The Early Widows - Justin Rutledge

The Early Widows

Justin Rutledge
Six Shooter Records.

SCQ Rating: 76%

Justin Rutledge’s name has always been more familiar to me than his work. It's a name that might not stand out among Canada’s folk-centric export-list of birth-name musicians totting acoustic guitars, where the truly gifted tend to blur in with the coattail clingers. Yet the Rutledge name has far more prestigious connotations than local indie-admiration, and the man twice long-listed for the Polaris Prize officially distinguishes himself from our nation’s sad-sack contemporaries on The Early Widows.

The grounds that single Rutledge out from a line-up of rootsy, plaid-wearing balladeers isn’t as cut-and-dry as the laws of genre would prefer. Yes, The Early Widows bears the alt-country cross, even if the reality of its ten songs is far bleaker and emotive than most followers of Great Lake Swimmers or Hayden could handle. This is death-country, patiently throbbing amidst a spectrum of highs and lows (mostly lows) reminiscent of California’s infamous desert valley. So then what renders the yearning ‘Islands’ or ‘Turn Around’, with its kick-drum echoing canyon-wide, so captivating? Rutledge’s quivering vocals don’t disappoint, lending a committed authenticity to lyrical olive-branches, and his frugal climaxes ensures The Early Widows’ flow more meditative than conservative, but give due credit to Hawksley Workman as well. Without Workman’s subdued but all-encompassing production, placing expertly layered contributions into a barren but hopeful abyss, Rutledge’s restraint and perpetually earnest tone might’ve stretched this record into an unmerciful marathon. At their chest-beating best, Rutledge and Workman churn out exhausted ballads about drawing lines in the dirt. ‘Be a Man’ and ‘I Have Not Seen the Light’ both build from down-and-out lyrics and Top 40 country-signifiers to rousing choruses that satisfy any listener’s restless highway spirit.

If the mention of “exhausted ballads” doesn’t tickle your buying-bone, The Early Widows will likely test your patience. Even ‘The Heart Of a River’, an excellent mid-tempo rocker, can’t balance out its neighbouring stillness. Those with a tolerant ear, however, will persevere Rutledge’s pitch-black plateaus and learn to appreciate their creeping beauty. Although the pacing may be litigious for some, the album’s mood fills in any generous compositional holes with pedal-steel and choirs. All of these additional musicians create a bigger, more compelling picture for The Early Widows, even if none of them can make it feel tighter.

Workin' For The Music Man - Daniel Romano

Workin’ For the Music Man

Daniel Romano
You’ve Changed Records.

SCQ Rating: 79%

Although one needs to look no further than Attack In Black to admire the songwriting of Daniel Romano, a more apt reference point lies in 2009’s ode-to-folk Daniel, Fred & Julie. While reworking some acoustic classics alongside Fred Squire and Julie Doiron, Romano tossed a few originals that flowed so effortlessly into the mix, you’d be forgiven for thinking ‘The Runner’ or ‘Your Love’ belonged to the same cherished legacy as (Oh My Darling) ‘Clementine’. Romano played a critical role in that collection’s success and brings that same rootsy confidence to his first solo full-length.

As with Daniel, Fred & Julie, Romano seeks inspiration by looking to the past on Workin’ For the Music Man, gathering new material and session-players while foregoing the previous collaboration’s strict mono-only recording rule. Featuring contributions from the songwriter’s family and loved ones, the disc splits between whiskey-worn country-blues and bare-boned folk, utilizing full-band rowdiness or a lonesome, finger-picked six-string. Album highlights stem from both patches; ‘On the Night’ gives gracious nods to good decisions (namely, the expert fiddle-playing, his girlfriend Mischa's lovely vocals) and breathes fresh life into country’s carved-up bar-booths while ‘She Was the World To Me’ rests heavily upon Romano’s gut-wrenching vocals and a guitar, alone. The variety of songwriting feels wide-ranging - a few even sound as if they were recorded live, although you’d never guess before the crowd starts clapping - but all of Workin’ For the Music Man is painted with the same grit of authentic classics by Hank Williams, Springsteen and Petty.

