heavenly peace.” There you go.

A hook is usually some unexpected turn in the music of a song. It might be an instrumental phrase, a lead line, a riff. Or it might be some slight change of course in the melodic bearing of a song (ala “Silent Night”). A hook can be a little thing, but if it’s a good little hook, you’re going to get caught all the same.

In the broad scheme of things, the whole era of the popular song has been dominated by hooks. The early blues and the ragtime jazz days of the early 20th century. The smooth days of big band jazz. All the Cole Porter/Irving Berlin standards and everything in rock ever since. Hooks.

I guess when you get right down to it: all music is based on hooks. You are attracted to your favorite songs or pieces of music because of them. You recognize them instantly because of them. Hooks. Beethoven’s Fifth: Dun Dun Da Dun. Hook.

A lot of hooks come in the chorus, the memorable part. Sometimes you’ll find them in the bridge. Guys like Thom Yorke have the ability to write songs with endless chains of them. That’s a real gift. Still, think of your five favorite songs. The guess is that you can pretty much sing the lines you love the most from each of them. Hooks, baby.

And why are we investigating the Art of the Hook today? Well, I’ll tell you why. James Mercer, that’s why. That guy throws out some serious hookage. Unique. Memorable. When you recognize a song as an old friend the second time you hear it in your life, you’re getting hauled onto somebody’s boat. In this case it’s James Mercer’s and it’s a forty minute tour aboard the tiny ship, the Shins.

James Mercer excels in two aspects of musical hookery. He has the intrinsic ability to craft instantly familiar songs, siphoning bits of melodies and themes from hundreds of sources that went before, stretching back over the preceding forty or fifty years. He is also very strong at creating unexpected, subtly sumptuous rhapsodies at the very moment the momentum of one of his familiar themes begins to lag. That sort of artistic intuition is quite rare, and it’s a songwriting strength for Mercer.

The first cut among the ten found here, “The Rifle’s Spiral” has a momentum and feel very similar to Arcade Fire’s “Ready to Start.” A sense of urgency pervades as the driving beat (James did his own drumming on this track) pushes the arrangement forward.

Mercer’s lyrical perspective reflects a certain quiet desperation: “You pour your life down the rifle’s spiral.” When he sings that line, it sounds as if the subject is descending down a rabbit hole of some terrible consequence. Musically, the melodic hook is pretty instantaneous with a neat little minor third ascending interval in the opening line. You will like and remember that interval. It’s inevitable.

The segue section, not really a chorus, is memorable for it’s majestic musical architecture, and the careful precision of the instrumentation. Lyrically, one can almost put together a story, though vital details seem hard to decipher in the telling. It is possible that Mercer is addressing the song to an unborn child regarding the experience of being born, though that interpretation could be far from the mark.

The first single off the album, “Simple Song,” is already receiving mainstream airplay, so perhaps this is the song to break the Shins to the public at large–out of the indie eddy and into the mainstream. Who’s to say?

Guest drummer Janet Weiss provides intense Moonian drum volleys to the lurching power-chords of the intro, which sound like an amalgamation of Tommy-era Who condensed with a Phil Spector Latin feel reminiscent of “He’s a Rebel” or “Spanish Harlem.” The verse, with James intoning low resonant notes (before leaping an octave to the customary upper register in the second verse), could be something you might hear from Beck’s Guero period. This is all part of Mercer’s knack for the “gee, I’ve heard this somewhere before” hook.

The bridge is where his ability with a melodic hook takes over–with the line “I know that things can really get rough/When you go it alone.” That section will be running through your mind for a while after you hear it, especially the “a-low-oon” melisma (I’m still trying to place the origin of that familiar little trill). With variations on two hook motifs in a single song, one may safely proclaim: It’s a hit!

With a memorably pretty keyboard intro, the gorgeous golden luster of “It’s Only Life,” conjures Sea Change Beck and Hunky Dory Bowie in the verses, before launching a luscious falsetto chorus entirely worthy of the Thom Yorke of OK Computer days–and then into the pretty singalong section of the back half of the chorus, singing “It’s only life, it’s only natural.”

From there on, it’s just a recirculating series of those choruses, broken by a totally cool spaghetti western guitar low-string guitar solo– as if the song wasn’t infectious enough. This one is a home run. And James touches all the bases.

A Latin feel invests the soul of the verses of “Bait & Switch” before turning quickly toward Andy Partridge territory in the jazzy middle sections. Another twangy guitar solo more or less continues what was established on “It’s Only Life.” It’s a tidy little number. Over before you know it.

“September” is James Mercer summoning threads of his own musical history to weave a rich new tapestry– a plaintive hauntingly joyful tune. Again he evokes a sense of birth in the mood of the lyric, like a song of newborn infancy. The western country cradle in which the song swings makes of this one sweet little ballad.

What would be another great choice as a single, “No Way Down” features all the stalwart charms that James Mercer imparts to his music. Boiled down this would amount to an endless chain of nice changes, culminating in a really memorable chorus (I can name that tune in three notes). And in the bridge appears one of the better lyrical lines of the album: “Make me a drink strong enough to wash away the dishwater world they said was lemonade.” Try to wrap your mind around that one and report back later.

The-Shins-on-Letterman-608x346 — James Mercer and the Shins on Letterman

A Knopfler sensibility informs the guitar solo intro of “For A Fool,” where a laid-back country feel notions a direction, again reminiscent of Beck circa Sea Change. The Beck references are not by accident but are a result of the input from multi-instrumentalist co-producer Greg Kurstin, who has worked with (besides Beck) a veritable Who’s Who of music greats, beginning with Dweezil Zappa (Kurstin was twelve at the time) and including Flaming Lips and Foster the People, to name but two out of dozens and dozens. That is to say, beyond Beck, you can definitely hear elements of everything else as well. It’s a rich musical soup, to be sure.

The melody of the verse of “Fall of “82,” a song Mercer dedicated to his sister, refers liberally to Joe Walsh’s “Life’s Been Good,”with maybe a faint hint of the verse of Thin Lizzy’s “Boys are Back in Town” thrown in for good measure. A totally ’60s trumpet solo puts the cap on this one.

“40 Mark Strasse” refers to a street frequented by young prostitutes near Ramstein airforce base in Germany, where Mercer spent some of his youth with his family. The song is fittingly eerie in context, with banshee keyboard moans graying the background behind a solitary acoustic guitar. A fairly mundane verse gives way to a sumptuous chorus that makes the trip completely worthwhile.

The title track, which references the tiny port on the Columbia near Boardman in Morrow County, is a smoky bluesy jazzy sort of number with burbling keyboard sounds, synth strings and Mellotron, and what sounds like a guitar through a Leslie speaker, but that could just as easily be a patch on a keyboard too, one would suppose. An endearingly pastoral end to delightful tour.

In literature and in painting, to be sure, it is considered appropriate and even proper to quote or copy pieces that went before. Half the books written in the English language quote Shakespeare one way or another. The pose for Picasso’s Les Demoiselles D’Avignon owes in part its substance to the work of El Greco. Classical composers constantly borrowed themes from folk songs or from other composers to sew into new cloth.

But in pop music, the idea seems anathema, even though all of rock and roll is founded on a mere handful of chord progressions. Music is everywhere to be found, to be absorbed and recirculated. Hell, as a child, Mozart claimed to hear music in his oatmeal. One hopes there are no copyright infringements pending on that one.

But all melody in music is relative. Quoting other songs, even distantly, even unintentionally, is an indication of how liquid our society is. The past sixty years of the genre are readily accessible on the radio or the internet.

A truly talented composer can use this rich palette to his advantage, by drawing (possibly unconsciously) from all of these millions of songs to add rich referential context to a tiny three minute piece of fluff. Somehow, a song acquires a gravity and density through the incorporation of only a few notes. A hook emerges. A hit ensues.

James Mercer is a truly talented composer. His ear for a hook is impeccable. Every song among the ten here stick in one’s brain like gum on the bottom of a mental shoe. Every song sounds instantly memorable, even on the first listen. And listening to this album is like welcoming an old acquaintance. Warm and familiar.

