Taking inspiration from the popular folk magazine of the '60s, Broadside, Torrent Magazine works to chronicle the highs and lows of the current folk music revival with album reviews, concert/tour reviews and articles. Published quarterly.
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Rise From the Ash & Clay: An Interview with The Milk Carton Kids
by E. Izzo
True to his stage persona, Joey Ryan sits before me calm and composed. We are backstage at Higher Ground in Burlington, Vermont. Contrary to the dimly lit, dingy rooms behind the curtain that legend suggests, Higher Ground’s backstage area is bright and plastered with photos of exuberant faces that have passed through. In just an hour the venue doors will open, the Milk Carton Kids’ audience arriving with expectations of an NPR-acclaimed harmony duo adept with deadpan humor. The question is whether or not the Milk Carton Kids’ faces will reflect those on the walls before them after this performance. Will it be a good night? Undoubtedly this thought is ever-present; Joey Ryan and Kenneth Pattengale, however, seem ultimately unfazed by the tightrope they are about to walk. Perhaps it is because despite being a band for only a few years, they have walked this path many times before.
Absentmindedly, Ryan adjusts his glasses, relazing into the couch he shares with Kenneth Pattengale before continuing his thought. “All of a sudden we were thrown into a way different world than the one we’d been operating in and it finally felt right.” Ryan says, “This sound... yeah, it’s not something we conceived and worked toward, it just kind of fell out. It felt like a departure.”
Before the Milk Carton Kids, Ryan and Pattengale were struggling solo artists working in two different genres -- one collaborating with the likes of Sarah Bareilles on indie-pop ballads, while the other played oddball country-blues.
“There is something, to me, that is very different about just the two voices and the two guitars for Joey and I because it means that we get to explore -- I guess, artistically -- in a way we otherwise wouldn’t.” Pattengale explains, “I think that’s part of why it might sound so different from what we were doing before because with defining such a specific set of tools to use, you can only explore certain areas.”
As the story goes, a few years ago, Ryan attended a show of Pattengale’s at a small venue in Los Angeles. In an interview with Austin City Limits, Ryan joked about his attendance. “I walked in on one of Kenneth’s performances... and I say it like that because it seems like no one was supposed to come. I surprised him.” After hearing a solo rendition of “Memoirs Of An Owned Dog,” Ryan approached Pattengale and introduced himself.
The newly formed duo released an album not long after -- Retrospect -- showcasing their strength as a live act and recording a performance at Zoey’s Cafe in California. Recycling tracks from their respective solo albums with a few new additions, Retrospect was released for free, followed by Prologue a few months later.
In March of 2013, the Milk Carton Kids released The Ash & Clay on Anti- Records. Nominated for a Grammy Award for Best Folk Album, The Ash & Clay boasted a duo newly reformed: the harmonies were more sophisticated than ever, the guitar sound more adventurous, the lyrics pensive and emotionally striking. No longer were Ryan and Pattengale solo artists working under the guise of being a single entity: no, with the release of songs like “Snake Eyes” and “Memphis,” we heard them fully emerge as a partnership.
The Milk Carton Kids have clearly found their niche in minimalism; their sound consists of two voices and two guitars -- that’s it. No kick drums, no banjos, and, as of yet, no handclaps. What they have created is something I liken to haiku: seemingly simple, but in reality, it is complex and startlingly personal.
This year The Milk Carton Kids embark on a “lap around the continent” as Ryan puts it, headlining almost fifty shows in twenty-five states and four Canadian provinces.
Before this nearly-sold out tour was booked, or even scheduled, I had a chance to sit down with them to talk about their transition into becoming a duo, how their blend comes together, and the future of The Milk Carton Kids.
TORRENT: You two have this gorgeous, incredibly earnest sound – listening to your solo work, the styles seem really different from what you’re doing now…
JOEY: Thank you.
KENNETH: Less gorgeous, less earnest. [laughs]
T: … is your sound something you really had to work toward or was it a -- uh, kind of natural culmination of your individual careers?
J: Well, I won’t say that we had to work for it because it sort of – it just happened a little bit naturally when we first played together, you know? It was neither the logical conclusion of our previous careers nor was it something we conceived intentionally and worked toward.
K: That’s fair. I would agree with that.
T: Are you committed to the minimalist aspect of your music or do you plan on adding more elements as time progresses?
J: Kick-drums.
T: Kick-drums?
J: Kick-drums.
K: I think we have one more album at least that’s just the two voices and the two guitars. I still think there’s some work to be done there. We’ve always talked about, from the beginning, that, you know, at a certain point there would be no sense in not exploring other sounds or ideas.
J: I don’t know, though… the further into this we get, to be honest, I feel like the more and more inappropriate it would be to do something broader, with a broader sonic scope, without changing the name or in some way. In the beginning we… well, I always felt like we could do this as a duo or we could add more to it but it would be the same thing at the center of it. Which might still be true, but the further into this duo that we get the more… inertia I think it has.
K: Traditional wisdom would suggest that it’s songwriting-based. You know? And I’m not putting us in this category, in this company, but you know – when Bob Dylan decided to go electric he didn’t change his band name. He could have.
J: Right.
K: ... With the hope that, I think, being in hindsight that everybody would look at it and see a singular voice and a singular songwriter and something that lasts that way. But I’m conflicted as you are because to me I feel like the sound is almost as defining as is the songwriting. But maybe it’s not, maybe we’d surprise ourselves by writing songs together and having a very strong voice carry through in a way that we wouldn’t expect. I imagine at some point, though, we’ll try. I think it would be… the only reason not to do it would be out of fear.
T: When Bob Dylan would be boo-ed for his new electric sound… he would play half acoustic, half electric sets. Do you feel you would cling onto your old material if you moved on, in that way?
K: Well, I think so and I don’t even think that it would be clingy. You know, like a song of ours like “Michigan” – which Joey did the majority of the writing on, to begin with – that to me didn’t really become what it is until we arranged it, we sang it. To me the sort of proper version of that song is one where there’s two guitars playing, two voices singing... it doesn’t even necessarily have to be Joey and I, two other people could be doing it and to me that song sounds right that way. I think if we were standing on stage twenty years from now with six other musicians, um… you know, the way I feel currently about it is… I feel it might be inappropriate with that song with anything other than those two. So I wouldn’t necessarily see it as trying to cling onto anything really, trying to be... regressive in that way, but hopefully we write just as good songs meant for a band that we could also share with people in that setting. But if we were gonna play “Michigan” I would hope that it was just the two of us playing it the way that we do now.
J: Yeah.
T: There have been a lot of comparisons made between you two and the Everly Brothers and people like…Dave Rawlings. Do you appreciate these constant comparisons or do they kind of bother you?
J: You know, I was thinking about this the other day because I felt…for a while I just thought that everybody likes to – when you talk about music you have to talk about it in the context of other music that you know. Um, I don’t think that’s necessarily true I think that we get it more than the average band and I think it’s because we’re sort of participating in a format that is… that has a long tradition, you know? The format is obviously not new. I think that singer-songwriters… the only way to talk about them is in the context of other singer-songwriters because you view them in the context of the art form that they’re participating in.
K: It’s part of the vocabulary.
J: … Yeah, the form that we have adopted is... an existing form and we’ve sort of stepped into it and are trying to do something within that framework.
K: Well, so does the constant reminder of that bother you at all?
J: No, it doesn’t bother me at all, actually. It has never bothered me even before I realized why that was the case. But I guess all of this is just to say that you know, a male harmony duo is not a new art form. It’s an old art form. That’s to say, specifically, the playing of the music of it is not supposed to be traditional, it’s just the frame work is traditional.
K: When people do that, it’s usually in the official press endeavoring to write something expository on our band and anytime they include that, it seems to me like it’s not only very high praise to be sort of lumped into the people they lump us in with, is particularly revealing about, you know, the esteem with which they regard us. I don’t read often people being compared to Simon & Garfunkel just because there’s two people singing. It seems to strike a note sometimes. I take it as praise.
T: Do you think it’s kind of an offshoot of being very excellent with harmony, perhaps?
J: The Simon & Garfunkel thing specifically? Yeah. I do.
K: And I wouldn’t… thank you for adding ‘excellent’ – I wouldn’t go on the record as saying my own harmonizing is excellent.
J: I didn’t mean to either.
K: But I do think it’s that.
J: It’s a commentary on the harmony.
K: It’s a commentary on the harmony and maybe is a commentary on the ambition that we have on our own harmonies. We try to write more interesting harmonies than the usual ‘follow the one voice just a third way’ or whatever is going on. We try to find a way to make it more interesting and more complex to ourselves, and they did as well. They did as well. The Everlys did as well. Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings do that as well. I feel like maybe people respond to that and recognize that a little bit when they mention those people.
T: Simon & Garfunkel... it’s my understanding that Paul Simon would write the song, the melody -- he’d sing it and working off of that, Art Garfunkel would construct the harmony part. You know, he’d just do it by ear. How do you put together your harmonies, is it similar to that?
J: In that way, Kenneth is like Art Garfunkel.
K: And in the physical way, Joey is like Art Garfunkel.
J: Well, except for the hair…
K: Tall, big hair…
J: Well, Kenneth is the more natural and gifted of the two of us in terms of writing the harmony part, so, you know, more often it works out that if there’s melody line, I’ll sing it and Kenneth will work out the second part, the part written afterwards which we rarely think of as a harmony. Even though both lines are written to stand alone as a melody a lot of the time, I think the way, psychologically, that our blend comes together is that we’re both treating our lines like harmonies. Like, neither of us is singing a melody rather than both of us singing a melody.