Lighthearted as the mood of its recording comes off, Workin’ For the Music Man suffers slightly for its ease with the odd track too merry and boisterous to reward repeat listens (the organ-heavy ‘Poor Girls of Ontario’, the opening title track). At their worst, these rare slips sound like well-arranged sketches but, to give credit where it’s due, they also keep the pace breezy and unpredictable. And maybe they just require more listening-time; really, despite its casual, off-the-cuff impression, Workin’ For the Music Man has continued to win me over, boasting songwriting rich with surprises and moments that’ll cut you when you least expect it. As surely as we’ve yet to see the limits of Daniel Romano’s talent, I’ve yet to wear out the good company imparted in Workin’ For the Music Man.

We Used to Think the Freeway Sounded Like a River - Richmond Fontaine

We Used to Think the Freeway Sounded Like a River

Richmond Fontaine
Décor Records.

SCQ Rating: 84%

Hell, I’ve been kicking leaves, running backstreets each night while the sun sets earlier and earlier. Something about autumn seems to make surroundings feel real again; the haze and humidity that clouded the skyline and our lungs dissipates and one night you look out at the view from your balcony and see each distant apartment light, every midnight star, clearer than you had in months. Like a seasonal moment of clarity, these leaves and sweet breezes harness all the gravitas that felt useless during summer’s spontaneity and appropriately, We Used To Think The Freeway Sounded Like a River, the ninth studio album from this Portland, Oregon five-piece, feels as lived-in and precious as your favourite fall jacket.

At first listen, Richmond Fontaine sounds like a band of Americana drifters picking the sweet weeds laid down by Uncle Tupelo and early Ryan Adams, and there’s truth in such lofty comparisons. As surely as Willy Vlautin’s vocals share the smoked-out introspection of Jeff Tweedy, no one would be shocked had the guitarists of Richmond Fontaine turned out to be Heartbreaker-peddlers David Rawlings and Gillian Welch. Leave it to the title track’s establishing shot of abandoned homes and empty pools filled with shopping carts to kill the comparisons then, as we’re introduced to Vlautin’s life in the shadow of the freeway. Because it’s beautiful; a love-song for someone he lived with on the outskirts of nowhere, counting quarters and dozing off to the current of overhead traffic. Wisely, it’s also a catalyst – their humble abode is broken into and ravaged – for the album’s turn into bittersweet nostalgia and subsequent tales of moving on. There’s the account of ‘Ruby and Lou’ whose chance encounter with a homeless youth kickstarts their aimless journey, and the aging boxer in ‘The Pull’ who eventually has his retina detached and is forced to retire.

Forget spoilers: the sting in these stories lies far deeper than my rough summaries reveal and besides… the best tales belong to Vlautin’s autobiography. As the ascending chorus of ‘You Can Move Back Here’ finds the band rebounding from their earlier burglary with determined percussion and delicate piano accompaniment, the roots-driven guitar of ‘The Boyfriends’ gives way to a mariachi crest, where Vlautin admits a frightening realization linking the strange men who once courted his mother to his own one-night stand. Even his friends, who in the case of ‘Lonnie’ apparently live harder than our lead-singer protagonist, reflect the core elements to Vlautin’s expertise, highlighting through hearsay the self-abuse and desire that equips the best-armed songwriters. Although We Used to Think the Freeway Sounded Like a River is predominantly mid-tempo, Richmond Fontaine rarely stay still, alternating between bittersweet reflection, classic Dylan-esque narratives and pulsating barn-burners. Take ‘Two Alone’, a ragged and unruly stomp that finds the band at their tensely composed then cymbal-crashing best while Vlautin spits rebellion toward what commoners consider his predisposed legacy.

Yes, there’s a catharsis at work, one as stubborn as it is volatile, yet never does Willy Vlautin’s lyrical curve swing beyond the needs of a composition and into whiny self-righteousness. And that’s a clear distinction which divides the whole of Americana down the centre: those who sing about past experiences and those who re-live them. With We Used to Think the Freeway Sounded Like a River, Richmond Fontaine deserve that latter category, fleshing out their liquor and love yarns with sweeping instrumentals that connect these near stream-of-conscious recollections; ‘Sitting Outside My Dad’s Old House’ dwells from the porch like a quiet evening while ‘Walking Back to Our Place at 3 A.M.’ is carried by finger-picked and choral elation, as if resolving any trauma of the album’s opening robbery. Inevitably, it’s a false ending trumped by ‘A Letter to the Patron Saint of Nurses’, a spoken-word account of hospital horrors and dying dreams that sheds a different angle on the idyllic relationship that opened the disc. Despite the contrast of diseased reality and healthy lethargy, Vlautin and his lover remain comfortable but restless, in love yet indifferent. The life-lessons of being a nurse don’t instill renewed purpose, so much as find the couple losing optimism, and as broke as they started out.