Port of Morrow is not going to overpower anybody with its lyrical insights. Mercer can turn a phrase, but he sometimes wanders away from his topic, in search of a clever line or nifty rhyme. But as pop songwriters go, he’s Grade A. He is a song fisherman of the highest order. He’s got all the hooks he needs.

shinsgroupapprovedhighres — New Shins: They may be coming to your town (if you live in Bend)

Lost Lander

DRRT
Self-Produced

See, this sort of thing has been going on for some time in this town. Incest. Oh, not that kind. Although, it’s always been apparent in Oregon that there is a bit of that in the backwater towns. No, I’m talking about the intermarriage of bands. Over the past decade it’s only gotten worse. And the aggregation affiliated with the creation of this project (and its various predecessors) is the perfect example of this intermingling.

Lost Lander represents the collaborative efforts of former Menomena (and, recurringly, Ramona Falls) keyboardist and utility-man Brent Knopf, and the equally talented and musically multi-dimensional Matt Sheehy. The music here reflects, especially, Sheehy’s work with Gravity and Henry, and Knopf’s incisive elaborations as Ramona Falls.

Their tastes and artistic sensibilities are similar enough, that it is often hard to tell who is at the helm at any particular moment within the presentation. Apparently the balance falls to Sheehy, as he is responsible for the basic songs, and the member to lead the live Lost Lander team. Meanwhile Knopf is preparing Prophet, a new Ramona Falls release, which will debut on May Day. It would seem he serves more as producer and side-musician—especially on keyboards, for which he is renowned. There is a characteristic sheen to the musical proceedings that is unmistakably his.

Matt Sheehy ramona-falls-russia — Matt Sheehy starring in "Russia"

Knopf and Sheehy go back a ways. The first evidence of an alliance between the two seems to have appeared with Sheehy’s solo album Tigerphobia, released in 2008, where Knopf performed brilliant re-mixes for two tracks. And, for his part, as a guitarist and vocalist, Sheehy has since performed as a member of the touring ensemble for Ramona Falls, as well as starring in the wonderful 2010 video for the RF song “Russia.” One would suppose that a Ramona Falls/Lost Lander tour would make a lot of sense for everyone.

The fruit of their mutual labors here is pretty spectacular. World-class sound for sophisticated well-crafted songs, rendered with measured passion. As Lost Lander, they’ve already (deservedly) received a lot of comparisons to any number of popular musical artists. There will be more here. Anything you hear on this album is equal or superior to anything or anyone to which it is being equated. Rest assured. This is good stuff.

We begin, somewhat appropriately one would think, with “Cold Feet.” Ethereal vocal birds and a trace of tribal chant brindle the introductory phase of the song. Then a chorus of stringy, prickly percussive things enters the sonic scheme, accompanied by some additional heavy shelling from guest drummer Dana Janssen (Akron/Family). A brilliant twist of melodic turn and back to the birds of the intro: intimating the notion of arrival or return. As perhaps of a lander that had been lost but now is found. It would not appear to be too much of a reach to assign such symbolic meaning to the artistic choices made throughout this entire mission, here being the first opportunity. “Gotta turn it off.”

A distinct ‘60s feel imbues the combination of electric and acoustic guitars on “Dig (How It Feels To Lay in the Soft Light),” a sense of Jeff Beck’s searing guitar part on the Yardbirds’ “Heart Full of Soul,” is paired with an attitude reminiscent of the Zombies—one which certainly sounds far more the mood update and instrumental refitting than any sort of tribute. This, of course, could only have been accrued by these lads either by means of genetic bequeath, or an incredibly stellar record collection, or both.

Then into the mix insert some dynamite drum fills (executed by Janssen and Niko Kwiatkowski) to occasionally explode like landmines across the sonic scenery. Yeah, and induce, say, a John Vanderslice doppel to do a vocal over that sort of groovity and let it fly. There you go. Boom. Sophisticated and restrained—as if the arrangements had all the time in the world to unfold: which is absolutely true, up to about four minutes.

lost lander 1 — Lost Lander: the Touring Ensemble

The star brilliant “Afraid of Summer” sounds like a possible distant cousin to the Shins’ “Phantom Limb.” Over simple nylon string acoustic guitar accompaniment, a hauntingly beautiful song of deep longing upfloats like a single cloud on a sunny summer day. “I’m afraid of Summer, ‘cause you know I can’t swim/I get lost in the water when the tide pulls me in.”

At around the one-minute mark, the second section furls around subtle percussion from Kwiatkowski and Scott Magee (Y La Bamba, Loch Lomond), and an array of spectacular instrumentation—apparently all synthesized. Fairlight-like, Melotronish strings, plucky pizzacato harp or strings (maybe a koto patch), an expansive assortment of keyboards: bass, piano, and elastic, heavily-modded electric piano fashion a fine mist of the ‘80s (like Duran, Duran meets Tears For Fears) mournfully wafting above. A flash of Eels streaming through. Toward the end of the piece, galloping drums and trudging strings run up Kate Bush’s hill with no problems, while the watery piano of Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes” slides down the other side. If the song were to get any more wistful, it would wist itself right out of existence.

This sort of lonely lostboy moonery is nothing new. Paul McCartney and Paul Simon staked out the melancholy manchild landscape long ago, back in the ‘60s. By example, there is a song by Barclay James Harvest, a ‘70s British band, called “Galadriel” that is one of the obvious ancestors to “Afraid of Summer.” Certainly, production values and recording quality have changed drastically over the past forty years, but the sentiment is unmistakable. You can check that out here. Still, Lost Lander’s exploration of the territory is new and their impressions are fresh. And “Afraid of Summer” is simply a magnificent piece of work. A hit.

“Kangaroo,” is another keyboard driven number, with cool guitar moments from guest Seth Olinkski (also of Akron/Family)—the chorus powerful and moving. ‘80s keyboard fills dapple “Belly of the Bird.” The vocals call to mind Brandon Flowers of the Killers or Tom Chaplin of Keane. Janssen’s skittering toms drive the song, while angular string parts saw against an infectious chorus. From there one is hurtled into the crashwaltzing waves, cymbals splashing, and the grandeuresque piano of an extended coda, sailing to the close.

A seafaring shanty, of sorts, “The Sailor” launches on a familiar folky melody, “All my friends have gone away/They fell in love, oh they fell in love.” Janssen and Kwiatkowski provide relentless propulsion, rumbling toms and chattering closed high-hats. As with a few of the cuts on this album, the arrangement here may be bigger than the song it is holding up. But ultimately it’s great work, so you’ll get no complaints from this side of the monitor screen.

Another heavily folk-informed venture, “Wonderful World” sounds most like something you might have heard on Tigerphobia. Sean Flinn’s (The Royal We, Y La Bamba) doleful electric guitar wraiths ephemerally around simple acoustic guitar. As elsewhere, Holly Carmen Atreyah’s angelic vocal harmonies decorate the perimeters. Where the verse progresses with a pensive gait, the chorus flourishes prettily, hinging upon a tiny piano figure. Opulently precise.

Actual strings embroider “Through Your Bones” with sinuous sonic tensility. It’s a song worthy of Sufjan Stevens—though the ensemble arrangement is not so sloppy—or Elliott Smith, perhaps, but without the bleak black moribundity. Again there are references to time and tide, leading one to speculate as to the possibility of this project being some sort of concept album. There is a recurring nautical theme in many of the songs. A sense of voyage and expedition. If it is a concept album, it must be pointed out that the concept is buried sufficiently deep as to prevent detection on any but a purely subconscious level.

What sound like balalaikas (or dulcimer, maybe) ring out to usher in “Gossamer Wings.” It’s a gentle waltz, with a peculiar lyric. “Gossamer wings sprang from her shoulders/She said her goodbye and took to the sky/A quick icy grip took hold under the ship/And told all that she wanted to know.” Woozy strings and circus drums (Scott Magee) swirl around the middle section, before abruptly abutting into the final verse. Guest Nick Jaina’s sputtering bass putters beneath plunking piano, into a finale that ends all at once with no real resolution.

“Dead Moon” contains the only lyric specifically credited to Knopf and the possibility is good that he is the vocalist here as well. Whichever of the pair it is, the breaking falsetto instantly calls to mind Chris Martin, but cleaner here without the horrible Gwyneth Paltrow ambiance palling like car exhaust over the whole affair. It’s a quiet song with hardly any accompaniment. Percussion only enters at the extended fade.

The final number “Your Name is a Fire” could almost pass for an actual Coldplay song, except that it’s a bit more intricate, with rubbery synth bass; and the rhythmic foundation is more complex. Why, there’s even handclaps in the bridge! Handclaps guarantee a hit. That is a well-known fact. It’s a great song, if way too short.