K: That’s fair.
J: I think you’ll notice— like, I’ve noticed it in our annunciation, you know?
K: What do you mean?
J: Like, we’ll leave off consonants and we’ll change vowel sounds to match to each other in a way that we wouldn’t—neither of us would do if we weren’t singing together. If we were both singing it as a melody, like singing with our own, more assertive voice we would never sing the way that we both sing together. We’re both…
K: We’re accommodating.
J: We’re both… yeah, we’re both accommodating each other as if the other is the lead part. It’s the opposite of like, the band approach where they’re all just incredible lead singers and they’re all singing lead at the same time, and that obviously was one of the most beautiful ways to do harmony but I think ours is the opposite.
T: Would you consider your live shows a bigger priority than recording your albums?
J: Lately.
K: I do. I feel like... [in 2012] we did a hundred and twenty shows and one of them was in front of microphones in a studio that got recorded.When we record albums it’s really not any different from doing a show with no audience. If we didn’t come to your city last year, then I guess that’s the thing you get to listen to. I’d much more prefer that people come and listen in the room anyway. We play all those songs better… than what we did on [The Ash & Clay]. It’s good still, but I can do it better if you show up in person and listen.
J: That’s our pitch, actually. That’s the merch pitch. You know – you like this show, you can buy the CD of it which has us doing it twelve months ago and not quite as good.
T: There you go.
K: I think the live shows are more important, though, you know, at the same time if we didn’t put out an album, we didn’t try to get as many people to listen to it and buy it as they could, then we wouldn’t quite have the excuse to come around and play as much as we do. So, you know, you sort of need both but as far as its artistic fulfillment, I enjoy standing on stage more. You know, when it’s a good night. When it’s a bad night it can be misery.
T: Was that the idea behind releasing your first two albums for free? To get people to your live shows?
J: Yeah. Basically.
K: Yeah. That was it. That was it for Joey. I like the idea of giving people things beyond that. Um… you know. We’re like the Robin Hood of music.
J: ... Stealing from ourselves and giving to everybody else.
K: Very self-serving though. Egotistical. Um… yeah, that was mostly a marketing gimmick. No. Was it? Was it a gimmick?
T: Does that kind of explain why “Des Moines” [from Prologue] was a hidden track? Was it more about marketing than anything else?
K: I don’t know what the thinking on that was. It should’ve just been on the album. You know… I guess the only reason I would ever find that interesting or fun is because it reminds me of, like, when I was fourteen years old and searching through record stores for different things and you’re trying… when you do the research and there’s some weird record store clerk telling you about the Japanese release that has got three extra songs on it or something weird, like… it doesn’t really, it doesn’t…
J: You’ve got to leave breadcrumbs around. No, it’s true. You do. You have to leave breadcrumbs around because so much nowadays is about making things incredibly easy to access, having a lot of exposures – especially to your fans – and a lot of personally revealing information in the world and so the idea of like, holding back a track and not publicizing it in a way, or like – in the reverse, giving albums away for free… I don’t know, there’s got to be some sort of reward, something there to find for someone who is inclined to look for it. To look for something, to dig a little deeper.
K: That’s what we should do for our next album. We should write, like…
J: Just not put it out?
K: We should write like thirty songs and then we should tell the label that we’re going to put out five different versions of the album. And they have, like… all of them have the same five songs on it but the five also have five different songs on it… and it doesn’t make sense. Like, one of them we only release in California, you know? One of them you have to reserve to sell in space when there’s music in space and that kind of stuff, but to a ridiculous level.
J: This is just the beginning of Kenneth’s genius. No, it’s just one of the great pleasures of being a fan of music. Finding rarities and nobody has those anymore, I don’t think.
K: Right, because the world is too small.
J: Yeah, the world’s too small and everybody’s too eager.
T: Where did ‘Memphis’ come from? What inspired you guys to write that?
K: We went to Memphis. We went to Memphis and ... we had never been to Memphis before. We’d heard of Memphis our entire lives... it’s a very important city in the American musical landscape and a very important city in the political landscape, in the racial landscape, and it stands for a great many things that have to do with our country in a very particular way. And we went there, and... it was a ghost town. There was nothing left that seemed to resemble any of that folklore that surrounded that city, and in fact, even worse, it seemed to be actively neglected by its own community. I would say, larger, by its own country. It was a very affecting sort of experience, and one that moved us to write a song about that sort of dynamic. That one is definitely obviously about Memphis but it very much could’ve taken place in Detroit or in Cleveland or in a number of the great American cities that seem not to be anymore. But in a place like Memphis, and also when we’ve gone through Detroit and through Cleveland and through Pittsburgh, you know… that’s not to say that there aren’t very vibrant communities in all of those places that really have identified themselves… that withstanding… when you travel through these places it’s much easy to recognize what’s absent.
T: And why the subtle references to Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland’?
K: Well, those are Joey’s addition. I think he liked how, just from a writing standpoint, how those helped to tie, I guess our story – you know, anytime you write a song people, as they should, take it as fiction, you know? Because we are fiction writers. Anybody who has made money as a popular songwriter, however serious they are, you should always regard them as fiction writers first and foremost, they’re not historians. They’re not under the scrutiny that academia places on historians. And with that said, I think one of the ways that, lyrically, you could try to make a story like that or an impression like that more relatable would be to tie it to the other references that the Global community have with places like Memphis. There’s also other references to Martin Luther King in that song. That’s where Dr. King was assassinated in the late sixties. So these were inclusions that we made… I guess primarily in the hopes that it would help make the song more real, more relatable. But I do also think they have a place there. We didn’t take advantage of that, I think they have a place told in that story that we were trying to tell – of absence and neglect and former glory.
T: And my last question... were there any albums that you like to listen to on the road, any artists?
J: Yes.
K: The one word answer?
J: Definitely.
Whether the venue is an attic in the middle of downtown Portland, a historic mansion in a nowhere town, or at home in your headphones -- the Milk Carton Kids carry a powerful presence there. Every live show is new and refreshing; a comment from someone in the audience turning the delicate balance of melancholy folk music and comedy on its head, the inclusion of an extra tune, a slip-up followed by gentle laughter, a long-winded guitar solo, a captivated audience sitting on the floorboards. Once you think you’ve seen it all, the Milk Carton Kids emerge from behind the curtains with familiar songs reborn. Each performance, live or recorded, is unique and immensely special whether heard once or four times or ten. There is something there... a sort of greatness permeating from the ease with which they present themselves on stage; the stillness of Joey Ryan’s performances combined with the unpredictable eccentricity, the passionate movement of Kenneth Pattengale’s. The sharp contrasts present a duo that somehow works despite the challenges that come with minimalist music. Somehow seeing this never loses its luster, never fails to impart one with the feeling that they have just experienced a stepping stone in an ever-growing legacy. From the ash and clay of their previous careers, the Milk Carton Kids have truly been reborn.
So get in your car and turn the stereo up, put in your headphones, or get a seat at their next live show and take a journey with the Milk Carton Kids. Visit California and discover that you love it too. Watch Michigan disappear in the rearview mirror. Walk through the streets of Memphis and wonder alongside them how we let it become so dormant. As for me, I’ll be in New York -- wanting more.
I have a list of go-to albums for -- literally -- a rainy day. You know those days - when all you really want to do is sip a cup of something warm and stare at the soaked world outside, while letting your mind soak up some new revelation or inspiration. Sumie’s self-titled debut album has just been added to my rainy day soundtrack – though I won’t go as far as grouping it with my top favorite albums.
Sumie has mastered poetic imagery with her lyrics. Take, for example, “Pull me down from my diamond nights. The sand pours time and it spells you” from “Spells You.” Each line taken on its own is a small grain of genius that will carry listeners into almost mystical contemplation.
However, the images are so abstract and unique that it is difficult to recognize a connection, or concrete story line running through each song. This disconnect first struck me with “Show Talked Windows” which begins with, “Show talked windows, cold raincoats, slow spy candles, fought in the storms.” Sumie’s lyrics function more like shiny pearls of different sizes and colors that are extraordinary individually, but don’t quite work together – and are strung into an awkward necklace anyway. This made it difficult for me to establish a concrete personal, intellectual connection to her songs.
Sumie’s musical style is almost the direct opposite of her lyrics. She carries a consistent sound throughout the album – and while some may criticize this as a lack of musical versatility – it is exactly what makes this a perfect rainy day soundtrack.
There is no question that the most striking aspect of this album is Sumie’s voice, which is as rich as a cello and ethereal as a flute. It’s as if you’re actually breathing in her smooth, haunting serenades.
Each song flows effortlessly into the sound and mood of the next. Deliciously meditative, her steady, melodic finger picking on an acoustic guitar effortlessly seduces the listener into a contemplative reverie – only occasionally stirred by a piano’s gentle rolling in songs like “Sailor Friends.”
Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to set down my pen, stare into a glowing fireplace, and let Sumie’s voice melt with the rain falling on the porch.
Sit back. Rid your mind of expectation. Ready your synapses to fire in whichever way they please. Become vulnerable to the possibilities of real-time imagination. Okay. You’re ready now to receive what Charlie Parr offers in his 12th album, Hollandale.
