IN THE TUBE
It’s amazing how successful the recent VMAs have been at making people forget that MTV isn’t very cool (or musically relevant). Because, beyond Kanye’s goof, Beyonce and Lady Gaga offered up some pretty revelatory performances, and it seems like the VMAs, right now, are one of the most important forums for musical innovation. Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” briefly, was one of the best classic pop-performances, insofar as pop and spectacle can and should be married, that I’ve ever seen. It was like a maniacal, hyper-sexed, de-geometrized Busby Berkeley production. Beyonce is a super good dancer and just, you know, really hot. And my favorite part of the whole bit is that she doesn’t even really try to pretend like she’s not lip synching. What a cool girl.

But it’s Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi” that really surprised me. I’d neither seen nor heard Gaga until my buddy Pete showed me her VMA performance, and I was pretty blown away. Call me an old-timer, but I just don’t recall there being anything like this when I was young enough to even want to watch the VMAs. Madonna is an obvious precursor, however, Madonna was clearly a pop starlet first and foremost; she may have pushed the limits of public and performative sexual expression but I don’t honestly think she ever intended anything other than the amplification of “Madonna” as a brand. Lady Gaga, staring blankly at the camera, hanging dead and covered with blood, just seems to be psyched to fuck with me. I don’t even think I like the song, although it’s a serviceable enough pop song. I just get the distinct impression that Gaga’s a calculated prankster, that her intentions are more the dissolution of pop celebrity than her own star power. Between this performance of “Paparazzi” and its official video, her WTF factor is epic. I’m clearly behind the buzz on this one, but the choreographed cripple dance? The martyrdom? The crazy? There are totally a million seven-year-olds soaking this stuff up. Which is kind of amazing and way more radical than Madonna having sex with Jesus [Editor’s note: not that Jesus]. Well, maybe not. But… wait for it…THERE’S BLOOD IN HER EYEBALL. That’s dedication.

by Chris Kiehne

FRESH BAKED
Sonya Cotton
Red River
2009 | Self-Release
A

So it’s time for the context show.

There are two major elements that complicate my reviewing Sonya Cotton’s Red River. First, I know Sonya. She’s pretty cool, and she’s super nice to dogs. We are friends and we played music together for a long time. I also produced her first two albums. So, there’s that glaring “conflict of interest.” But I’ve no intention of writing a press release for Cotton, and I’d certainly, and without qualms, refuse to review her album if I wasn’t smitten by it. Second, I’m admittedly an overly liberal grader (much to the frustration of JM.com’s editors’ attempts to regulate the grading scale). The Low Anthem sounds really enthusiastic, shows a lot of promise, and has three incredible songs? Alright, “A.”  J. Tillman’s new album is significantly better than his last? Aw, hell. Give the guy an “A.” He’s worked hard for it. Sometimes the editors suggest that I rethink and perhaps alter those generous grades, and I appreciate and actually thank them for that. It’s nice to have somebody to reel you in every once in a while. And it’s not unlikely that they will question the fact that I’m throwing Red River an “A.” This is all to say that the “A” above (and I’m even tempted to give an “A+”) is mine, it’s not the site’s. If you don’t agree with my mark, that’s totally okay. Not everybody can love every album. And I have a feeling that this album in particular a lot of people are going to be lukewarm about. If you don’t like Sonya’s voice, you’re not going to like this album; it’s a lot of Sonya. And if you don’t generally like female singer-songwriters, then you probably won’t like this album either – even though I think it establishes Sonya as one of the premier living female folk songwriters, right alongside Nina Nastasia. (I love Joanna Newsom, but Ys is not nearly as consistent as Red River.)
More on Sonya Cotton | Red River

FRESH BAKED
J. Tillman
Year In The Kingdom
2009 | Western Vinyl
B+

J. Tillman’s got a fantastic voice. It’s a quiet hush that embodies an aching loneliness, some weathered resignation. But it’s also the kind of voice – the kind of whispery, measured reed – that can get very tired very quickly. Which has been problematic on all of Tillman’s prior releases: taken individually, without context, the songs are gorgeous folk stories; but, in listening to an album through, those same songs can get burdensome, too similar, too one-note. His 2006 offering, Long May You Run, J. Tillman, in theory, should be the perfect autumnal album – it’s Tillman at his Nick Drake-iest, alone with his guitar, singing his dependably beautiful gothic-folk songs – but there’s neither the intensity nor the singularity of purpose to maintain its own momentum. On 2007’s Cancer and Delirium’s “When I Light Your Darkened Door,” Tillman first started incorporating some of the elements that make his most recent album, Year In The Kingdom, his best: the dark, propulsive percussion, the unexpected dynamic eruptions, the eerie and intelligent and nearly unhinged accompaniment. But neither Cancer and Delirium nor its follow-up, Vacilando Territory Blues (released earlier this year), exhibited any real consistency.