In some ways, though they are stellar, the arrangements here are almost too concise. It sort of reminds me of the classical music device of “figured bass.” We are given the (highly produced) skeleton of a song, with no excessive augmentation whatsoever. It’s all gold. Make your own extended mixes. Maybe extended mixes is what a lot of this is about. Hmm.

Because, it’s all just great, really great. Nearly every song sounds like something ready-made for a film soundtrack. It’s about as well put together as an album can be. And every aspect is of the very highest standard: the compositions, the musical choices, the instrumentation, the presentation, and performances. All of it is brilliant. You may or may not appreciate the music that the group here known as Lost Lander create. It might be too poppy for some. Too mainstream. But no one can deny what an amazing piece of work this album is.

Y La Bamba

Court The Storm
Tender Loving Empire

It’s said that there are no straight lines in nature. If that is in fact the case, then this is the most natural album ever made. There’s no “shortest distance between two points” here. Nothing resolves as expected. Just when you think you’re moving toward something, you veer. No straight lines. Still, as beautiful as any tree. Songs as lovely as wind and birds.

That’s certainly the case with Y La Bamba’s new project, Court the Storm. Produced by saxophonist Steve Berlin of Los Lobos (who now lives in Portland), it’s as close as you’re likely to come to a perfectly recorded album. Nothing is wasted here. Not an instrument, not a part, not a voice, not even the silent spaces. This attention to detail results in a piece of sonic opulence we indie lovers don’t often get to hear. It’s cut like a diamond, clean and pristine.

Technically, this is Y La Bamba’s third release. But Alida St., which came out at the end of 2008, was pretty much a home-recorded solo effort for vocalist Luz Elena Mendoza. And Lupon, YLB’s debut for the Tender Loving Empire label, produced by Decemberist Chris Funk, was recorded by a version of the band that no longer existed by the time the album was actually released in September, 2010.

But for this endeavor the players more-or-less remained the same coming out as going in (with the exception of guitarist Sean Flinn, who recently left the band to pursue his own project, the Royal We. He does contribute to two tracks here, however). Still, the music for this production has been cooked down to its essential juices through a year of relentless touring. During that time they performed as opening act for several Neko Case shows, and she in turn makes a guest appearance on the title track.

For his part, Berlin pretty much took the band under his wing, serving not only as producer, but as engineer, side-musician, and co-arranger as well. His contributions are nowhere and everywhere to be found. He is the artificer of this creation. Though all trace of his proximity has gradually been erased from the sonic picture, faint stylistic shadows and trails remain which leave indelible marks upon the finished piece.

His approach to production is addition by subtraction—wherein silence serves as an instrument in the mix. There is not an overbearing note or chord to be found. The album springs with delightful touches, fleeting filigrees, brilliant artistic flourishes. Every instrument seems to be exactly the right choice for any particular musical moment. And, as mentioned, the arrangements never proceed in a straight line, but angle affably or circle and spiral majestically.

It is upon Luz and the band that at all times the spotlight falls. Luz means “light” in Spanish and that is precisely what she what she provides. Hers is an antique golden light, never harsh or glaring. She is an inadvertent bruja, whose shamanistic incantations transcend language altogether, entering into some far more intimate space in the human psyche and soul.

Her vocal presence alone in any song would guarantee a unique performance. But over the past couple of years, Y La Bamba have evolved to match Luz’s considerable abilities. This is no support act, but a real, if extremely subtle band. When second percussionist Scott Magee and guitarist Paul Cameron joined the core of the band a couple of years ago, they immediately began to help solidify the presentation. That both were adept singers meant that all six members of the band were available to contribute to the complex vocal harmonies that were already beginning to develop.

In addition, Magee lends occasional clarinet interludes to the mix. But it is Cameron who has proven to be most valuable. He has evolved as a vocalist to the extent that he expertly doubles Luz’s voice in places. And his efforts in working with Luz on the writing and arranging of the newer material should not be underestimated. So, all this to say that everything has tightened up and focused for this sophomore release. The results are truly stunning.

We open with the rousing, polymetric “Squawk,” a rhythmic foray that explores not only Luz’s Mexican mariachi roots, but augments with Afro textures as well. Sean Flinn’s syncopated, Afro Highlife-flavored guitar phrasings dance upon what sounds like threes on fives in the intro. This album abounds in unrelenting threes, even over and inside the fours (and fives), so: embrace the feel.

Luscious vocal harmonies blossom beneath the warmth of Luz’s sultry intonation in the lead, while subtle instrumentation bubbles beneath. Alternating time signatures create separate moods, colored by subtle vocal shadings. Hypnotic. Exotic.

And if the shifting time of the aforementioned were not impressive enough, check out the intricate interplay of key signatures on “Bendito.” Against cleverly complex rhythms of Magee’s toms and Mike Kitson’s snare, Luz coos away in Spanish (there are alleged to be several songs sung in Spanish on this outing). This is not immediately apparent, however, partly because of the vibrancy of the arrangement, but mostly because her voice is so fascinating. It’s similar to the experience of listening to Elizabeth Fraser of Cocteau Twins. Beyond words. Ethereal.

Cameron’s impeccable harmonies through the verses are a thing of wonder to behold. Seamless. Perfect. And in the turns, these guys rock out with just the adjunct of Eric Schrepel’s wheezy accordion and the hint of something resembling an electric guitar. Midway everything turns all dreamy—windy, angelic vocals. Thick vibes bubble and either a cello, or the accordion, sounding all cello-like, moans forlornly in the background. Kitson breaks in with a full kit for possibly the only time on the entire album, before the song quickly melts back into the first section and succinctly slams to a powerful close.

“Moral Panic” is a pensive ballad that has been in YLB’s repertoire for at a couple of years (one of the first Luz and Paul worked on together). Returning to the wistful mood of the middle of “Bendito,” vibes, accordion and arpeggiating guitar supplement the gorgeous vocals. Briefly the gait breaks faster before resolving in the same sweetsomber introspection as it started. Spectacular. “It’s nice to have a life of tribulation.” Indeed.

Cameron’s majestic folky finger-picking on acoustic guitar and magical vocal duet with Luz (recorded live in the studio) are the elegant ornaments surrounding the tender “Houghson Boys.” More luxurious vocal choirs sing exultantly in another lilting middle-section, displaying characteristic elegance and restraint.

The bouyant polka of “Como Ratones” twirls upon gentle, breezy percussion, the rhapsodic hum of accordion, the dusty romance of soft guitar and the plucked high plaint of what is possibly a charango (my knowledge of traditional Mexican stringed instruments is quite limited), the equivalent of a ukelele. Or it’s a ukelele. It’s a simple little song that creeps like a mouse. A quaint toy piano tone commingles with the accordion to create a satisfying antique effect in the final turns.

The somber “Idaho’s Genius” features bassist Ben Meyercord as lead vocalist. Cameron is responsible for the backing vocals below, with Luz above in the high harmony. As is often the case with YLB, the song does not really bloom to full flower until the middle of the song, with rumbling toms, military snare, and a tambourine providing impetus, vague stringed instruments flitting like hummingbirds and dragonflies at the edges of the mix—a xylophone dripping sunlight upon the swirling pool of wordless tones.

“Viuda Encabronada” retraces themes established with “Squawk,” combining burbling Latin exuberance with the clipped angularity of Flinn’s AfricanHighlife-style guitar (in conjunction with the accordion, approximating Paul Simon’s “Boy In A Bubble”). A jovial trombone enters in at the end of the song creating a street party atmosphere. Here, as everywhere, the vocals are simply superb. Seemingly effortless harmonies embroider a rich sonic fabric.

Fretting toms drive “Ponce Pilato,” as Luz and Paul again unite in a sweet duet beneath fluttering acoustic guitar phrasings. Honey-sweet guitars glisten and shimmer in the instrumental interludes as splashing cymbals and plashing tambourine flicker a gentle momentum.

Music gets no more exquisite than the irrepressibly catchy “Michoacan.” Luz exuberantly leads the ensemble through an enchanting arabesque, reflecting the rich essences of Mexican popular music. Her spirited delivery is buoyed by an array of instruments, softly floating butterfly flutes and bright mariachi brass, chiming mandolins (?) and even a tingling triangle. Fantastic.

The flamenco-like handclap/footstomp percussion of “Dialect of Faith” is suffused by apparent electric guitar, sinewy ukelele tones, insistent snare, and Schrepel’s dramatic accordion fugue. Supple harmonies nest beneath Luz’s soaring, gliding vocal flights. For Y La Bamba, drama and emotion are a given. Every song pulls at the heart and wrestles with the soul. Few bands command the sort of gravity that YLB routinely generate.