Over the course of this purely instrumental album, Parr remains true to the call of folk artists: to tell a story and usher listeners into engaging with their own. In the case of this album, the story was but one step ahead of the skilled fingers that swiftly moved their way up and down the neck of Parr’s fretless open-back banjo and resonator guitar. The concept of this album was birthed when featured electric guitarist and friend, Alan Sparhawk, encouraged Parr to do what he was most afraid of, yet earnestly desired; to create an improvised instrumental album. Sparhawk offered his bare, renovated home as a place for Parr to fully lose himself in the music. The results provide insight into the array of fears and freedoms Parr carries as a person and an artist.
The album is entitled Hollandale after Parr’s childhood home; a small town nestled in the open-country and rolling hills of Minnesota. Native to lands like these is the Barn Swallow, featured in the title of the fourth track on the album. Interestingly enough, the Barn Swallow are known for their tendency to breed in man-made structures. Just like the Swallow, Parr found himself a nest and birthed something that had been forming inside him for a long time. There are moments of ascension (”I Dreamed I Saw Paul Bunyon Last Night Part 2″) and rays of light (”Barnswallows at Twilight”) in which Parr taps into the free nature of the Barn Swallow as a bird. But for the most part, the intense country-folk inspired slides and dramatic drones on open D and C tunings present a sort of chaos that convey Parr’s fears and limitations. Like the Barn Swallow, Parr is limited to the structures of man and of himself. But with this album, Parr has broken free of the structures that formerly bound him and migrated into fresh terrain. All of this -- and with no words.
Although Parr claims to have created the album for himself, as stated in an interview featured on his website, the album grasps for something greater than itself, and in that, it is for the listener too. It takes the listener on a journey. Whether they are better off when the 43 minutes are over, well, art is how you perceive it right? We filter it through our own experiences and beliefs.
I first listened to the album at a crowded coffee shop and realized this wasn’t meant to be just background music, so I took a drive to the coast. I entered into somewhat of a trance -- the nature around me like one grand song and then debauchery and chaos musically crept into poisoning what I once thought was beautiful. And then in my imagination, morning came. The grand song returned, but tones of the dark night remained interwoven. As I opened my eyes for a moment, I looked out my car window to see a seagull carrying its violently flailing prey.
The experience is contingent on where your imagination wants to take you and likely, you won’t journey to the same place twice. What a beautiful thing music is. A true platform created for us to dance on, cry on, stop on, reflect on... express on.
Parr does not plan to tour this album because of its improvisational nature, but will sporadically play versions of tunes heard of Hollandale at upcoming shows. I don’t think this is the last we’ll hear from Parr, he is like the Barn Swallow after all.
Finding A Muse in New Orleans: An Interview with John Craigie
by K. Zweifel
A career as a touring folk musician might not quite live up to its romanticized façade, but life on the road certainly guarantees a singing storyteller like John Craigie plenty of material to keep his audiences entertained during shows.
That’s what first struck me about John when I “discovered” him in a one-room café in a small California town. He expertly weaved stories – that often elicited a roomful of laughter – into his lyrics and to fill the empty air between songs.
The truth is, going to a John Craigie show is like hanging out with an old friend in the living room, swapping tales of your adventures and reflecting on the wisdom life has handed you – all while creating new memories.
And that’s exactly what happened last December when Torrent was able to sit down with John Craigie at the last show of his fall tour to talk about his new album, The Apocalypse is Over, and hear his thoughts on modern folk music.
This wasn’t just any show. It happened to be an intimate performance at his sister’s Santa Barbara home – for family, friends, and a few faithful fans.
Torrent: You really seem to embody the character of a true, traveling folk musician. How would you describe your style?
John: Humorous storytelling, serious folk. That is the balance in music and my life. I didn’t used to think they could be mixed, because in the 90s, all the music was serious and it was cool not to talk. So when I was a kid, I actually wanted to be a comedian.
When I was younger, I would make mixtapes with standup comedy and music, from people like Bob Dylan, Jerry Seinfeld, Leonard Cohen, Rich Prior.
I realized you could tell jokes and stories between songs. Now, as a musician, I try to express that mix of comedy and music into my shows.
T: What do you like about touring?
J: The great thing about touring is that things will happen the night before that I can share with the audience. The interaction with the audience is so important, because it means you’re acknowledging them – and I noticed the audiences were responding well to that, getting excited about the show.
T: So, Torrent is a magazine that looks at the heart of folk music, but there’s obviously a lot of different ideas of what folk really is. How would you define the role of a folk musician?
J: With music, there are different jobs. Rockstars are fun, but then there’s the other role of someone who comes in - like Jon Stewart - to point out what some of us are already thinking.
At one point, folk seemed to be about protesting. Protesting had its time in history…but now folk is something different.
Now, we need a musician who isn’t afraid to talk honestly about what’s going on in the world and with the human experience – someone who won’t be too vague and will write lyrics that make sense, and speak to people.
Even though folk takes on different meanings throughout history – it won’t ever die. It will always be there, thriving in some way or another.
T: Let’s talk about your awesome new album. It has a whole new sound that we haven’t really heard from you until now. Can you tell me about about the deeper meaning of the song, “Goddess of New Orleans”?
J: I’m the kind of guy that has a real meaning to what I write. I’m curious what you think it means!
Apparently, our interpretation wasn’t too far off the mark, but here’s what John had to say:
When I went to New Orleans for the first time, it was just after Katrina, and New Orleans was still pretty torn up. There was this sense that it was mangled – that it had really been through something. I met someone – a woman - who embodied the essence of what I imagined the city to be, and the rest of my time there, I saw the energy as feminine.
Now I go back, and it really feels like there’s so much pride, and American has gotten really interested in it. I wanted to express that in my music.
T: In your song, “I Wrote Mr. Tambourine Man”, you talk about how you have to ‘give yourself the shivers’ – what exactly does that mean to you?
J: A lot of times I feel like I’m speaking to young songwriters. One of the things I see lacking, is that they get so into the business, they forget you actually have to be a good musician. To give yourself the shivers means…if you’re not getting emotional, then it won’t do it for anyone else.
T: Is that particular song based on an actual experience in New Orleans?
J: Yes, it is, actually. It’s about I guy I met in a bar in New Orleans, who told this long story about how he wrote the song while when Bob Dylan was in New Orleans during Mardis Gras. Supposedly he dropped the lyrics he wrote, and Bob Dylan found them and wrote a hit song out of them.
I actually ended up having a deep conversation with the guy about art. He said the perfect song is the song you only have to sing once. That embodies what I try to do in my performances.
The moral of the story, apparently, is that if you want to be a folk musician, you have to write good music – and tell good stories. If you need a little help, look for a guy in a New Orleans bar who has possibly been sent by the gods to be a muse for folk musicians.
Hailing from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, the Stray Birds' sound reflects their rural roots. The birds themselves grew up mere miles from each other, and all have musical backgrounds. However, it wasn't until a cold January evening in 2010 when Maya DeVitry and Oliver Craven first shared chords and friendship. That evening sparked a collaboration that produced the seven songs comprising their first EP, Borderland, with classically trained Charles Muench joining on upright bass. Two years passed, and Charlie was a member of the band. The Stray Birds recorded their first full length album, The Stray Birds, in 2012, and set off on a national tour through rowdy street corners and lauded concert halls. With a stirring mix of top-notch traditional bluegrass instrumentation, Maya's lyrical artistry, Oliver's toe-tapping, upbeat tunes and truly haunting raw harmonies, I hold The Stray Birds as an example of true Americana. Following their November 21st appearance at Caffe Lena in Saratoga Springs, NY, I was fortunate enough to interview Maya DeVitry. It was an opportunity to both hear a description of one of folk's most exciting new bands straight from its front woman and to learn about what it really means to be a full time artist. The answers my questions elicited are dispatches from the artistic front.
Torrent: How did the three of you get together as a band?
Maya: By December of 2009, I'd already dedicated many months of my life to aimlessly traveling with a fiddle in hand. I had road-tripped across the U.S., visited Western and Eastern Canada, and busked around Ireland, England, France, and Spain with several different friends and musical companions. I distinctly remember that it was on a bus ride into Spain that I re-discovered the music of Townes Van Zandt. I had been keeping consistent travel journals, which became more and more interspersed with my own poetry. I'd also started to hear lines or phrases that seemed to arrive in my mind with a specific melody, a specific rhythm. As I sat on that bus and listened to songs like "To Live's to Fly" and "For the Sake of the Song", I had this epiphany that I should begin to write songs. In Townes, I found this beautiful union of melody and poetry. When I returned to Pennsylvania for Christmas that December, I had a brand new intention to figure out how to write songs.
A few days after I arrived in my hometown, I happened upon Oliver Craven and Charlie Muench. I had known Charlie in high school, but we hadn't really kept in touch after that. Oliver and Charlie were beginning a bluegrass recording project in another high school friend's kitchen. Oliver and I connected instantly, and we spent much of the new few months sharing songs with each other, busking at the local farmer's market, and visiting open mics. We had a really strong personal and musical chemistry, and it was really exciting to find that so unexpectedly in our own backyard.