We Used to Think the Freeway Sounded Like a River has its cyclical moment, sure, where resolution seems to evade Vlautin and his assorted cast of characters in favour of repetition, but that’s hardly the goal. What Richmond Fontaine (rounded out by Dave Harding, Sean Oldham, Paul Brainard and Dan Eccles) offer here are moments in time, as eloquently performed as they are lyrically detailed, which glimpse beyond the surface events without grasping for metaphysical purpose. How a band of this caliber – from Oregon, no less – remains more popular overseas than here in the West remains a mind-blowing mystery to me yet, make no mistake, this record belongs among the genre’s upper echelon. A tragic, triumphant modern classic for dying, autumnal days.

Outer South - Conor Oberst & the Mystic Valley Band

Outer South

Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band
Merge Records.

SCQ Rating: 48%

Well, I put this off as long as I could. Since its release, I’ve spent the majority of these four intervening months in denial that Outer South really arrived in stores. I mean, in its current form; with half of its sixteen tracks written and performed by backing-band members, in such ragged condition spawning an unedited seventy-minutes, and featuring such atrocious cover-art. With each of these encroaching details unveiled prior to its May release, I watched my window-of-hype slowly shrink… and don’t dare call that prejudice! For the man who has singlehandedly (forget Mike Mogis) forged his demons onto recordings with the scorching intimacy that earned die-hard fans and divisive acclaim, the very premise of Outer South was an uphill battle from the beginning. If last year’s Conor Oberst was an underwhelming grower, it sympathetically foreshadowed the letdown this follow-up dishes out.

Establishing itself along the same desert highway that charmed us on last year’s ‘Sausalito’, Outer South lazes forward with ‘Slowly (Oh So Slowly)’ and ‘To All the Lights in the Windows’; the former a hokier take on his alt-country self-titled, the latter a slight – but elongated – improvement. From there, Conor feels he’s set an appropriate pace and steps back to let the Mystic Valley Band sing a few… and inadvertently slaps his fanbase across the face with the Cars-ish, synth-pop embarrassment of ‘Air Mattress’ and the Wallflowers cover-band blues of ‘Bloodline’. The Mystic Valley Band manages to reign in an interesting alternative take of ‘Eagle on a Pole’ but too many of their front-and-center contributions resemble a Midwestern bar’s open-mic night. There’s a insincerity at work that Oberst might hurdle but these unknown vocalists reek of, and by the time ‘Snake Hill’ opens with an unfamiliar nasally voice stating “I was born on Snake Hill…”, I’m shaking my head and saying “no, you weren’t”. The worst part about these multiple low-points isn’t that Conor sat in studio and let these songs out, but that they might’ve been decent had Oberst manned the vocals. You don’t buy a Springsteen album to hear Max Weinberg sing, you don’t buy a Conor Oberst record to hear him play rhythm guitar.

This is an escape, sure… one strikingly similar to other once-prodigious, “new-Dylan” types; Ryan Adams ditched the solo pressure by burying his name in the Cardinals, Tweedy sidestepped expectations by honing a few adult-contemporary Wilco records. Like his colleagues, Oberst seems to be escaping a legacy set out for him by the press by, you know, jamming with his buds, but don’t completely buy it: Oberst is secretly smitten with his reputation as a generational singer-songwriter. How else could you explain the existence of Outer South as an artistic statement, not to mention a commercial product? The only thing more distressing than Oberst’s interest in this mess of an album is that he expected us to lap it up simply because it showcases his name.

Wilco (The Album) - Wilco

Wilco (The Album)

Wilco
Nonesuch Records.