Of the eleven songs presented on this album, the title track “Court The Storm” is perhaps the only one that doesn’t have its feet squarely placed south of the Rio Grande. Neko Case’s sweet harmonies sweep along with Luz on the track. Upon a simple acoustic guitar progression, accordion, xylophone (?), banjo (?) pealing charango (or bandurria or…) and soft piano fall like rain around the women’s voices.

Here is a good example of the previously mentioned YLB arrangemental veer: About two minutes into the song, the drums build in tension—sounding for all the world as if they will explode. Instead it is as if a match were blown out. Back to the quiet. Poof. But forty seconds later a militant snare enters the mix like it was marching along the whole time. The song builds to a crescendo and then the choir slowly drifts off into the mist and fog. Vaya con dios.

What continually comes to the fore is the remarkable growth as musicians that Y La Bamba display on Court The Storm. Or, perhaps more accurately, it is not growth they display, but a denser sense of esprit de corps. Cameron’s presence obviously has much to do with this, as his chameleon-like ability to color himself into the scenery of the musical moment is a true gift, to be sure.

And Steve Berlin’s contributions and influence cannot be overstated either, in precisely the same ways. He’s so good you don’t even know he’s there. The result is a recording with nothing out of place. Nothing unnecessary. Not a note wasted. Perfect. There must be a Grammy out there somewhere with this project’s name on it. There must be.

But in the end, always, Y La Bamba is Luz. She could sing the repair manual of a 1988 Ford F150 pickup truck and make it sound vital and interesting. She is such a great vocalist it’s a marvel just to hear her larynx vibrating in the air. The fact that she writes (or co-writes) deep, thoughtful lyrics becomes almost immaterial.

Her phrasing is equal to that of Billie Holiday. Her tone spans Astrud Gilberto to Joan Baez to, I don’t know, Lady Gaga ( or whoever!) with everything in between, historical or contemporary. She’s the whole package. And that is just considering American greats. God knows she is probably easily equal to countless great Mexican singers as well. She stands out.

That’s the real key. Luz Elena Mendoza is in a class by herself. In the history of popular music, there are and have been a few truly great female vocalists. She is one of them—or can be, if she goes after it. She does not know this yet. Whatever musical form she chooses to explore will be enriched by her choice. She can do whatever she wants. She sings in the language of all humanity and it is only a matter of time before humanity hears her voice. It’s inevitable.

Y La Bamba on NPR

You can read SP’s review of Y La Bamba’s 2010 release, Lupon here

Laura Gibson

La Grande
Barsuk Records

BUY

It’s hard to believe it’s been almost three years since Laura Gibson’s last recording, Beasts of Seasons, was released. But it’s not as if she’s been sitting on her hands the whole time since then. Early in 2010 Laura collaborated with sound collagist Ethan Rose for the ethereal Bridge Carols. And she has toured relentlessly all across the US, with occasional forays into Europe and the UK.

In the Fall of 2010, she hooked up with Sean Lennon and his talentless model-girlfriend (Claudine Longet for a new generation—she makes Zooey Deschanel seem like Beverly Sills), Charlotte Kemp Muhl, for one of their Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger concerts in New York City. Then in January 2011 Laura toured as support for GOASTT with stops in Texas and up the West Coast. And in her spare time she has been busy retrofitting a vintage ’62 Shasta trailer into a mobile recording studio.

Mature and introspective, Gibson’s songs trace the rocky terrain of a barren landscape of hardscrabble insights strewn across escarpments of desolation, through thickets of despondency and despair. It’s not that depressing. There are some berries among the briars. But, she displays the sensibilities of a poet—the antique environmental emotionality of Emily Dickinson, the idiosyncratic tangle of a Plathian knit of knotted nets. Ultimately, however, Laura owes the inspiration of her poetic perceptions to no one.

While Beasts was produced by Tucker Martine (Decemberists, My Morning Jacket) for Portland’s Hush label, the new album is being released on Seattle’s Barsuk Records (early Death Cab, Mates of State, Menomena, John Vander Slice, and Nada Surf). It was produced by Calexico’s Joey Burns and bears many of that band’s subtle, more wistful, windblown properties. Every instrument placed with a purpose—even if that purpose is not always abundantly clear.

Burns makes a noble effort toward delicately emblazoning the rustic fabric of Laura’s scratchy voice with washes of color and layers of subtle texture without overwhelming the fragile qualities of her work. Her vocals at all times remain prominent in the mix, which in and of itself is quite a technical achievement given that most people talk louder than Laura sings. Production-wise, this album launches where the song “Spirited” left off on Beasts.

To that point, the title track rumbles in on a tight, snapping snare and a walloping, galloping rubbery tomtom sound that resembles Rolf Harris’ wobbleboard on “Tie Me Kangaroo Down.” Various random crashes, banshee-like guitar wails and creaking male backing vocals beamed in from another dimension flair and flicker in the mix. This is as close to a radio-friendly single that Laura has thus far concocted in her still nascent career.

“Milk-Heavy, Pollen-Eyed” is closer to what one has come to expect of a Laura Gibson recording. Her downy voice folds like eggwhite peaks upon sparse instrumentation: acoustic bass, vibes, clarinet and plaintive nylon string guitar. A pretty ballad with a lovely, lilting vocal melody.

Bossanova inflections pepper “Lion/Lamb,” with the piano sounding washed up on a beach and the clarinet as if the player were standing outside under a palm tree. Atmospheric—with Laura going all Astrud Gilberto on the vocals. It’s adventurous, and to be admired for that, but her voice, perhaps, isn’t so well suited for a Latin style of music as others might be. The prairie, corn whisking and wheat whistling beneath the summer sun, that’s Laura’s creative homeland. The audio version of the Andrew Wyeth painting, “Christina’s World.”

Take “Skin, Warming Skin” for instance. A sort of Joanna Newsome fairy magic pall floats over the simple acoustic guitar and Enya-like vocal theme, as mournful steel guitar moans in the distance. Very pleasing. The Victrolla, scratchy record quality of the Oh, Brother Where Art Thou flavored hymn, “The Rushing Dark,” may be using an effect that has already been used too much, but it’s a nice song and an absorbing arrangement.

The angelic groan Laura lends the magical “Red Moon” harkens to a time in the musical past that never actually existed, recreated only in pastiches such as this. It may be that this song is a distant cousin to Maria Muldaur’s “Midnight at the Oasis.” What is the word that defines the nostalgia for a time that never was? Here is the soundtrack for that feeling.

More akin in execution to material on Beasts, “Crow/Swallow” employs a simple reed section and French horn to create a Ralph Vaughan Williams-like sensibility behind Laura’s brittle vocals. Pastoral.

Meanwhile a nervous tambourine and a whining organ usher in “The Fire.” As Laura Cotten-picks and plucks her nylon string guitar, her supple Joni Mitchellish voice lulls and swales “Are you carried by the restless wind/Does it saddle you with brave ideas/With battle scars and souvenirs/To hang across your shoulder blades.”

Where a reference to Icarus seems to hover above that first verse and chorus, the imagery shifts through the second chorus “If you’re drawn to the flame/I cannot question your ways/If you’re drawn to the flame/Be not afraid of the fire.” Be not afraid of the fire sounds like something Sarah McLachlan might have said twenty years ago and should probably be permanently retired. It’s okay to say “Don’t be afraid of the fire.” People will still think you’re a poet. And the inexplicable, horrible, bashing snare smashes through the choruses in the back half of the song are truly ill-advised. Jawdroppingly distracting. Eek!

“Time is Not” is buffeted by little waves of far off sounds—availed of some sort of orchestral sensibility, sailing through the beautiful chorus propelled by breezy acoustic guitar, vibes, piano, and bubbling drums. Laura murmurs a gorgeously delicate melody. It might have been nice if the beguiling rhythm of that charming chorus would have leapt to the fore sooner. As it is, it does not take over until midway. A shorter version, an edit with mostly the uptempo half, would kill on radio or in a film. Here it simply takes too long for the song to fully spring to life. But it’s really great, all the same.

Finally, “Feather Lungs,” is accompanied by judicious piano, bass (no guitar), and segments of more “Oh, Brother…” siren calls. The poignant string section seems lifted almost directly from the National’s “About Today,” but is quite effective in this setting.