We recorded our first EP, "Borderland", the following summer, to capture what we'd be working out as a duo. Charlie sat in to play bass on a few of the tracks. And then we went separate ways for a while-- I went to school in Massachusetts, Oliver toured with a Virginia-based band called The Steel Wheels, Charlie was in school in Pennsylvania... The whole idea of The Stray Birds just sat on the back burner for months. But by January of 2012, we cleared our respective tables, and dove head-on into recording and performing as a full-time trio.
T: How would you describe your music to someone who had never heard you before? Who would you name as your greatest influences?
M: We call it Americana. My greatest influences include The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Emmylou Harris, Doc Watson, Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Tom Waits... I also went to a lot of festivals growing up, and got to hear a lot of campground picking and see a lot of incredible music on festival stages... I adored Gillian Welch's songwriting and delivery, and I loved Nickel Creek's energy and slick pickin', and I loved The Duhks' groove.
T: I've heard you say that when you began touring as band, there was no backup plan-that this was what you wanted to and would be doing. How do you make that work? How, in short, would you describe the life of a touring musician?
M: We found a lot of resources and initial support at a place called NERFA--the NorthEast Regional Folk Alliance. We were fully prepared to tour as much as possible, and we met a lot of house concert hosts and concert presenters who provided not only encouragement, but gigs. We were able to perform in front of some really respected people, such as Sarah Craig from Caffe Lena, and the people from the Philadelphia Folk Festival. And then we just toured as much as we could handle. We drove all around-- from Maine to Oklahoma. It was exhausting, and exhilarating, because people were responding to our live shows really enthusiastically. I think people could recognize that we had a sincere love for the music, and a sincere respect for each others’ musicianship. We're coming up on our 2 year anniversary of being a full-time band, and we've already played over 250 shows together!
T: The life of a musician is simultaneously the life of an artist and an entertainer. How do you stay "fun" without compromising the serious nature of much of your work?
M: I'd say it's simultaneously the life of an artist, and entertainer, and a businessperson. The craft of writing songs, and the craft of arranging the songs-- that art is entirely enjoyable to me. I love it. I just love the infinite challenge of creating a song, creating an experience, out of thin air. The entertaining is terrific too. I feel free and comfortable on stage. When we are touring, the actual show is hands-down my favorite hour of the day. My bandmates are excellent musicians-- intuitive, sensitive players. They're funny people, too. We play a lot, so the songs are tight, yet there is still room for evolution within each song. It's fun to discover how it evolves in real-time, on stage. We work with a team-- a manager, a booking agent, a tour publicist, a mechanic, etc. These people are integral to the success of the band. We also do a lot of behind-the-scenes work that isn't musical at all, but it's essential to keeping the engine running.
Torrent: Many say that the folk music going on now is in its own heyday- that we need not long for the early days of the revival, because the current scene is vibrant and beautiful in its own rite. What are your thoughts on this? Do you see yourselves as fitting into a particular movement in the folk or general music world?
Maya: All I know is that I am truly moved by some of our contemporaries, and we play their music in the car all the time-- John Fullbright, this singer-songwriter from Oklahoma-- his songs are exquisite.... Pharis and Jason Romero of Western Canada released a gorgeous album this year... We recently recorded with a stunning singer-songwriter named Ana Egge... Della Mae is fronted by a woman named Celia Woodsmith who has one of my favorite female voices... There's a Traveling Wilburys album spinning on the record player in this room right now, but there is some real good music entering the world these days, too! The scene is rich with talent and passion.
With lauded appearances at Philadelphia, Kerrville and Falcon Ridge Folk Festivals last summer, and the tremendous momentum of their music, the Stray Birds are going far. The band is scheduled to perform at the 2014 Celtic Connections festival in Scotland, and will follow that appearance with a month-long tour of the United Kingdom and Ireland. The trio is slated to release their 2nd full-length album this Spring-look for the Stray Birds on the horizon.
Huddled in the corner of San Francisco’s cozy Rickshaw Stop, I cross my fingers and pray that The Melodic will be at least half as good as their debut album Effra Parade. I’ve been let down before, by bands with ten times the experience of these relative newcomers from south London, but as the group takes the stage and begins to play I feel a rush of immediate relief, quickly followed by the all-too-rare joy experienced when a band is better than their already impressive recordings. The Melodic’s distinct sound somehow manages to be both lushly layered and invitingly simple, a quality that lends itself well to an opening act that has the challenge of wooing concertgoers ordering drinks while they wait for the main act.
I got a chance to speak with Huw Williams and Rudi Schmidt about The Melodic, the current incarnation in a string of projects since the duo first joined forces in high school. The group cultivates its innovative sound by casting a net far and wide across the musical landscape and pulling influences from “60s folk revival music both in the UK and America… but also from South America and Africa.” Williams and Schmidt attribute the luxurious nature of their music to the uncommon method of recording the album in a soundproofed bedroom, a drawn-out project of “layering it all up, which became an addictive process…instead of going into the studio as a band and laying the song out, it was about building it up, and bringing in people…from our community of musicians.”
When Williams gets on stage, with his curly mop of hair and vigilantly warbling voice, images of a young Bob Dylan spring to mind as he hunches his slender shoulders over the guitar to croon cerebral lines into the microphone. Offstage, Williams is quietly intense, providing thoughtful answers even to innocuous questions such as how they chose the title of their new album: “It’s the name of a street in the neighborhood we grew up in, but the Effra is also a river that runs beneath the neighborhood, and I liked the idea of it being this water that’s underneath us all, connecting us and reflecting our shared experiences and the music we share.” The calm and collected Williams is balanced by the perpetually enthusiastic Schmidt, who is excited about the band’s ability to make “folk music that gets people dancing.” And The Melodic definitely got the crowd moving, largely thanks to Schmidt himself, who puts his entire body behind every note so emphatically that the audience feels compelled to join him. The skillful efforts of Lydia Samuels on the autoharp and the melodica add an essential dimension to the set by rounding out and polishing the sound, and her soulful, lonesome voice is put on full display during the lively “Piece Me Back Together.” Visa problems forced the group to play without John Naldrett, and though the group considers his bass one of its “defining features… because it takes us away from just a folk sound by having pumping, interesting bass lines,” the absence pushed drummer James McCandless to step forward and drive the strong melodic rhythm behind the set. Headliner Johnny Flynn even joined The Melodic onstage for a bit to lend a hand on violin, underscoring the band’s vision of music as a community project.
Combining the considerable and varied talent of these musicians results in an altogether thrilling show that takes you through every emotion from outright sorrow (“Ode to Victor Jara”) to effervescent joy (“Roots”) and is so consistently well executed that the audience is able to lose itself in the music. The only giveaway to the band’s youthful inexperience is a slight sense of caution in their banter between songs, but that hesitation melts away as they are rightfully unafraid to rely on their well-crafted tunes. By putting under-utilized instruments like the melodica and the Charango to work, they are able to fabricate a fresh experience: the excitement in the audience was palpable during Samuels and Schmidt’s bouncy melodica duet, something I never knew was missing from my life but now find myself craving. The Melodic is the antidote to the recent deluge of homogenized folk-pop acts scrambling for attention in the wake of Mumford and Sons, and their vivacious showmanship is the argument against all those who decry live folk music as boring and uneventful. Their return to the states this spring to tour with Grammy-winning Tinariwen will no doubt bring great things for these up-and-comers, as well as for anyone smart enough to go catch one of their shows.
Alright, kiddies. Let’s get this out of the way now. Take a nice, deep breath and say it with me:
Jake Bugg is not the next Bob Dylan.
Sure, comparisons between the Nottingham native and the Boy from the North Country have abounded. They both have that cherub-faced, still-water personality thing going on. Career-wise, both started off building a following gradually on a smaller venue circuit, then parlayed that into a larger role in music festivals (Dylan had Newport; Bugg has Glastonbury). And make no mistake. With an increased following and an ever-growing tour schedule, live performance is where Bugg continues to thrive. To top it off, Bugg is already being heralded as the voice of a generation.
Is such high praise premature? Perhaps. Heavy-handed? Most likely. Bugg dismisses any such early accolades, and isn’t too keen on openly comparing himself to Dylan, or anybody else for that matter. But such a burden of title isn’t without merit. In some ways he’s already surpassed the Bard of Hibbing: Bugg’s self-titled debut album sold a hundred times better than Dylan’s, and Bugg did it when he was only 18, compared to Dylan being 20.
But again: Jake Bugg is not the next Bob Dylan.
Shangri La is a heavy album, but at first listen you might miss it. It opens with the fast-paced criticism “There’s a Beast and We All Feed It,” where an uncaring society misses the signs of its own downfall. There warning signs fade as soon as they appear, disseminated by means of the only reliable form of communication these days, social media (“Somehow we'd better speak it / We're scared someone will tweet it / It's on the wall but you won't read it / It's gone before you see it”).
For those who miss the writing on the (Facebook) wall, there’s the descent into the drug addled cityscape of “Messed Up Kids,” with its disturbingly cheery melody against depressing-as-all-hell lyrics (“And everywhere I see a sea of empty pockets / Beautiful girls with eyes so dark within their sockets”). And running those streets is the pill-slinging, cop-bribing “Kingpin.” But even for him it ain’t all sunshine and roses (“When you're the kingpin / All the eyes are on your crown / When you're the kingpin / People want to take you down”).