SCQ Rating: 71%

Jeff Tweedy has always been a breeze of fresh air amid your average assemblage of egocentric songwriters. As if Wilco didn’t already own my heart in the summer of 2004 with A Ghost is Born, Tweedy gave what is hands-down my favourite Wilco interview to Pitchfork, wherein he explained the true nature of his rehab-stint. Not only did he deflate rock’n’roll rumours by admitting his time in rehab was to find remedy for his migraines and anxiety attacks, Tweedy also spoke out against artists who embrace bullshit rumours, citing Bob Dylan as a prime example of a songwriter who – if one looks into his timeline – can be seen buying into his own press. Such mysticism connected to the songwriter as an ‘enigmatic character’ meant nothing to Tweedy, and that was one of many interviews where the Wilco frontman refused to play into the rock and roll game. And ever since, I’ve believed in Tweedy because, despite his success and talent, the man never stood for any one thing. Always skirting big questions in favour of vague lyricism and a chameleon-esque set of musicians and styles, Tweedy focused on his thoughts and feelings, not the state of the nation or trendy charities. Whether that sounds quaint or selfish, that’s the role of a songwriter and not once has Tweedy forgotten his day job. Everything else is celebrity.

Upon the release of Wilco (The Album), however, and its first single ‘Wilco (The Song)’, it’s apparent that Tweedy has never said so little. Ever since the record’s announcement months ago, I’ve digested the exclamation of journalists, bloggers and fans all brimming over the album’s title, calling it “cheeky” and “clever”. Besides my opinion that had they simply rendered it a self-titled record, it would forego the cutesy and downright pointless (The Album) portion, it’s disheartening that the album’s title – or lack thereof – has earned the most headlines from this anticipated release. Yet for the life of me, I cannot grasp another angle worth brimming about in this follow-up to Sky Blue Sky, the first creative and stylistic standstill in Wilco’s decade-plus history. No, Feist’s lovely voice doesn’t change a thing.

Although less jam-oriented and breezy than Sky Blue Sky, Wilco (The Album) finds the Chicago-based sextet’s prerogative virtually unchanged, ambling down ho-hum acoustic patches on ‘Solitaire’ (which hints at ‘Muzzle of Bees’ greatness but never delivers) and hokey adult-contemporary musings on ‘Sonny Feeling’ and ‘Country Disappeared’. The band’s comfort in such laid-back melodies – not to mention some journalist’s accusation of “dad-rock” - are highlighted by the lifted George Harrison track ‘You Never Know’ and worst-Wilco-chorus-ever contender ‘I’ll Fight’. By any other band these are mildly skippable tracks but, as maddeningly reminded by Wilco (The Album), these songs represent further proof that Tweedy and Co. are losing the artistic edge that made their earlier works (Being There, Summerteeth, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, A Ghost is Born) so notorious.

As thoroughly as Sky Blue Sky shared less ingenious tracks with moments of greatness, Wilco (The Album) contains several instances of inspired resurrection. And strangely enough, these tracks are mapped out much like those on that 2007 release: a top-heavy selection of diverse Wilco hits (here we get the 70s strut of ‘Wilco (The Song)’, the supple build of a poet’s swansong on ‘One Wing’) and a piano-based closer that speaks in forevers (trade ‘On & On & On’ for ‘Everlasting Everything’). What sticks out like a black sheep (sorry…) is inevitably ‘Bull Black Nova’, a krautrock epic that breaches Wilco (The Album)’s curbed ambitions with the scope and intensity of the Wilco we knew five years ago. ‘Bull Black Nova’ and these other highlights (toss the brilliant ‘Deeper Down’ into that category) deserve better neighbours than the friendly but benign filler that pads this release.

When Tweedy blew off any notions of songwriter-mystery as journalistic hyperbole, his comments came off as brilliant because they stood on the shoulders of Wilco’s commendable, unique work. And besides those landmark albums, anyone with an interest in Wilco knew Tweedy – the lyricist who wrote some of the most cutting words alt country has ever heard, the front-man who hired and fired musicians with a dictator’s sense of power, the songwriter who detonated a division of Warner Brothers Records - was no Joe-Blow. Yet five years and two satisfactory albums later, his insistence on being a simple songwriter is beginning to make sense. After years of dodging questions into his lyrics and albums, maybe Wilco (The Album) is that empty statement Tweedy has exhaustingly sought to create. If it’s a personal victory for Wilco, it’s a shrugging delay-of-game for us.

Winter Hours - The Deep Dark Woods

Winter Hours

The Deep Dark Woods
Black Hen Music.