So, I don’t know about you, but I’m noticing this nautralistic sensual anima thing fluttering around in the song titles, lyrics and moods: “Milk-Heavy Pollen Eyed,” “Skin, Warming Skin,” “Lion/Lamb,” “Crow/Swallow,” “Feather Lungs.” Then there’s “The Fire,” “Red Moon,” “The Rushing Dark,” which amply cover atmospheric conditions. Georgia O’Keefe set to music. It makes for a distinctive thematic structure as to the goings on here, but one doesn’t wish to pry in subject matter so deeply personal and private.

This is a strange album, more strange than Beasts of Seasons, which was thematically a pretty strange album in its own right. It’s an uneven record. Producer Joey Burns, in an attempt to broaden her sonic palette, sometimes lards Laura Gibson’s tender, sensitive songs with unnecessary flotsam. One cannot change her music merely by adding gratuitous ornamentation.

In many instances, “LaGrande,” “The Rushing Dark,” “Red Moon,” “Skin, Warming Skin,” for example, that ornamentation works. But there are many places where the production seems plain wrong—wrong for the songs and wrong for the singer.

At some point, Laura Gibson will want to decide whether she wants to be the modern version of a torch singer, like a high-prairie Edith Piaf, or whether she would prefer to create confections more oriented to the pop market. She is obviously a very talented singer and songwriter. But thus far in her short career, no producer has given any indication that he really understands what to do with her quirky abilities.

Shakers’ Sessions

Various Artists

Shakers’ Sessions
Burgerville Records

Yeah, you read it right. Burgerville Records. This is the biggest corporate coup since Andy Pribhol (Pribal) hooked up with Plaid Pantry. And before you start turning up your nose at the Burgerville connection, there are a couple of things to remember. First, Burgerville is locally owned.

If you, like me, participated in Bank Transfer Day, moving your money into a local bank or credit union, then you’ll appreciate the fact that Burgerville is a locally held business, founded in Vancouver (they recently had to close the original store after fifty years of service). As much as a fast-food hamburger joint can, they have committed themselves to going green whenever possible. They are sustained one hundred percent by wind power. They compost their food waste and conscientiously recycle.

They have even begun offering occasional live music events at the Hawthorne Boulevard location in Portland, featuring a variety of local bands. The mood is Fellini-esque, to be sure, but one can take comfort in knowing that the French Fries incense is one-hundred percent trans fat-free canola oil, which is then recycled (about ninety thousand gallons a year). Even a vegan would have to admire their business practices.

In the spirit of all this, comes the debut recording for the Burgerville Records label. And, as if that were not cache enough, one-hundred percent of the profits from sales of this album will go to the Brian Grant Foundation, a non-profit organization that serves as a resource for people stricken with Parkinson’s Disease.

Shakers’ Sessions is a compilation featuring an array of Portland-connected artists, including, Pete Droge, Storm Large, Fernando Viciconte, Steve Wikinson (Gravelpit, Mission 5, Wilkinson Blades), Bart Ferguson (Renegade Saints), Austinite Ian Moore (of the Lossy Coils), and Rob Stroup (Baseboard Heaters, The Blame) singing songs penned by Portland musician, and Parkinson’s patient, Rob Barteletti.

Given the circumstances, some stink has been made locally over the euphemistic title of this venture. Those making the complaints would probably be horrified to know that the annual benefit for Parkinson’s organizations is called the “Shakers’ Ball” and that this project started out with the working title Tremors.

In his book “Always Looking Up: The Adventures Of An Incurable Optimist” Michael J. Fox says that one advantage of Parkinson’s Disease is that the uncontrollable, jerky movements can turn any regular toothbrush into the most powerful electric model. Then there’s Fox’s involvement with the Shake It Up Foundation for Parkinson’s research in Australia. Whole lotta shakin’ goin’on.

The point here being that it would appear as if those afflicted with the disease seem to be desirous of maintaining a sense of humor and a positive outlook regarding their predicament—a perspective that might benefit some of those who criticize from afar.

Barteletti is no stranger to the local music scene, putting out a solo album, Sombrero, in 2005 and sharing the bill with Reina G. Collins for another release in 2007. Ferguson and Nick Peets have lent Barteletti support over the years and contribute tracks to Shakers’ Sessions as well. With the addition of selections from Casey Neill (Norway Rats), the celebrated Mike Coykendall (Old Joe Clarks), Ken DeRouchie and Barteletti himself, the result is a well-rounded set of a dozen very capably crafted songs. Cohesive, from song to song , yet uniquely different from one to another. Stylistically the material falls in the folk/rock category, but with threads of traditional, country and blues sewn through the fabric as well.

The support band(s) is (are) not named anywhere that I can find (at this advanced date), though it sounds as if the same players back each cut—workman-like performances, which add skillful tertiary washes behind the specific primary colors of the individual singers. Rob Stroup serves as producer and facilitator without whom, it is certain, this effort could not have been completed.

Fittingly, Stroup inaugurates the proceedings with “Being Jesus Again.” Plaintive slide guitar and Wurlitzer electric piano provide the foundation beneath a prickly finger-picked electric guitar. Stroup’s voice, a weary whisper reminiscent of Mark Knopfler, maneuvers through the contemplative subject matter. “Time I ride to the rescue/Time to bring her salvation/There I go being Jesus again.”

Fernando adds his gritty, edgy voice to the mournful “Queen of Sheba,” a familiar tale of woe, which depicts the beguiling ways of an unrequiting “hussy.” Over bluesy electric guitar and rumbling organ, Fernando intones, “You are Jezebel heart hard as a stone/You are my Delilah, don’t need a comb/You’re my Lucretia Borgia, Mrs. Ghengis Khan/You’re a vampire beauty, drink my blood ‘til it’s gone/You’re the queen of darkness/You break my heart.”

“Mr. Heartache” bears a strong resemblance to the chorus of James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” (with a breath of John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” blowing through the turns and a hint of Merilee Rush’s “Angel of the Morning” at the chorus) and Nick Peets’ vocal bears much of the same easygoing resignation as Taylor’s.

One of the stronger songs in the collection, “Ask Me Why,” is given to Pete Droge and his reading doesn’t disappoint. Droge’s low, smooth baritone offers distinctive color to Barteletti’s pensive ballad. A lonesome, laid-back JJ Cale atmosphere pervades, atop a doleful low-string guitar theme, with organ and piano beneath. “Ask me why/Do you really see me when you look me in the eye/I was never your redeemer, but I gave a try/Ask me why.”

A “John Barleycorn” motif informs Ian Moore’s version of “The Box.” Moore’s gruff, raspy voice underscores the palpable tension tightening just beneath the song’s polished exterior. Another winner.

The highpoint of the album is Storm Large’s poignant rendition of “Voices,” a restless wind of a song, with a Stevie Nix-ian forlorn quality rustling the leaves. Storm navigates the pretty melody with expert precision, a voice full and rich, and evocative. A moving delivery frees her to soar at the most heartfelt passages with an emotional falsetto, as she sparrows winsomely the darkened limbs of a song sad tree. An AOR hit, to be sure. Lovely.

Ferguson adeptly navigates the familiar waters of “Fool That Is Me,” waltzing a brash harmonica intro upon a John Prine-like mood, a desolate introspection of remorse and regret. More of a country feel buttresses Steve Wilkinson on “Bird On The Wing.” Steve calls to mind Brad Paisley or Blake Shelton, a burnished old saddle of a voice, resonant but without the country twang thang. “Love from a distance/ is like a backwards telescope/You’re looking at the cosmos baby/But it seems smaller without hope.” Not, perhaps, groundbreaking existential insight, but a pleasant homily.

“Reckoning Day” bears a strong similarity to Johnny Cash’s version of “Hurt.” Mike Coykendall’s low tone and haunting delivery capture the desolation of the lyric. “It was a day of reckoning today/It was a day of reckoning for him/The fallout of his actions finally ushered in/It was a day of reckoning for him.” Stark electric guitar and soft military snare rhythms create a gray hovering aura around Coykendall’s expression of rain dreary sentiments.

JJ Cale is again brought to mind, this time with the “After Midnight” chooglin’ swamp feel of “Wild Woman Blues.” DeRouchie’s turn at the vocal wheel steers a great vehicle for his gruffly nasty snarl. Yaow, Yaow! It’s moved up two keys and goes in a completely different direction, but “Under Icy Falls” unwinds with a chord progression very similar to that of “Ask Me Why.” Here Casey Neill echoes post-Kingston trio John Stewart with a rich, reverberant rendering of Barteletti’s original song, which is deeply rooted in traditional Americana folk music.