While singing about suffering in an upbeat manner makes for a fascinating listen, thankfully Bugg has a setting besides ironic. When it comes to personal relationships, Bugg really takes it down a notch. Such is the case with “Me And You,” with its narrator desperate for rare moments of intimacy in a life of frenetic stardom (“There are too many flashes and guards around me”). Then there’s the more self-aware “A Song About Love,” where Bugg sings a love song about…well, love songs. But instead of spouting whatever imagery (“Maybe you’re the rainbow”), he flat says a song about love’s not enough. And while he’s more or less calling love songs BS he sure sounds sweet doing it.
“Storm Passes Away” is a nice closer with a fair amount of twang reminiscent of a delta blues spiritual. This other kind of love song goes well with a series of songs wherein the characters revel in their own shortcomings, their own debauchery. It’s with this final song where he admits that continuing with the bad is totally worth it if that means things don’t have to end (“I’ll keep the storm if I can keep you / I’ll live in the rain if you will too”).
Without a doubt, Shangri La is the product of some hard work. But talented though he might be, Bugg didn’t do it all by his lonesome. Irish musician Iain Archer, co-writer and producer from Bugg’s debut album, returned to lend his talents. Music industry legend Rick Rubin, co-founder of Def Jam Records, served as producer on the project in Malibu’s Shangri-La Studio. Chad Smith, drummer for Red Hot Chili Peppers, gave even more of a boost to the album’s quality. Hopefully the success of Shangri La will only mildly go to Bugg’s head, and he remembers it’s been a group effort.
One final time: Jake Bugg is not the next Bob Dylan. But if he keeps at it, he just might be.
Noah Gundersen’s debut album, Ledges, delivers a tender, desperate glimpse into the heart of an artist. Like most first full-length albums Ledges contains a few tracks from Gundersen’s EP’s. “Poor Man’s Son” and “Cigarettes” return refreshed and reworked. Nearly every song features Abby Gundersen, Noah’s sister; her violin and harmonies add the dash of folk that this album needs.
Although Gundersen says he is “no longer religious” Ledges leads off with the almost entirely a capella track, “Poor Man’s Son.” This repetitive hymnal douses listeners in harmonies like a baptism. “Let’s go down, let’s go down in the river to pray,” sings the Gundersen clan; Abby, Noah, and younger brother, Jonathan. Ledges contains only scattered Biblical references, but overall, Gundersen has not shied away from spirituality. During an interview, he said he has “learned that spiritual energy transcends religion.”
This album transcends Gundersen’s past work with such authority it is obvious he will continue to grow as musician. “First Defeat” is a heartfelt, slow building tune. Gundersen taps into the loneliness and sentimentality that comes with having your dreams, or the person who embodies your dreams, “throw you to the floor and leave you stuttering…like the bullet you never saw coming.” Yet the song picks you up off your back and puts you on your feet again. Gundersen hits his falsetto’s edge while desperately declaring, “this will be the last time you take me.” This is the Gundersen we fall in love with, lyrically and musically inspired, pushing himself to his limits with each line.
This tenderness spills over into the next track, “Cigarettes.” The chorus breaks hearts with crisp yet raspy falsettos. Gundersen repeats, “Honey, you’re smooth” like Jeff Buckley howling, “Lover, no, it’s not too late” in “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over.” Cigarettes introduces the largest ensemble of the entire album: guitar, violin, harmonica, bass, and drums. This song gets me excited for Gundersen’s future work; it’s instrumentally grounded and full, lyrically poetic and clever. “Once you had me you don’t have me anymore,” sings Gundersen.
The dynamics between Abby and Noah Gundersen’s voices have been compared to Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova; I believe it is less about their voices and more about the melancholic nature of the lyrics and the harmonized delivery. Of course after 8 years of playing music together Noah and Abby voices have no doubt grown together, and out of this beautiful symbiosis Ledges is made. Their harmonies feel buttery smooth; even Abby’s violin playing seems to harmonize with the feelings that Noah’s lyrics bring out.
In the title track, Gundersen sings, “I’ve got a lot of loose ends, I’ve done some damage, I’ve cut the rope so it frayed.” Gundersen takes us to his edge, the cliff he believes he brought himself to. “Ledges” is thick with guilt, “I take a little too much without giving back…I drink a little too much.” He’s “looking for a steady hand.” Entrapment by guilt seems an interesting theme to have for someone who once wrote a song titled “Jesus, Jesus,” but if “Ledges” teaches us anything about Gundersen it’s that his focus has shifted internally.
In the end of the chorus he reveals that he’s “stand(ing) at edge of the ledges I’ve made, trying to be a better man for you.” The endless effort for the guilt ridden is to become the version of ourselves we believe we ought to be. Often this path is lathered in the metaphorical molasses of ill guided aims. Gundersen bounces back and forth between trying to be better for someone else’s approval and the seemingly more permanent redemption expressed in the bridge: “I wanna learn how to love, not just the feeling, bare all the consequences. I wanna learn how to love and give it all back, forgive me all that I’ve done.”
Ledges ought to end with “Dying Now,” another lyrical Goliath of a song, but “Time Moves Slowly” concludes the album instead. The excitement I felt listening to the rest of the album was just about equal to the frustration I felt listening to the Time Moves Slowly. Gundersen’s voice sounds entirely different. The song feels out of place, like it ought to play during the credits of a sad indie film. That is all I will say on the subject.
On the whole, Ledges is beautifully constructed and shares a wonderful story. Noah Gundersen is brutally honest with his debut album, and I have no doubt he will continue to amaze listeners with his future work.
This Song is Your Song: Pete Seeger’s Influence on American Music
by G. Scott
"Rulers should be careful about what songs are allowed to be sung.” Pete Seeger said that this quote from Plato was one of his favorites. In his lifetime, he showed that it was true, speaking truth to power with nothing more than a 5-string banjo and a song. Pete passed away in New York City at age 94 on January 27th, 2014. Just ten days before, he was reportedly chopping wood.
Folk music as we know it wouldn't exist without Pete Seeger. Every one of us has sung at least one of his songs, which are as much a part of the American lexicon as “Happy Birthday.” He pioneered protest music and continued fighting the good fight until the day he died. His influence is all over the musical landscape, from the sixties folkies to 90s punk rockers.
Folklorist Alan Lomax said that the genre of folk music was born on March 3rd, 1940, the day Pete met Woody Guthrie. The two hoboed across the country learning and sharing songs everywhere they went. After his rambling, his stint in the army and an attempt by the McCarthy communist witch hunts to shut him down, he finally found his audience in the budding 60s folk scene.
Pete's songs are classics, although you may have never heard him sing them. Peter, Paul and Mary's took Pete's tune “If I Had a Hammer” and made it one of their signature numbers. The Byrds rocked out his “Turn Turn Turn” and created a 60s anthem. The Kingston Trio's version of “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” and the Tokens' “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” which is based on Pete's version of South African folk tune “Wimoweh,” were both big hits.
But Pete's influence goes far beyond the songs he wrote in his lifetime. He was extremely important as a discoverer and teacher of folk music. From an early age, his parents, both teachers at Julliard, exposed him to rural music whenever possible. It was his mission to keep this American roots music alive and he did so by introducing it to the public.
Songs everyone knows today, from “On Top Of Old Smoky” to the Civil Rights rallying cry “We Shall Overcome” were diamonds dug out of the rich earth of old American music and brought to light by Pete Seeger. In 2006, he told the Associated Press, “The most important job I did was go from college to college to college to college, one after the other, usually small ones, and I showed the kids there's a lot of great music in this country they never played on the radio.”
Pete was especially proud of Rainbow Quest, his PBS show that ran in 1965 and 66, where he interviewed and played with folk, blues, country and gospel musicians. He brought the Reverend Gary Davis, Doc Watson, Johnny Cash, Mississippi John Hurt, the Stanley Brothers and over 30 other artists who were largely ignored at the time to television audiences.
Pete will be remembered not only for his songs and teaching younger generations about folk music, but also about his political activism and the great social changes it led to. He had a keen sense of history and understood well his place in it. He was part of the old tradition of American activism and his performances were entertainment, interpersonal communication, social commentary and history lesson, all rolled up into one.
He fought for international disarmament, civil rights, preservation of the environment, social justice, anti-McCarthyism, anti-Fascism, anti-Vietnam War, anti-Iraq War and numerous other causes. When Pete got involved in a cause, its profile grew. And his audience wasn't just privileged hippy college kids, but everyone from coal miners to presidents.
Up until his death, he never stopped believing that people can make a change. While politics and social conscience have largely disappeared from popular music, he kept the flag flying high. He could be seen singing on a street corner with Iraq War protesters while most of the popular music world was navel gazing. He marched with the Occupy Movement in the 90s. He always did what he felt was right, not what was popular.
He also continued to pack crowds until the very end of his life. Pete still gave energetic, politically active performances that audiences of all ages and types loved.
Pete always felt he was nothing special. In an interview in the 90s, he said, “I was never the best singer or the best banjo player anyway. But that never mattered. What mattered is what I was singing, and what I could get the audience to sing. As long as I can wave my hands and get people to sing “This Land is Your Land” and understand what it is really saying, I'm doing my job.”
Pete Seeger definitely accomplished that and a whole lot more, from creating folk music as we know it today to bringing about real social change in America.