SCQ Rating: 76%

When winter descends here in Canada, we’re confronted with enough snow and bitter cold to last several months. The southwestern corner of British Columbia usually gets off easiest, followed by - my hometown - the Niagara region, yet wherever you are and wherever I seem to move, there’s no escaping winter’s clutches. Among the bleakest places to hibernate must be Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, the hometown of The Deep Dark Woods, who have characterized this dark season with Winter Hours; an album that fights our cottage-fever with warm tones of traditional country and folk.

Their first single, ‘All the Money I Had is Gone’, bears the alt. country cross that Ryan Adams and Josh Ritter swing around, yet with Ryan Boldt’s emotive baritone and the bluegrass ensemble’s deft instrumentation (Burke Barlow, Chris Mason and Lucas Goetz round out guitar, bass and drum duties), the familiar chords sound entirely fresh. That single is no fluke, as Deep Dark Woods’ irresistible melancholy flows throughout, opening the disc with ‘Farewell’’s far-reaching choral, landing plum-outta-ideas on the barstool for ‘How Can I Try’ and the title track’s beautiful vocal harmonizing. Strange thing is, Winter Hours always seems more hopeful than depressed, entrenching the band’s slow acoustics with a cast of worthy musicians who give ‘As I Roved Out’ its cozy fiddle and ‘The Sun Never Shines’ its classic organ. These additional contributions do their fare share of chasing the snow-clouds away and ensure that Winter Hours can be easily spun front to back.

Of course, it helps that Deep Dark Woods understand you can’t spend your whole winter sulking indoors, as illustrated by the bluegrass-jaunt ‘Nancy’ and the folk-rock pulse of ‘Two Time Loser’. The protagonist of Winter Hours may be dead broke and lonely, but that shouldn’t stop him from the occasional night out. Released on the edge of spring, I delayed purchasing this release because my own seasonal depression decided a record of additional winter blues might push me over the edge. Little did I know how optimistic Winter Hours would be, treating their fair share of heartbreak and isolation with an “aw shucks” customary for their genre. When the frost creeps back over your front lawn (cause you know it will), spend some time with the Deep Dark Woods.

Love is Hell - Ryan Adams

Love is Hell

Ryan Adams
Lost Highway Records.

SCQ Rating: 93%

Love is Hell Volume 1 shook me to the core. I bought it on a Friday, took it to my friend’s apartment that night, shot some rum, drank some codeine, passed out and walked home before sunrise. When I listened to it alone the next morning, I had no idea I would spend the next three days holed up in my room completely entranced. I lay in bed and memorized the words, I sat at my desk and studied the grays of his photography. Those days were an uninterrupted hangover caught in slow movements, where my body felt fine but my heart and mind suffered from something undiagnosed. I skipped meals and classes and phonecalls. I wondered how anyone could write self-absorption and desire and confusion and self-loathing with the barreled-out accuracy that Ryan Adams had.

Love is Hell Volume 2 woke me up with wintry overcast and hustled me out into a bitter-cold January of snow-stiff jeans and chimney clouds. I wanted a girlfriend who didn’t love me, I fucked over a bunch of people who didn’t die, I too wondered if it was snowing in space. Moreover, I believed it was… December through March, above the coal-black skies of Southern Ontario, tiny crystalline flakes I kicked around were arriving from unseen planets. I assumed, from lack of experience, that love was hell. It was impossible to explain to anyone how much I loved this record, or what songs represented it best. It still is. When I pass Love is Hell in a record store, I wish I could buy it again if only to experience that dirge of a honeymoon once more. When faced now with the task of reviewing it, I cringe with jealousy at the idea of someone discovering such an album for the first time. When I tell people that Love is Hell isn’t Ryan Adams’ best record, I’m telling the truth and lying all at once.

Cardinology - Ryan Adams & the Cardinals

Cardinology

Ryan Adams
Lost Highway Records.

SCQ Rating: 79%

When you’re as prolific as Ryan Adams, releasing anywhere from one to three records in a given year, album titles are hardly worth stressing about. Most of them, as Adams himself has admitted, are hilariously undercooked proposals: Gold was his take on 70s Gold AM radio, Demolition was unsurprisingly a collection of demos, Love is Hell was about love being hell and RockNRoll was about cocaine, er, I mean, rock and roll? Hell, according to a recent Adams interview for Rolling Stone, even the lovelorn intimacy of Heartbreaker found its title as a tribute to his favourite Mariah Carey hit. So when Easy Tiger was a verbatim reference to something Adams’ girlfriend had once told him, it nearly seemed poetic; after years of relentless albums, tours, girlfriends and illnesses, Easy Tiger was the first Adams’ release in a year and a half, finding him focused and sober. In fact, much of that album’s press seemed smitten with Adams’ newfound sobriety; a journalistic novelty for the subject formerly plagued by slander that his shows were unprofessional, his albums required editing, and his persona was a drunken punchline.