Accompanying himself on acoustic guitar and blowing a bit of harmonica, Bartelletti sounds a bit like Prine, Waylon Jennings or Jerry Jeff Walker—a worn tumbleweed of a voice, bounding across the barren musical landscape of “Her Man, Her Lover, Her Friend.” It’s an inspirational conclusion to a well-accomplished undertaking.

Rob Barteletti isn’t a great songwriter. However he’s a very good one. His songs and their subject matter are simple, basic. They explore everyday emotions honestly. Here, they are consistently well rendered. Pete Droge and Storm Large could easily have hits with their offerings—certainly movie soundtrack friendly.

So, it’s a very good album in support of a great cause. With the proceeds from sales of the record going to the Brian Grant Foundation, money could not be better spent—nor with a bigger return on investment. The kickoff event for this release is scheduled to take place at the Hawthorne restaurant on November 15^th with live guest performances by many of the musicians found here.

The Shakers’ Sessions album will then be available at all thirty-eight Burgerville locations, but only until January 1^st (Burgerville taking a page out of the Starbucks playbook there). But hey, Burgerville’s not making anything out of this other than civic goodwill. They should be commended and supported for that, as should everyone else involved in this tremendously worthy production.

link to info about show.

Maria Catherine Callahan

Dry
Self-Produced

Maria Callahan is a seasoned veteran in the local music scene with a career stretching back to the early ‘90s, first as shredding guitarist with Insane Jane, then through the ‘90s as part of Doris Daze, and as a member of the “supergroup” Sophia Starlight in the early ‘00s. In that time she has distinguished herself as a solid singer and songwriter and a very talented multi-instrumentalist, though her specialty is guitar.

With this, her first music project in several years, we find Maria exploring a country-tinged style, sort of a folk-country approach, maybe reminiscent of Rosanne Cash, Alison Krause or Mary Chapin-Carpenter. Not shit-kickin’ country. Actually, what Maria plays could be called “Oregon country” music, a stylistic departure from the Nashville variety. No matter. For, whatever style of music Maria plays, the results sure to be top-notch.

Here, her talent on a variety of acoustic and electric guitars is everywhere to be found and, as always, very tasteful. Expert Telecaster twang and incendiary slide guitar work are impeccable in execution and precise in detail. Maria is a real pro. She is also gifted with a smooth understated vocal instrument—with the timbre of Patsy Cline, the tonal color of Emmylou Harris, the muscle of Linda Ronstadt and the sonorous vocal quality of Paula Cole (“Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”).

Joining Maria on this outing is Danny O’Hanlon who, besides engineering the venture, contributed drums, bass and more guitars. O’Hanlon, a member of the Irish folk group Cul an Ti, capably maintains an air of subtlety and tasteful discipline throughout the project. Seven or eight of the eleven songs presented receive sparse but effective support from a handful of local musicians.

“Looking For Love” kicks off the set. This is not the Johnny Lee country drudge from the Urban Cowboy soundtrack but a chunky, rock-flavored sauce peppered by Maria’s Tele twang, and the thick roux of her simmering slide guitar. The lyric and feel seem somewhat similar in texture to Gordon Lightfoot’s “Sundown,” though her smart, knowing vocal delivery adds distinctive flair.

The bold beat behind “Girl You Used To Know” punctuates the jangle of Maria’s acoustic guitar as she launches into an “it’s not you, it’s me” narrative which resolves in a very nice hook hung around the title line. A good song. “Country Song” is worthy of Bonnie Raitt and right in her stylistic wheelhouse.

Behind O’Hanlon’s big beat, guest Cody Feuerborn adds a proper atmosphere with his smoky pedal steel guitar clouds hovering over “Don’t You Let Me Down.” Maria’s low-string fret thunder echoes across the intro and turnarounds, while a faint but succinct organ somberly sobs in the background. And her mournful vocal expertly captures the tumbleweed mood and lonesome prairie yearning of the ‘50s chestnut “The Wayward Wind.” Another sweet, soulful song.

Understated backing decorates the dreary story of “Emily”: a thump of drums, high-capoed guitarreplicating a mandolin. Accordion? Either an accordion or a keyboard to seem as such. A soft, stringy, shimmery sound supporting a wistful lyric and vocal.

O’Hanlon again bangs out solid drums on “Fool In Love,” a “Someday Soon” (Ian and Sylvia, Judy Collins, most recently covered by Suzy Bogguss) sort of rodeo song. Trace Wiren’s whirlwind harmonica kicks up little dust devils in the proceedings. This song ends too soon. It’s sometimes the case that a band will repeat an outro ad infinitum to the detriment of a song. The opposite is rarely the case. But it’s the case here. It all ends too abruptly. Another thirty seconds of send-up send-off would have been frosting on the cake.

“Laugh Someday” is another sturdy little song that briefly catches the melody of the Terry Jacks ‘70s gem “Seasons In The Sun” before releasing it back into the stream of all tune. There’s a hint of the Eagles’ “Lyin’ Eyes” circling around the hook as well. Maria demonstrates a deft facility for invoking historical musical touch points in her songs, grounding them in a tradition without stealing or copying anythingnuanced references blow through her songs and drift away, firing a fleeting flicker of familiarity in the dark cosmos of recollection.

The distaff perspective of the typical country cheatin’ song, “Nothing In It For Me” contemplates the consequences of a pending assignation in the cold light of hard experience. “You know I live alone when you’re just passing by pretending to be on my side of town/I thank you kindly for thinking of me, but I don’t need married men hanging around.” Further along, Maria says “And aside from confused I’m afraid/of making mistakes that I’ve already made.”

A certain strangled restraint pervades upon “Tornado,” imitating the gripping barometric pressure gradient just prior to a storm. Feuerborn returns with lightning flashes of brilliant pedal steel, while Maria’s resolute banjo plunks forlornly beneath the gathering dark of the musical sky. Soon a cyclone of drums and bass sweep the song into the dust-blown distance: “…find a solid beam under the kitchen floor you’re a tornado, you’re a tornado.”

In 1978, Heart put out a song called “Dog and Butterfly” on the album of the same name. The song is very mellow for a Heart number. Quiet. Contemplative. Philosophical. Here, on “Little Bird,” Maria sounds just like Ann Wilson a full, rich voice, knowing and resigned to all that is known. A fine performance.

A full band and backing chorus join Maria for “He’s Your Problem Now,” a good-natured country-flavored G chord jangler, expressing a sentiment that is pretty much summed up in the title.

Maria Callahan may have come late to playing “country” music, but the transition has been a natural one. Her voice is comfortable in the milieu, reserved but not detached. Her tendency toward deadpan masks, in a way, the heartfelt context of many of the songs. If there is one failing, it is that Maria occasionally seems emotionally detached from some of her heavier lyrics.

But that shortcoming in no way diminishes the mastery she displays as a songwriter, vocalist and guitarist. Maria is a skilled musical artisan, deserving of wider recognition than she has ever received. With Dry she stakes her claim on a barren stylistic landscape earning a hard-carved harvest. Here’s hoping she continues to thrive.

Rachel Taylor Brown

World So Sweet
Penury Pop

Put on your thinking cap, it’s another Rachel Taylor Brown album! You may have misplaced your thinking cap since Rachel’s last release in 2009 (Susan Storm’s Ugly Sister), so we’ll wait here until you find it. While you’re at it, better put on your scrutability belt–because there’s a lot here that’s not particularly scrutable. And without your scutability belt in place, you’ll recall, your pants of discernment will fall to the floor. If not your scrutability belt, then better wear your best ironic underwear.

This is Rachel’s seventh release–her sixth album–as the Christmas recording 7 Small Songs from 2007 is only fourteen minutes long, fer cryin’ out loud. That doesn’t count. We have to draw the line somewhere. Everything she has ever put out displays a knack for arcanity–virtuosic compositional skills married to deep, dark lyrics dredged from some faraway farrago of the remotest subconscious. Idiosyncratic Christian symbology moves through it all like a ribbon of fudge through a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Have you found your thinking cap and scutability belt? Great. Let’s continue.