As I try to be an intellectually honest writer, I'll start off by giving you two disclaimers. First, my rural Alabama upbringing has given me certain preconceptions about what constitutes "bluegrass." Second, though I grew up surrounded by bluegrass--including having a family of cousins who made a living singing gospel-soaked bluegrass around the South--it isn't my go-to genre for recreational listening. Those things said, I thought this show was, to put it briefly, a pretty good way to spend a Saturday night. Here's more of my take on it...
An income- and age-diverse but racially homogenous crowd lined up at Washington, D.C.'s legendary 9:30 Club for the sold-out show. Luckily for them, the previous week's polar vortex had temporarily loosened its grip on the city; still, a damp chill remained in the air, causing some to huddle for warmth while others slipped into the adjacent Satellite Room for a quick drink before doors.
Occupying the sweet spot where gritty Georgia Avenue and the trendy U Street Corridor meet, 9:30 holds 1200 people on two levels. Seasoned concertgoers who want the best views away from the sweaty front row tend to gravitate toward the ample balcony. Your reviewer, however, braved the front row, seeking an immersion in Greensky Bluegrass culture. I happened upon a chatty couple who did their best to get me up to speed on the band while we waited for the opening act.
When Tumbleweed Wanderers took the stage around 8 p.m., marijuana smoke promptly began wafting through the air. I watched a young hipster couple furtively glancing about--like small woodland creatures on the alert for predators--as they shared a small pipe. Mostly, though, all eyes were on singer and band co-founder Jeremy Lyon (a fellow redhead), who immediately commanded the crowd's attention while drummer Daniel Blum kept a charging, insistent rhythm. The Oakland-based group, though only in existence for three years, has cultivated a tight, professional sound usually associated with more long-standing acts. They did a good job of balancing their technically skilled playing with well-placed hooks to keep listeners engaged.
My overall impression of Tumbleweed Wanderers is that, despite their folksy/bluegrass-y name, these guys are basically a rock band; they use two electric guitars and straight-ahead rock chord progressions and song structure. Although I enjoyed the show--they kept up a high energy throughout their set, and they had nice hooks and obviously strong musicianship--I can't say that I was "blown away." Still, their set left me feeling satisfied and energized.
After a reasonably quick changeover marked by another round of weed smoke and murmurs of anticipation, Greensky Bluegrass took to the stage with a fury. The audience immediately fell under the spell of the full, rich tone of Anders Beck's dobro coupled with Paul Hoffman's pied-piper-esque mandolin (I scrawled that last bit in my notebook after two three...a *few* drinks, okay...don't judge!). By the time the band launched into crowd favorite "Lose My Way," I couldn't spot a single person in the place standing still. They lived up to their "jam-grass" reputation early in the set with a cover of Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing," where they struck that delicate balance between solo picker showcases and a tight arrangement that kept the song moving forward. (As a side note, I want to give a shout-out to the 9:30 Club audio staff, who did a great job with the mix, bringing out the bright, clear tones of each instrument.)
As a relative newcomer to the Greensky phenomenon (despite a 5-year stint in their native Michigan for grad school--I know, I know, what kind of folkie am I?!), I was struck by how much the band's fans connect with their lyrics. They seem to skew darker and more bluesy than most instrument-forward bluegrass. During songs like "Handguns" and encore number "Leap Year" I kept thinking, "Damn, this is good songwriting!" In spite of myself I was also impressed by their rendition of Springsteen's "Atlantic City," which was a much-loved standard on my childhood classic rock station.
Overall, I think the show was a worthwhile way to spend a few hours on a Saturday evening. Though similarly riffing on old bluegrass themes, each band brought something fresh and exciting. I did feel that both sets tended to sound too same-y for my taste toward the end, but this is a problem I commonly have with the bluegrass spectrum. It's not you, guys; it's me. Still, that's nothing a final glass of your favorite libation couldn't fix. Sadly, most of mine ended up spilling all over my notebook, courtesy of the good-natured drunk dancers beside me...maybe next time these guys come to town I'll play it safe and go for the balcony.
One of the intangibles that made the careers of barebones indie-folk steadfasts like Elliott Smith and Iron & Wine was, and is, those artists’ ability to stir their pot with modest means and come away with something of particular substance. A voice, six strings—the true enduring minimalists needed little else, and the result was beautiful even so.
That’s not to say the movement is dead; far from it—even Grass Punks here has its moments of sublime delivery sprinkled amongst its tracks; the instrumental “Green Shampoo” resonates with an organic ambiance that’s hard to shake from early on—but Tom Brosseau couldn’t be seen as more than a hushed fellow traveler with what he’s put out on the record so far.
When the North Dakotan by-way-of Los Angeles does emerge for lyric commentary on Punks, it tends toward dulling simplicity (“I Love to Play Guitar”) or, worse, superficial metaphor—maybe I’m jaded, but to me a song like “Cradle Your Device,” which laments a lover’s fixation on her cell phone, of all things, is just too easy. Yes, we can all recognize the sentiment Brosseau’s toying with, but I have to believe there’s a better way to broach the subject than this. “Cradle” lazily plucks at low-hanging strings, looking for a manipulated response. It’s the sort of song that belongs on the soundtrack for Her, not in place of the likes of Alex Turner’s haunting, understated Submarine compositions or Seu Georges’s diegetic covers for The Life Aquatic.
Granted, there are moments of honest sweetness in Brosseau’s point-plain performance—“Today Is a Bright New Day” utilizes the singer-songwriter’s near-quivering vocals nicely in a sparse piece; and “We Were Meant to Be Together” is the best song on Grass Punks by far, pairing the longing melancholy of The Wall’s “Goodbye Blue Sky” with Brosseau’s Dakota innocence in a standout track that holds its own beyond the record’s white picket fence.
For me, Brosseau is a something of a flyover descendant of Syd Barrett during the Madcap years—his lyrics are categorically fundamental in such a way that you’re left unsure if his remarks are delicate entendres or merely listless trail-offs. Soft billowing clouds on a lazy afternoon, but what do they say about the weather when we finally break from the daydream?
Grass Punks is a short album—start to finish clocks in at less than half an hour—and, while it may not be quite my cup of tea, the set offers little room for disdain. Still, Brosseau had an opportunity here to really carve out a niche for himself on the tidy record; instead, we’re given a glorified extended play, replete with a few moments of unassuming harmony as the singer-songwriter otherwise goes through the motions. Grass Punks is the work of a talented musician—there’s no doubt in my mind on that front—but I don’t need its trace of non sequiturs disguised as honesty. I need an escape, and Tom Brosseau hasn’t brought me one, at least not yet.
The word “tradition” ought to come to mind when you consider Locomotion, the first full length album by W.B. Givens. A dyed-in-the-wool Southerner, his life has taken him places. The tradition of the music from those various regions of the Southland emanates with every note on Locomotion: the foot-stomping fiddle of the Mississippi Delta; the finger-pickin’ banjo of rural Appalachia, the ethereal organ of any and every backwoods church revival. Together, they all create an auditory atmosphere thick with a vibrant history.
With that in mind, we can’t assume to know what thoughts of religion Givens holds in his heart. God has always played a major role in the music of the culture, and to that end Givens stays true to the roots of his craft. And let’s be honest: very few classic country songs purportedly about religion were ever populated by the totally good and righteous. It was all those down-and-dirty anti-heroes who are just looking for their own sort of peace. The same ones appear in Givens’ work. Faith flows in and out of the album but there is nothing evangelical about it.
So don’t be fooled by the title of “Oh My God,” the spry, fiddle-laden song that starts off the album. It’s less with the declaration of love for the Lord, and more about him forcing his shortcomings down the throats of others (“Get out of my way if you don’t like sailing in the hurricane”). Embracing his imperfections is a constant theme throughout Locomotion. Even when religion almost seems to be front-burner, Givens approaches it with a sense of tongue-in-cheek resentment. “Back to Church,” ponders the seemingly ludicrous notion that the same building could hold both the greatest joys and sorrows (“We marry, we bury in the same goddamn room”). He even takes comfort in his resolve to be absent, however long that might last. (“I’ll go back to church someday / But ‘til then I rest my case”). The final repetition of the chorus, slowed down and, having lost the lighter-hearted band and backed only by an organ, is downright haunting.
That religion hangs heavy in the air for most of the album is a given. But even when there are songs of praise, the singer is more an observer to the celebration of others. “Come Sunday” is also very much about church-going. But once again, it’s not by the singer. Instead, he finds himself alienated by the exultation of others and distanced by it, even though it’s going down at the church next door. While they’re busy singing to the rafters, he’s wallowing at home in muddied boots, licking his wounds from the night before. (“I bitch about the shape I’m in / While the sisters sing away their sins / In the church next door / And that lonesome sound / Still drowns me out”).
The characters of Locomotion are very imperfect creatures, and many of the songs they sing take that “put up or shut up” mentality towards God and the world at large. “Can’t Sit Still,” the final song of the album, is a sweeter side of that angst, while also the most saddening. No matter how prideful he started off, he ends it with admitting he’s not worth the heartache he causes (“Darling please don’t you cry / I don’t deserve one tear from your eye”). There might be hope that he’ll pull it together and stick around, but the lady he sings to really shouldn’t hold her breath (“And it hurts to say I just can’t sit still / Maybe someday I will / But if I can’t shake the road / Then I won’t mind dying alone”).