Another fifteen months pass and Adams’ new thesis, Cardinology, presents us with a study of his band The Cardinals. Of course, any fan of Adams is likely a Cardinals fan as well; their contributions to Cold Roses, Jacksonville City Nights and Easy Tiger (uncredited) reveal an outfit nearly as adaptable and multitalented as their ringleader, moving effortlessly from Grateful Dead noodling and country session band to classic-rock riffing. What defines Cardinology from past efforts is Adams’ back-step into the fold, where more than ever, he is a Cardinal instead of a prominent solo artist in front of a backing band. This union has been strengthening for years and their camaraderie is audible throughout twelve tracks of country-flavoured rock. Neal Casal contributes strong backing vocals, harmonizing with Adams or echoing his sentiments on laid-back ‘Natural Ghost’ and the riff-heavy ‘Magick’. Jon Graboff - in my opinion the Cardinals’ most crucial member - continues to build on his pedigree of brilliant pedal-steel performances, echoing the lazy romance of ‘Evergreen’ and rural warmth throughout. The power of this full band is unmistakable on lead single ‘Fix It’, a swaggering blues tune complete with Feinstein’s guitar solo and the powerful duo of Adams and Casal sharing chorus vocals.

Despite this well-honed group confidence, Cardinology offers another muscular argument: sobriety is damned boring. As Adams intones at one point “Be more like the trees and less like the clouds / stop moving around so much”, his narratives, fleeting and sparse, clearly reflect his cleaned up lifestyle. Where Love is Hell spoke poignantly or metaphorically about romance and death, or where 29 created interconnecting mysteries, plot-turns and characters, Cardinology discusses dead relationships, rehab, and how Adams retires to bed alone each night. If Easy Tiger suggested Adams’ wild days were behind him, Cardinology, lyrically at least, sounds convinced of it and roundly depressed. Exerpt (from 'Let Us Down Easy'):
“Instead of praying I tell God these jokes he must be tired of himself so much He must be more than disappointed
Christmas comes we eat alone a pretty smile surrounds a pretty girl who takes your order she yells it
and cries alone in the backroom once in a while until it stops”
Wait, what? How does one write ‘This House is Not for Sale’ or ‘Strawberry Wine’ while on heroin/coke combos, and then two years sober, write the fragmented lyrics above? These odd, scribbled phrases – that were occasionally visible on Easy Tiger – consume this latest effort, making one wonder whether Adams could clarify his words if he tried. Even when his lyrical talents, once biting and memorable, slide ever-closer toward the ramblings of a shut-in, Adams remains a thrilling performer with romantic regrets on the reverb-drenched climax of ‘Sink Ships’ and the pulsing melancholy of ‘Cobwebs’.

Earning more than a few comparative points to Easy Tiger with its no trimmings approach, Cardinology strikes even; it’s far more cohesive than its mixed-bag predecessor but occasionally suffers from its filtered classic-rock template. The record’s most interesting moments are those fragments of enlightenment Adams learned in rehab, where his pleas for guidance and recognition of past mistakes give his good ol’ rock and roll some gospel vibes. It’s among the slight progressions this record can boast, which after years of genre-shifts, finds Adams’ career at a standstill. Never has this once-misfit been so humble and inconspicuous on record; as a longtime fan, this phenomenon paints Cardinology as refreshing yet sporadically underwhelming.

Jacksonville City Nights - Ryan Adams & the Cardinals

Jacksonville City Nights

Ryan Adams & the Cardinals
Lost Highway Records.

SCQ Rating: 90%

Dear John,

Not a single note from this record belongs anywhere but in Autumn, that Autumn, when our street was cast in a month of harvest colours – an eternity by Fall’s clock – and I felt these songs kick up like dust from the front lawn. There wasn’t a whole lot else on my agenda, anyway; I’d work the weekdays in the concrete gutter of freight trucks and forklifts, then wander home beneath the glow of evening century trees. Most of all, I hung around waiting for you, sitting by the bay-window and collecting bottles like they were worth something to anyone else.