We begin the festivities with “Sweetness on Earth” which is mostly a variation on an F chord played by fifty acoustic pianos. Think of the a scaled down version of the 5000 Fingers of Doctor T executing the final coffin chord of “A Day in the Life,” fused (in a more melodic context) to the concept behind Glenn Branca’s 13^th Symphony for 100 guitars–Hallucination City. Fifty of anything probably sounds pretty good–the choral effect and all. Fifty elephants simultaneously honking an F note would probably be majestic, to say the least, but would certainly create a much bigger mess at Sherman and Clay than fifty pianists probably did.

Anyway, after an extended stretch of the fifty piano crescendo, a vocal choir moves in to sing “sweetness on earth and all the world rejoices.” A proper introit to the service that is about to unfold. “Sister Jean” bleakly and obliquely recounts the tale of Jeanette Maples a fifteen-year-old girl from Eugene, who died in 2009 of extreme abuse at the hands of her mother. As is often the case, Jeanette more or less fell through the cracks before she could be saved by a social services system too overburdened to rescue her from the horror of her short, miserable life.

Over a jaunty, jolly “Martha My Dear” style piano, Rachel depicts the Pilate clean hands of a blissfully apathetic world. “We’re so sad about what went down at home/nothing left to do, you know we all regret it, we’re upset/there’s nothing anyone wouldn’t have done if only we had known/nothing we could do, you know we’re all upset, oh we regret it.” A swell way to kick off an album.

Stylistically, “Taxidermy” borrows from Kate Bush, Tori Amos and Fiona Apple (whatever happened to Fiona Apple, anyway?): wide open piano punctuated about halfway through by ghostly, slippery cellos. Lyrically, the first verse seems to be a masochistic literal deer-in-the-headlights perspective of a hunted animal. “You got me you shot me and will you hang my head/on the wall of your kitchen or over your bed?”

But the second verse seems to imply that the “taxidermy” in question is actually plastic surgery. “I can help, I can do it, I can do it myself/on a not-busy Monday, the fifth or the twelfth/take a whack crack me open, plant a needle right there/on the spot where the skin barely touches my hair.” Then again, maybe the song is a follow-up autopsy on poor Jeanette Maples.

Initiating the first of several homages to three-quarter time, “Modesto Waltz” sets an ominous scene–over dancy piano, a gray nimbus hovers: “Carrion birds are circling outside the car/I look up and wonder just where we are.” I remember having the very same sensation of San Joaquin Valley dread when I was nine, and the family car broke down in Lodi in the ninety degree heat of July, and we spent the day at the park watching black swans glumly steer around Lodi Lake in the withering sun.

Two other waltzes, “Your Big Mouth” and “Mercy in Nebraska” head in different directions–the former a fairly direct circus theme of the macabre with implicitly enigmatic interpersonal references in the lyric. “Mercy…” has a swirly-whirly, neo-romantic quality, with nineteenth century brass and winds buzzing and wheezing in accompaniment.

The story line is an elusive narrative investigating the recent enactment of the “Safe Haven” law in Nebraska, where disaffiliated parents have been inexplicably allowed to legally dump their unwanted children at any certified hospital in the state. This song is the story of one guy who unloaded nine kids, but kept one–to remember the others by, one would suppose.

The closest thing to a “single” this set has is “Pritty Pinny,” and it’s a good one. Sort of Kristen Hersh-y. John Stewart’s big beat drums drive the song like a team of horses. It’s a charming little ditty about a one in-a-million girl. “Pritty Pinny in your pocket stick your finger in a socket/sparkle like an atom bomb and lay waste.” The low howl of a chorus only deepens the mystery. “What makes you so unkind?/You trip like a buried mine.” Sure! I think I’ve met her!

The sweet, sad ballad “Scotland” is a tribute to Scott Moritz, known as Scotland Barr of the band the Slow Drags, who died of cancer about two years ago. A simple lyric winds like a creek to the wonderful river of “every minute makes a minute/every hour has decades in it/so maybe a day can last forever/maybe a month will make it better.”

“How to Make a World Class Gymnast” is a harrowing koan comprised of the voices of random people, culled from the Woodstock Deli and an unnamed library, intoning the words. “You get them when they’re young and then you bend them/First an arm/Then a leg/Then the heart/Then the head.” This is either an obscure reference to something someone connected with the Chinese National Gymnastics team said. Or it may be further exposition regarding poor Jeanette Maples–or both, maybe. An exquisite form of torture, regardless.

A Bach-like counterpoint sifts through the prayerful “Didymus the Twin v. the Divine Sparkler,” which loosely contemplates the life of Judas Didymus Thomas–ostensibly Jesus’ twin; and one of four brothers and a couple of sisters born of Mary and sired by Joe, a busy couple they.

And, finally, “Joe/The Sacred Remains” not only serves as a bookend to “Sister Jean,” an echo of “Scotland,” but also as an extroit to “Didymus…”, not easily deduced from the cerebrality of Rachel’s introspective world view. But angelic choirs usher the album out as they ushered it in, to shine in a ray of sun, divining a gray rain cloud.

You can’t just throw on a Rachel Taylor Brown album and set about to washing the dishes or cleaning up around the house, or to watch TV with the sound turned down (although it could possibly work with Criminal Minds). No, with Rachel’s work you have to gird your rhetorical loins for an onslaught of contemplation that may be anathema to the typical American psyche.

Still, there are rewards. For it’s always of interest to observe an artist in her element creating some beautifully horrific scene for the betterment/appallment of all humankind. This, for Rachel Taylor Brown, is another morbid stop along the way to salvation. Like any well-constructed artistic car accident: it’s gruesome, but impossible not to gawk at.

Now you may rest your weary head. And pull up yer pants.

CD release show July 29th.

Steven “Pearly” Hettum

The Jangler + 2 Unreleased
Self-Released

Steve Hettum has been a presence within the local music scene for the past thirty years. He first made his name as the manager for Billy Rancher and the Unreal Gods back in the early ‘80s. He managed other acts as well. He had his fingers in numerous pies. His affable, accommodating nature has always stood him in good stead in the greater Portland musical community.

Somewhere along the line, Steve became a performer. He’d always dabbled at songwriting–he co-wrote several songs with Rancher, way back in the day. But it’s probably been at least twenty years, now, that he has been a solo musician. Because of his personable gregariousness, he has always been one to lead various open mics, or to be the main cog around song-circles or open-ended jams. Since April of 2010, he has been hosting an open mic at Eugenios on Wednesday Nights.

As happens, as one gets older–and we all do, Steve has had some health problems of late. He had one of his hips replaced last November, which left him with a severe limp and a reliance upon a cane–not because of the replaced hip, but because of the one still intact causing him intense pain.

So, with the aforementioned in mind, it was especially painful for Steve to discover last August a growth under his tongue. After practicing the well-known avoidance gambit for seven months, it wasn’t until April that he was diagnosed with cancer of the tongue. Not very hopeful news for anyone to hear. And for an exuberant singer/songwriter, not good to hear at all.

Last month, Steve underwent surgery. He had a significant portion of his tongue removed. Skin grafts were taken from his forearm to replace what had been cut away. He had numerous lymph glands surrounding his tongue removed as well. It appears that Steve has dodged a bullet. The cancer has not spread and the surgeons got it all.

His recovery has been phenomenally positive. Within a week of being released from the hospital, Steve was back at his post at Eugenio’s as host for the Wednesday Night Open Mic. Because his vocal chords were damaged during the operation, Steve doesn’t currently have much of a voice–hardly more than a whisper. But, fortunately, that condition is only temporary and he’ll be back to singing and raising hell very soon. Stop in and wish him well.

A couple of years back, Steve released an album called The Jangler, which contains eleven original songs, including three co-written with Billy Rancher, way back when. That album is a good primer for anyone unfamiliar with Hettum’s work, full of good-timey, country-tinged music, augmented by the likes of drummer Dennis Elmer, guitarists Jon Lindahl and Houston Bolles and bassist J. Michael Kearsey. Great ensemble work from everyone. There’s an element of Hank Williams in all of it–stylistically a good point of departure.

But there are variations. “Over Easy” one of the songs co-written with Billy Rancher sounds as if it could have come from Dire Straits in their prime. Lindahl’s Mark Knopfler-style guitar is impressive, and Steve’s raspy, edgy vocal is Knopfleresque in it’s own right. “English Rocker,” a boogie tribute to the late great Brit, Mike Khan, is sung in blimey cockney.