Like a growing number of musicians, Givens opted to self-release his album, breaking away from the tradition (See how that came back again?) of begging for a record contract and then releasing an album. The argument about traditional labels choosing quantity over quality is decades-old, and obviously mainstream music has a lot to offer. But this way rather suits Givens’s style. And it’s not like he really had to do it all alone. Friends and family played a vital role in the album’s creation (co-writer Chad Carson and cover artist Jonathan Lewis in particular). And where would any starving artist be without the tradition of traveling tours, building a fan base throughout the region and country?
For the less cynical among us, W.B. Givens is not only an exception, but hopefully the shape of things to come.
The Melodic’s first full-length album, Effra Parade, is unlike anything you’ve heard before. The versatile UK five-piece folk group create melodies that truly warrant their band name.
The album begins with a short melody and a sustained note on the melodica, almost as if to introduce itself as the group’s main squeeze and let the listener know that they will be well acquainted with the instrument by the end of the album.
In “On My Way,” easily one of my favorites of the album, lead man Huw Williams sings, “these precious times on your own, certain as the day, and the mist falls away, I’m on my way.” Similarly, in “Roots” he sings, “roots aren’t something you lay, but take on your way, and I know mine.” This theme of discovering and finding who you are in a state of physical and mental openness seems to play a part in the array of musical instruments and styles featured on the album. The group layers the charango, horns, flute, piano, cello, oboe, viola, melodica and many other unique instruments with soulful expertise. Influences are drawn from Peru, Bolivia, Afro-pop and of course, British folk; producing melodies that make your feet tap and shoulders shrug. The album goes from bright and danceable to a somber and contemplative place with ease.
The adventurous exploration of international sounds filtered through an English lens is admirable and has resulted in a fresh sound, which are few and far between these days. That being said, I found myself getting lost in the dance of the instrumentals -- especially the flutes in “Roots,” piano in “Imperfect Love,” and horns in “Effra Parade” -- but as soon as the melodica made its jarring voice known, I found myself wishing it’d go away. Which brings me to my next criticism: vocals. I understand the folky, plaintive intention of the voices that make up The Melodic, but I found them to be lacking in passion. They seemed to contradict the instrumentals and lyrics, which intrigued me, but left me preferring the tunes as background music. I can certainly appreciate their unique take on layering harmonies, but a little vocal range is needed and will definitely make their sound more dynamic. Maybe an underground rehearsal in the tunnel ways of the River Effra in London will direct them to where they need to go.
One particularly notable track is “Come Outside,” which I could hear making its way to the soundtrack of a surf video: “there’s only so much thinking someone like me can do, so oh won’t you come outside?” Another is “Watch the World Turn Blue,” in which the listener gets an inside look into the creative process of building a song.
Despite the criticism, I can sincerely say that the Melodic is on to something. As they continue to discover who they are as people and as artists, searching for the depths bring wisdom, I believe they will grow tremendously. Their instrumental foundation is solid, and with a little soul thrown in the mix, I anticipate something great in their next album.
AVAILABLE NOW: Our March 2014 issue has officially arrived! This quarter we’re talking with Joey Ryan and Kenneth Pattengale of The Milk Carton Kids, John Craigie, and Maya DeVitry of The Stray Birds. Also included in this issue are reviews of the latest releases by Charlie Parr, Jake Bugg, W.B. Givens and more. Get your copy here!
After releasing his fifth studio album -- Tape Deck Heart -- in the spring, folk punk artist Frank Turner went on two separate tours through the Unites States. Coming to Chicago in late October, I had the opportunity sit in on his performance at the Vic Theater and have a phone interview with him the next day. The two opening groups for his Fall tour were Koo Koo Kanga Roo, an interactive dance party duo of friends Neil and Bryan from Minneapolis, and The Smith Street Band, a folk punk band from Melbourne, Australia. The lineup for the show was certainly diverse, and as the doors opened, the crowd echoed that diversity. From well-dressed couples enjoying a night out, to punk enthusiasts sporting Bad Religion merch, Turner’s fan base is in no way restricted to any one group of people, and the audience truly came together as we all joined together for the short time we had to sing and dance our cares away. On the stage, Turner made it clear that music is best when it can be enjoyed as a community, which he also emphasized emphatically in our interview as I asked him questions on both traditional and contemporary folk music along with his experience working on Tape Deck Heart.
Torrent: Over the course of your career we’ve heard everything from hardcore punk to folk punk, but recently you’ve released some tracks of traditional English folk. What inspired your fascination with these forgotten songs?
Frank Turner: The first thing is when I started out playing acoustic guitar, I’d been hardcore for a long time; I wanted to see change, and I started to listen to Springsteen, Neil Young, early Dylan, stuff like that. I started playing that kind of music and I used the word folk to describe what I was doing; partly because I was listening to Bob Dylan and it was an ideological thing about it being music for a community, for everybody to listen to, rather than just angry people in their early twenties which was what my old band’s demographic was. Then quite early on, I had quite a lot of people saying “well you’re not actually a folk singer” because I won’t sing traditional songs. At the time, initially I was pissed off about that, but I have to say that as time has gone on, I kind of see their point actually, and I think I may actually even be on their side of that debate now. That sparked an interest in me to actually research traditional English music because it wasn’t something I knew about growing up. The other thing of course is that my other obsession in life, other than music, is history, and it dovetails quite neatly; listening to and researching traditional music.
T: That’s really interesting how that mentality has developed over your career. With all the research you’ve put into traditional folk, has any of it influenced your recent writing, particularly with Tape Deck Heart?
F: Yes, definitely! There are certainly a lot of melodic structures that I enjoy. I also think there’s this thematic storytelling of it that’s a part of it. The most obvious moment of that on Tape Deck Heart is the song “Broken Piano” and the opening line of it is “When I walked out one morning fair” which is actually the first line of “Banks of Primroses” which is an old English song, and it’s a kind of an homage or intellectual nod, and the melody of that song, “Broken Piano”, the first half of it is almost an a capella tune, it certainly is a melody from over one chord sort of thing, which again, most traditional music is a capella, so that was definitely a nod right there, although it then sounded like something quite radically un-folk towards the end of it, but it definitely is meant to sound traditional to that point.
T: It’s nice to hear that, because any fans who knew your interests in traditional folk surely recognized the incorporation of those styles into your music. Now that we’re onto Tape Deck Heart, it’s been reckoned as a tell-all album, and it’s clear that you weren’t hiding much of anything in your lyrics, but was it harder to write like that, or was it easier since you didn’t have to hide as much?
F: That is an excellent question! I think initially it was harder, but I had this whole bee in my bonnet when I started writing about it. I feel like a lot of bands, when they reach a certain level of success, they get used to the fact that the things that they say get evaluated and judged by strangers all over the world, and I think that a natural reaction to that is to get a bit more emotionally guarded when you write. I think that’s the reason a lot of bands’ third or fourth records, or should we say ‘post success’ records get, I want to find a less harsh way of saying this, but they get kind of bland, because you get worried about being evaluated and judged, and something is lost in that because when you’re writing an album in your bedroom as a kid with just you and a guitar, there’s a lot more of a direct route to emotional honesty there, and I think that’s what makes a lot of bands’ earlier records more interesting. I don’t want to be overly calculated and mechanical about the way that I write, but thinking about that, I wanted to try to force myself to write in such a way that I didn’t think anyone was going to listen to the end product. That’s not quite what I mean, but it’s to write in an unguarded way, and that took a certain amount of effort to get myself to that point. Once I did though, I think it was kind of easier in a way because it was just ‘say what you mean’ and damned be the consequences.
T: Well although it was easier to write when you got in that frame of mind, how does it feel to have all of that published and heard around the world?
F: Yeah, that’s the part that gets a little harder, you know, there are certain songs in the record, but the thing is while they might be about personal subjects there’s a degree of catharsis and empathy I suppose. So a song like “Plain Sailing Weather” which is a pretty harsh judgment of myself, people seem to connect with it and it goes down very well live, and that’s a good feeling; you look out and see a crowd of people throw themselves into it, and that feels good. On the other end, publishing a song like “Anymore” was difficult, and singing it is difficult now. It’s a very raw song and I’m not entirely comfortable with that song, but I still feel like it was worth producing because it makes a better record to put both of those situations out of my mind when working and recording.
T: Overall, Tape Deck Heart is about a breakup, and the title is very open to interpretation because different people can take different meanings to it, but what does it mean to you, or at least what does it mean within the context of the song “Tell-Tale Signs”?
F: I think the first thing is that it was kind of fun to have an open ended album title this time around because my previous records were always kind of specific in their meaning, or at least to me, and this one is a bit more open, which is nice. It has a bit of nostalgia, which I like, and I like the idea of it being that music is an essential obsession in my life, which it is, to an extent that it sometimes damages other parts of existence; my personal life comes second to my obsession with records and tapes. I also like the image of having something mechanical in my heart, and I also liked the idea of having something that doesn’t work very well, because tapes were kind of shit, you know what I mean? They were a pretty terrible format for listening to music, and if I could get back the hours of my life I spent trying to fix a tape that just successfully chewed itself to pieces, I could have learned another language or something. But I like that idea of having something mechanical and faulty.
T: Now you haven’t had a break longer than nine days since October of last year where you weren’t playing a live show, and even then, that October you were recording Tape Deck Heart. You also suffered a back injury earlier this year. With how your back is doing, do you think you’re going to take a break anytime soon?