I don’t live there anymore, in case you ever wondered. Wherever I am now feels continents and persons removed from that street or the way I walked then. You can’t run from that, so who could bother trying. You only hope to find enough miles of distance from yourself that the two yous can live their lives without ever meeting again. Maybe that doesn’t add up to you, but I bet I’m still kicking somewhere round that red bungalow, cities away, listening to ‘Hard Way to Fall’s sad-choirboy chorus, and making myself sick. Still staring out at the roadside hills to the pedal-steel sighs of ‘Games’, still catching my reflection, long-haired and pale-faced to the slow pilgrimage of ‘Peaceful Valley’. When I hear these songs now I know that part of me’s still there waiting.

You know I could borrow my brother’s car, head down that barren highway and look in those windows. I could tap my wheel to ‘The Hardest Part’ or ‘Trains’ all the way through the small towns and wide farmland divides till I’m right there, on the drive, staring at the blackened windows you could’ve burnt out with me. Pull that dirty piano bench and pen a few of ‘Silver Bullets’ lonely keys that still play, find the back-shed empties that were whiskey to the veins of ‘My Heart is Broken’. Or turn out the light and listen for creaks in the house, aches in the walls, any step on the stairs that could’ve been you. But it’s ‘PA’ all over again, and the same news through the floorboards I always tried to ignore. You were gone.

I’d toss Jacksonville City Nights like the rest but lord it feels good; each song a separate rustling of leaves, each lyric a cut I’m proud to bare. You always said Love is Hell was your suicide letter, but it has nothing on this. Or me. We really lived for awhile, John. We really grew up together.

xo.

Cold Roses - Ryan Adams and the Cardinals

Cold Roses

Ryan Adams and the Cardinals
Lost Highway Records.

SCQ Rating: 87%

2005 was a banner year for Ryan Adams, an artist who was as prolific in the studio as he was in short-lived celebrity relationships and creative abortions, namely because he stood by his vow to release three full-length albums within 9 months. That each of these records was well-received as glorious returns to roots-rock after what many considered to be an unwise venture into mope-rock territory certainly fanned the Cardinal flames. The first of these releases, Cold Roses, was unveiled the night I caught his live show and incidentally met him. The club was curiously sweaty for an early May evening but we soldiered through a variety of alt-country ramblings that would only become clear in the months to follow. All the while I listened in to early reviews of Cold Roses from fans in crowd who mythologized its greatness to strangers between songs. Even now, years later, I can feel the warmth and humidity in these songs, from the heavy pace of ‘Magnolia Mountain’ to ‘Meadowlake Street’s long-grass soliloquy.

I’d be shocked if Adams doesn’t feel the same; Cold Roses is chocked full of nature imagery to the point of overkill. In this rural landscape he has painted, every street is named after plants or fruit, any obstacles made of earth and stone, every girl a river or rose. Most every reference is indicative of his own newfound peace, an easy plateau, so to speak, after the tumultuous years of Love is Hell and Rock N Roll that reached climax when he severely broke his wrist during a stage-fall in early 2004. Newly subdued and reflective, ‘How Do You Keep Love Alive’ finds Adams completely at odds with his winking counterpart while ‘When Will You Come Back Home’ is a James Taylor cover waiting to happen (as my father accurately pinned). His serene disposition even touches on ideas of spirituality in ‘Life is Beautiful’, a song that speaks volumes when compared to ‘Fuck the Universe’, written not two years earlier.

The idea of a Ryan Adams double-album rang off as redundant in some circles who deemed much of his records excessive and poorly edited, but Cold Roses proves focused, not only in its Grateful Dead jam-ability sense, but because I can only find two songs I could bear to cut from this eighteen song-cycle. And when tracks like ‘Sweet Illusions’ and ‘Cherry Lane’ aren’t wooing you with their mid-tempo guitar licks, you’re staring in the headlights of ‘Let It Ride’, one of Adams’ best songs ever.