And, if one wanted a lesson in concisely clever songwriting, one need look (nor listen) any further than to “Young Love,” which Steve co-wrote with Mike Khan. Stir Buddy Holly’s “Words of Love” into Sonny James’ “Young Love” and pore it over a melodic essence of Chad and Jeremy’s “Summer Song” and you have a sweet little pop song confection for the ages. Special.

The other two tunes Hettum wrote with Rancher are extremely catchy as well. “Then Again” has an Eagles-like country/rock feel, while “Party By Myself” rings of the country Stones circa “Dead Flowers.” Steve‘s compositions “If There Comes a Time“ and “That’s Bein’ Country” are soulful ballads, a little reminiscent of Jackson Browne.

Just a short time before he went into the hospital, Steve ducked into the studio to record as much material as he was able–with the understanding that it was a possibility that he might not be afforded the opportunity again for a while–if ever. Two of those tracks, “A Cowboy’s Song” and “For Pete’s Sake” display more of Hettum’s ready knack for crafting thoughtful, catchy blues-tinged, country/folk/rock.

On “A Cowboy Song” Steve’s jagged vocal sounds like Van Morrison fronting a Texas country band through a jangly, minor-key manifesto. A soupcon of Paul Simon’s “Slip Slidin’ Away” in the melody. As infectious as it is componently strange.

“For Pete’s Sake” is an introspective country-flavored ballad–a reminiscence upon wisdom inherited from the homilies of some past sage: simple advice, but practical and true. “It’s hard when you are young/Just can’t wait to turn twenty-one…” The upshot being–“For Pete’s sake slow down, son/Learn to walk before you run/You don’t have to be a rolling stone/Find a woman and keep her safe/Cherish all the friends you make/Slow down son, for Pete’s sake.”

Sound counsel, no doubt, but certainly nothing that a genuine human-being under the age of twenty-one would ever actually consider. So, the intention in this exercise would seem, ultimately, to be ironic in function. But plainly and succinctly put, all the same.

Steve Hettum has been traversing a gravelly path of late. But, it’s sure that he will overcome all obstacles with the same determination and grit reflected in his songs.

Jared Mees & the Grown Children

Only Good Thoughts Can Stay
Jared Mees & the Grown Children
Tender Loving Empire

Generally, when a label owner releases his own band’s work on that label, suspicion might suggest “vanity project.” But Jared Mees is no ordinary label owner and the Grown Children are no ordinary band.

Jared is the proprietor of Tender Loving Empire. TLE is a record label, but it is also the name of a curious retail store located at the upper end of the Pearl District. Nothing about either of these enterprises is typical.

Sort of like Chad Crouch of Hush Records, Jared has an ear for a quality up-and-coming band. Crouch was the first to put Esperanza Spaulding out on record with Noise For Pretend (soon to be re-issued). The Decemberists, Laura Gibson, Loch Lomond, Nick Jaina, Norfolk and Western, Kaitlyn Ni Donovan and Peter Broderick all got their starts with Hush.

Just in the past year, Tender Loving Empire has released an album and EP from Typhoon, an album by Y La Bamba (with another in the hopper) and Loch Lomond’s new record. The Grown Children are natural successors to that lineage. Like the others, they do not fit neatly into a generic box. That fact is a great indicator of the label as well.

This is, technically, the Grown Children’s third album, although the first, Swimming With the Sharks, from 2007 was pretty much a solo album. And 2008’s Caffeine, Alcohol and Sunshine was created with the help of various session players, and longtime musical partner, Megan Spear, who contributes backing vocals, keys and percussion.

Though Jared has always maintained something of a revolving door regarding the support for his endeavors, for Only Good Thoughts Can Stay, Mees has created and actual band to perform the material- a band that is currently in the midst of an extensive tour throughout the western half of the United States.

Of the dozen songs presented here, fully half are memorable after the first audition. There is a rough-hewn quality to the material. Mees has a gravelly voice- that doesn’t always hit a melody square on, but it’s evocative enough to lend every number a sense of immediacy and depth.

The lead track, and the one the band touts as the “recommended track,” is “Hungry Like a Tiger,” which bears no resemblance whatsoever to Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like a Wolf,” although it does give rise to the question: How come bands aren’t doing spiffy remakes of Duran Duran songs? The time is right people. I can hear new versions of “Is There Something I Should Know” and “The Reflex” swirling around in the contemporary music ether, even as we here commune.

But in this instance, “Hungry Like a Tiger” sounds as if it could be a song by Stephen Malkmus and Pavement or some other band that sounds like Pavement. Vocally, Jared skims over the jumpy beat that drives the song forward, with a homely vocal over homespun lyrics- “I’m breathing good air through good lungs with a good heart beating/And a problem ain’t a problem ‘less you keep on feeding it.”

Then into the lively chorus. “Coz it’s hungry like a tiger/We’ve got the tiger by the toe.” Maybe not the best place by which to have a tiger, but one cannot be choosy in such situations. A certain precocious quality, reminiscent of the very earliest Talking Heads albums, informs this jaunty piece with a sunny buoyancy not often found in the murkey abyss of current musical expression.

For “Limber Hearts,“ Joe Bowden’s sometimes insistent drums serve as fulcrum in the balance of Spear’s jangly piano and Javier Madrigal’s sparse lead guitar majesty; with Jared’s unadorned vocals upfront and a string ensemble floating around in the background. Inexplicably, a hint of Thunderclap Newman’s late 60s hit, “Something in the Air,” wefts the warp within the melody. The likelihood that anyone in the Grown Children would have ever heard that song are vastly remote, at best. Still, these things do go around.

Adorned by Spear’s pretty harmony vox, light-handed piano phrasings and dark organ textures, “W.W.J.B.D.” is a fable about someone’s troubled experiences- with references to being away somewhere and a possible longing to be back home. This is purely speculative. None of it seems to relate to Jack Bauer. So the initials are even more of a mystery. The strings come to the forefront on this song- contributing to the plaintive wist of the arrangement.

A heartbreaking recollection of the death of a childhood pet (among other events) sets the scene for “Billy Bird,” a song easily sprung from the headwaters of the Kinks’ Village Green… or Arthur albums. It’s not a sad song, particularly. Ironic, one would suppose. Sprightly horns and Quilty Kim’s fluid basslines add to the upbeat nature of the piece. Jared’s lyrics provide a wonderful sequence about the transformation of a tree into a tree, that could pass for its own spiritual evocation. Nicely done.

“Even Little Mountains” bears almost all of the same attributes. Mees refuses to sink to the lowest common denominator. His poetry is brainy and astute without being ponderous or pretentious- a fine line, to be sure. “Metronomes couldn’t compete/With the perfect placement of our heartbeats/Lying here before the curtain ascends/The silence fades and the day begins/And the paradox ensues- a Catch 22…” A bit beyond Duran Duran, to be sure.

It is firmly established with “Juicy Fruit” that someone listened to a lot of their parents’ albums, or managed to absorb music from that era (late ‘60s/early /70s) anyway- as this song bears a distant, yet distinct, musical reference to the song “Sweet City Woman” by one-hit-wonders, the Stampeders, from God only knows when, but it was a long time ago. Jared’s delightful falsetto chorus is the icing on the musical cake.

Heading in a completely different direction (bit of uptempo AltCountry twang) altogether, “Graverobbers” briefly repeats a C-A chord progression in the intro, that first showed up in “Even Little Mountains.” But here the overall feel is decidedly jovial and good natured- until towards the end of the song, where things turn contemplative and resolve in a sort of loose anthem. Neat trick.

The line “only good thoughts can stay” appears in the final track “Shake,” where it underscores the triumph of optimism in an uplifting paean to the vicissitudes of life in the 21^st century.

It’s impossible not to like Jared Mees and the Grown Children. Their sound is versatile and varied, while sticking to a thematic sense of wry acceptance, paired with a joyful positive outlook. The line in “Shake,” the title of this album, underscore precisely what makes them so much fun. They really mean what they are saying. In this vain, cynical world, that is a major achievement indeed.

By SP Clarke "I listen, so you don't have to."

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Wilkinson Blades

The Shins

Lost Lander

Y La Bamba

Laura Gibson

Shakers’ Sessions

Various Artists

Maria Catherine Callahan

Dry
Self-Produced

Rachel Taylor Brown

Steven “Pearly” Hettum

The Jangler + 2 Unreleased
Self-Released

Jared Mees & the Grown Children

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Various Artists

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The Jangler + 2 Unreleased Self-Released

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Links

Blogroll

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Dry
Self-Produced

The Jangler + 2 Unreleased
Self-Released