F: That’s a good piece of research by the way. You know, it’s an interesting thing. To date I’m a very proactive person; I get bored easily and I don’t like to sit on my hands. In a way my whole kind of solo career since 2005 has been one mad rush of self-induced flow of electricity, and with my back that hasn’t been much fun and we are taking a five week break at the end of this tour, it’s been a long year. I’m not a hundred percent convinced that I’m burnt out, you know? I’m thirty one, and its different doing this at thirty-one than it is at twenty-three, and I don’t want to kill myself, and I don’t want to come to hate what I do, but we’ve got a show coming up after that five weeks, and I’ll be looking forward to it when it comes.
T: Folk music is always changing, as Bob Dylan’s music is different from Woody Guthrie’s, your music is different from Bob Dylan’s, but do you think you could give me a definition of what folk is, or at least contemporary folk?
F: Okay, brace yourself, you hit upon one of my intellectual bugbears in life. I love folk music, and the thing to me is that I think that there is an intellectual and a social definition to folk music. I’ve got a fair amount of time for the idea that folk music is traditional music as a definition, I think that’s a reasonable working definition for what folk music is, particularly in the UK and Ireland, I know its slightly different in America because it’s a younger country, but that idea of folk music being traditional music is a good one to me. However, at the same time I also feel that folk music is community music. One of my bugbears in life is that slight ‘museum piece’ attitude some people have toward folk music, and you end up with these songs that which can’t be changed, and everyone treats with kid gloves, and no one really knows. As I mentioned earlier I didn’t get to grow up knowing any traditional English music apart from nursery rhymes which are folk songs, and I think that’s a shame. First of all I think it’s a shame because there are great traditional songs out there, but also I think that arguably, pop music or rock and roll or whatever you want to call it fulfills quite a lot of the social music folk music used to fulfill in the sense that they’re everybody’s songs. I like to think that in some ways the litmus test of a folk song is that if you walk into a bar and start playing on a piano or a guitar, everybody would join in. By that definition, “Banks of Primroses” doesn’t really work, whereas “The Times They are Changing” or “Blowing in the wind probably does. I think “Blowing in the wind” is definitely a folk song by that definition. There’s an interesting dichotomy between the different definitions of what folk is. Obviously the best ones are the kind of folk songs that everybody knows. If you sing “Streets of London” in London, most people will know it and that’s a beautiful moment to have this old song be known, that’s great. I feel like there’s an argument to be made that “American Pie” is almost more of a folk song because if you sing it at a bar, everyone will know it over some old traditional song.
Turner’s two definitions of folk are a good fit to the genre today as we see so many varied folk artists arrive in the industry. Artists like Frank Turner, The Smith Street Band, Mumford & Sons, and Beans on Toast all add their own unique style to the genre, making folk less about the image, and more about the message behind their music. Those artists like Turner, who open themselves up to an audience, have their appeal because the music is that much more accessible. It’s relatable and honest. That explains why such a diverse crowd can show up to his shows night after night: it’s a community coming together to have a good time, whether that means singing till tears well up in their eyes during the chorus of “The Ballad of Me and My Friends” or dancing till their legs give out during “Four Simple Words”. Folk isn’t about the instruments, or the image. It’s about people: the folks of folk music.
ALBUM REVIEW: Gregory Alan Isakov's "The Weatherman"
By Bradley Ryan
When the modern folk movement began tramping train cars was the norm, hitchhiking was a way to make friends, and life on the move was every man’s dream. Jack Kerouac and Bob Dylan made the drifter lifestyle eternal by writing it. They had to write. They experienced life on the run, and the words poured from them. It’s the same for folk musician Gregory Alan Isakov; the words simply flow out of him. Some are born for life on the move, some are made for words, and there are a lucky few who turn their travels into words and words into feelings and from those feelings they create music.
Isakov calls The Weatherman, his new 2013 album, a “writer’s record,” and the songs reflect his dedication to lyrical poetry. It’s said Isakov is always writing. He often writes songs in the moment, in private, in the middle of the night. He gets a creative spark and follows it like bloodhound until the trail is dry. “Then I put it away, and pick it up later, maybe tomorrow,” he told NPR’s Rachel Martin.
Isakov always seems to follow a spark, a feeling. When his last album This Empty Northern Hemisphere became popular, McDonalds asked to use his track Big Black Car in one of their commercials. They would pay him handsomely. Isakov, horticulture major in college and lover of gardens, fields, and growing your own produce, refused the offer. Not much time had passed before McDonalds was back with an even bigger offer. Isakov and his band mates decided it was foolish to pass it up, except most people don’t know the reason they accepted. It was not for personal gain; they donated all of the money to charity. As expected, the ill-informed called Isakov a sellout, but he hasn’t slunk away from the gossip, he’s come back with new vigor and creativity and his ever-present love of words.
Isakov was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, and after coming to the states he spent years moving around constantly, touring with a band at age 16. He writes of travel in almost all of his songs, and the album itself has a brilliant sense of movement. He praises nature and the road. However, the lyrics often challenge listeners’ optimistic thoughts about travel, highlighting the heartache and loneliness that comes with it. He says in “All Shades of Blue,” “there ain’t no forgetting you’re all on your own…yeah, I think that you probably should stay…” Isakov admires travelling, but at the same time he knows the heart’s hunger for home; he argues if you settle for a moment you might see the turning of the season, the “trees turning gold in the hills.”
Throughout The Weatherman, he challenges convention. He takes the traditional way of seeing things and turns it on its head. In “The Universe,” he explores the personification of the universe, and how no one cares for her. She’s “wounded, but everybody says she’s beautiful.” The solitary piano notes fall like raindrops and the low ambient noises come and go almost unnoticed. The guitar remains steady throughout and the other instruments flutter in and out just like everyone moves in and out of the Universe’s life. Finally, in the last eighth, comes the glorious yet melancholic violin and cello as Isakov repeats “everybody says” over and over reinforcing the fact that we only know the Universe by the identity we’ve given her with our opinions of her beauty.
Isakov also takes our ideas about heroes and flips them. In “Second Chances,” he says, “All of my heroes sit up straight. They stare at the ground; they radiate.” The line is almost depressing. When was the last time you really sat up straight? Both literally and metaphorically speaking Isakov tells us maybe we will never be like our heroes. Good posture and heroic behavior seems just beyond our reach at all times. It’s melancholic to think of how your heroes are monuments of ideals and accomplishments you’ll never embody. Then again, in true Isakovian fashion he finishes on a more encouraging note concluding, “if it weren’t for second chances we’d all be alone.” The Weatherman as a whole, and certainly Isakov himself, seems to hold to the idea that even if you will certainly fail you should still try.
The Weatherman might not be your next workout soundtrack, or a party starter, but it is full of eccentricity and life. It is also not a simple re-creation of his previous albums. Of course, when he tells of arrowheads and train tracks and “finding his way to you” it feels like the Isakov we know and love. He delivers wise words in dreamy whispers. His stories deliver you to another time and place. The Weatherman offers similar intoxication and inspiration as a mysterious, dusty bookshop. At its core, The Weatherman is a campfire album, full of stargazing songs and daydream drifter melodies; it was recorded in a cabin in Colorado with an analogue gear and mixed on tape. Winter is coming so break out your sweaters and scarves, and allow The Weatherman to warm you inside and out.
In the two years since his last studio release, Brett Dennen returned to his home in the Sierra, Nevada foothills to craft his fifth album. The product of that work, Smoke and Mirrors, heralds a homecoming to his acoustic folk roots and the Northern California native clearly hasn’t lost his ability to craft a well-rounded batch of tunes. The strength of Smoke and Mirrors certainly lies in its musicality; where some folk musicians might fall into a one-track mind, Dennen thrives on exploring a variety of moods and emotions in each of his songs. Dennen’s deft instrumentals manage to slide from the peppy rock of “When We Were Young” toward the gentle, somnambulant “Smoke and Mirrors” without jolting the listener out of the larger experience of the album as a whole.
The album starts off with the saccharine and jangly “Sweet Persuasion” followed swiftly by “Wild Child,” the tune most likely to be stuck in your head for days at a time. The singer/songwriter’s distinctive croon can be off-putting for the uninitiated, but by the time the laid-back “You Make It Easy” rolls around you’ve been drawn into the warm embrace of his bubbly beats and cheery lyrics. Once Dennen has pulled you into his world, he swings into the mellifluous “Only Want You” which washes over the listener as a soothing lull between two faster-paced songs. The upbeat “When We Were Young” is a fun exercise in remembering how far you’ve come, and provides a heavy dose of nostalgic excitement to round out the first half of the album.
The second half of Smoke and Mirrors is a departure from the opening songs, and this shift comes with mixed results. The plaintive “Smoke and Mirrors” is pleasant, but easily forgotten in the wake of the more noteworthy tunes it follows. The weakest songs on the album, “Don’t Mess With Karma” and “Out of My Head,” are passable but both tunes seem like something Dennen is trying to sneak past the audience as the album winds to a finish. The penultimate tune, “Not Too Late,” does its best to redeem the album by serving as a charming modern counterpart to 1970s California rock. The album ends on a strong note with the soulful “Who Am I,” merging Dennen’s potent lyrics with his unpretentious (yet undeniably tempting) melodies to put his considerable skill set on full display.
With his latest entry into the folk catalog Brett Dennen manages to meet the rather high expectations he set for himself, so while Smoke and Mirrors doesn’t reinvent the wheel, it’s definitely worth your time.