Those who attended that sweltering show and claimed the record’s brilliance were mostly prophets; die-hards who would rather play Adams’ least attractive live renditions than any music beyond his considerate catalogue. Besides, this record is too expansive and intertwined to be judged through one listen in a parked car. They were quiet, still, when grouped around Adams in a parking lot after the show, when two disappointed, RockNRoll-loving show-goers shouted at the drunken songwriter from afar. Truth is, Cold Roses will almost certainly shake loose any new fans who rocked-out to ‘So Alive’; it’s too comfortable in its cowboy boots and 70s vinyl for the cover of Spin. But to fans who’ve lamented for Adams to embrace his roots once more, Cold Roses is beautiful like a long-awaited visit home.

29 - Ryan Adams

29

Ryan Adams
Lost Highway Records


SCQ Rating: 75%

A slew of albums (eight of which legitimate records, the rest orphaned/subject of trailed-off sentences) and twice as many personas, Ryan Adams has accumulated a legacy, unstable as it may be, comparable in both talent and profligacy to the aging songwriter generation he muses after. Throw in a few public meltdowns, several tour cancellations due to poor health, a commercial breakthrough, its inevitable backlash, an orchestra-pit collapse and a ton of reported substance abuse, and you have five years in a career which has given birth to enough material to warrant such comparisons to any Young or Westerberg. So you can lend the once-deemed "New Dylan" a seat if he sounds tired on 29, his third record of the year, as this is where one suspects that art is imitating life.

One glance at the blotted ink-stains and typewriter errors found throughout the liner notes reminds me of a common Ryan Adams gauntlet my mind occasionally throws down: is Ryan Adams a genius giving into lazy song-writing and jackassery? Or are all these rough edges and head-scratching, 'is-he-serious' lyrics part of his genius? When he sings "And I worry about you / Why, because you want me to," is it an honest assessment of a complicated relationship, or more of the aforementioned flippancy? More to the point, are the blotted ink-stains and typewriter errors committed purposefully or is Mr. Adams just rushing for the finish line? With most artists, I think the consensus would lie in the former. However with Ryan Adams, it's a rare mystique in his otherwise cartoon-worthy over-exposure; the artistic merit beneath a defensive jokester.

Regardless of which side you're on, neither will justify 'The Sadness'; a Mexican-Standoff complete with galloping guitars stolen from the Three Amigos soundtrack and worse, Adams screaming "Arrrrrriiiiba" to imaginary horses that will lead him away from, that's right, the Sadness. That this song shares a running time with some of Adam's most affecting work is a further shame, as much of 29's REAL sadness is tender and evocative in its instrumental and lyrical detail. 'Strawberry Wine' is a pastoral gem of minimalist acoustics; a simple serenade of guitar and banjo to complement one of Adams' many richly disturbing stories on display. "Starlite Diner' and the rather Morrissey-inspired title of "Elizabeth, You Were Born to Play That Part' further imbed an understanding of Adams' talent by stripping everything but his voice and a small band of instruments (aided by Ethan John's pristine production).

In fact, the regrettable moments on this record are the songs where he shows no regret; when he abandons his thematic passage of claustrophobic loneliness in lieu of, well, jackassery ('29'). And for an album consisting of only nine songs, the few missteps admittedly leave a larger smear on the record as a cohesive whole. No denying it, 29 is certainly the comedown record of his catalogue and, possibly, the wintry close of his formidable years. Here’s to the next five.

Follow the Lights - Ryan Adams & The Cardinals

Follow the Lights

Ryan Adams & The Cardinals
Lost Highway Records

SCQ Rating: 73%

A peace-offering after the marketing coup that kept the Cardinals’ name off the cover of Easy Tiger, Follow the Lights finds the band reunited with Adams, showcasing new material plus Cardinal versions of older material. The new tracks continue Adams recent admiration for traditional song-writing, and finally provide us with a studio rendition of live favourite ‘My Love for You is Real’. The title track and ‘Blue Hotel’ confirm that this is a collection far looser, less-strictly produced than its LP predecessor.

The top-notch highlight, ‘This Is It (Cardinals Version)’, proves both how versatile much of that RockNRoll material is, and how naturally a band like the Cardinals can compliment it. The last two Cardinal Versions, despite sounding great, leave much to be desired, and it would’ve been far more interesting to hear them perform, like ‘This Is It’, older material from Ryan Adams’ early solo material. 'The Drugs Not Working' or 'World War 24' as done by the Cardinals? Could've, Should've.