Year In The Kingdom begins like any Tillman album might: alone with a guitar, singing a simple folk song. And, like most Tillman songs, it’s a good one. But Tillman alone is not good a enough template to build an album from. So it’s refreshing and exciting when this quiet opener “Year In The Kingdom” is followed by “Crosswinds,” which starts amidst a lingering cacophony of strings and distortion before blossoming into one of Tillman’s finest moments to date: a beautiful melody, gorgeous choral harmonies, an offsetting yet remarkably conceived dulcimer section, all barreling towards a considerable dynamic conclusion. Tillman has spent the past year in tenure as the drummer of Fleet Foxes, and their influence is felt: these songs are scrappier, more wild and experimental, than anything he’s presented before. Which suits him wonderfully: his earlier output was in constant threat of sterility; it was often so measured and immaculate that the blood felt drained from it.
More on J. Tillman | Year In The Kingdom

HIDDEN GEM
Royal City
Alone At The Microphone
Three Gut | 2001

The question: how does one qualify what constitutes a hidden gem? There seem a handful of conceivable avenues to pursue. There are those underappreciated albums that exist within a generally, or even wildly, appreciated body of work (Van Morrison’s Veedon Fleece, Bob Dylan’s World Gone Wrong). There are those albums that, while they garner a reasonable amount of attention, don’t seem to excite as much enthusiasm as one might reasonably expect, depending, of course, on the context and current climate. (It seems to me that Bowerbirds should have achieved the status of independent-folk elite by now.) And then there are those albums that simply never really registered at all – they’re  out of print, have little web presence, and have not inspired manifold amateur YouTube covers. I always refer to the Minneapolis-bred Bellwether as figureheads of this latter group. They released what seem to me the unquestionable high-points of “alternative country,” 2001’s Home Late and 2005’s Seven & Six. Both, in my opinion, are perfect albums and absolutely decimate the entire recorded output of Ryan Adams, Rhett Miller, Son Volt, pre-YHF Wilco, etc. And yet, Bellwether just didn’t register. No videos, no tab sites, nothing.

I’d long considered Canada’s Royal City to be Bellwether’s closest companions in this realm of criminal under-appreciation, in this place where incredibly gifted bands release incredibly conceived and performed albums that inspire, for whatever reason, little commercial fanfare. But now, Asthmatic Kitty is releasing a Royal City rarities collection, and I wonder: did Royal City attract hordes of silent admirers?  How much did their dissolution contribute to their falling off the grid? It’s a complicated equation. There’s plenty of retired performers that inspire ceaseless speculation and conversation. Have I simply missed the peripheral murmurings, the longings for Royal City’s reformation? Because Alone At The Microphone, their 2001 sophomore effort, is certainly as idol-worship-worthy an album as I’ve found in my collection. I simply don’t know how this album isn’t considered a fundamental template and cornerstone of contemporary dirty-folk music.
More on Royal City | Alone At The Microphone

IN THE TUBE
It’s a shame that it’s so difficult to find a physical copy of Shallow Graves, last year’s debut LP by Swedish singer-songwriter, The Tallest Man on Earth, because it’s such a strong record. It’s a solo affair – just the Tallest Man himself, Kristian Matsson, and his guitar and banjo – firmly rooted in the Appalachian folk style; all beautifully complex finger-picking, ringing open chords, and Matsson’s gravelly crow, which effortlessly outdoes his American contemporaries in terms of the high-and-lonesome-sounds. And it’s impeccably produced, insofar as its production mirrors and amplifies everything good about the material: it’s defiantly analog, awash in hiss, overdriven and warm, and pushing the red throughout.

Of course, it’s the songs that count, and thankfully it’s the songs that make Shallow Graves one of the finest pure-folk albums of the past few years. Matsson, as both a performer and composer, consistently accomplishes a nearly impossible task: writing maniacally energetic, dynamic songs for the voice and acoustic guitar, which, when performed, demand only that insular structure with which they were conceived (err…in short, he doesn’t need a band). His songs carry all the heft and weight and dynamic of a full folk-rock band, except it’s all transmitted through a single voice and a single guitar. I honestly can’t think of anybody except Matsson who is capable of constructing that kind of material right now in modern folk. There are plenty of incredibly accomplished songwriters who simply fall apart without their bands (Okkervil River’s Will Sheff), and plenty of songwriters whose material, although capably performed solo, is enriched immeasurably by the presence of accompaniment (Bon Iver, J Tillman, Fleet Foxes, every other alt-folk, woodsy band). Although many people will argue, it’s a basic truth: it’s really boring to watch a dude with an acoustic guitar alone on stage. So it’s a testament to Matsson that he can own an audience and a room so effortlessly, all by his lonesome. He’s still got some distance to cover before he really proves himself as a big-name (i.e. a second album), but, I’ll be honest: I can only think of one other performer who can so thoroughly captivate an audience and express such a manifold amount of emotion with exclusively a guitar, and that dude is Bob Dylan. So that’s pretty good company to keep.

Here’s “The Gardener.” Shallow Graves is consistent enough that it doesn’t really have a high point, so I’ll just say that it’s my favorite song of Matsson’s.

by Chris Kiehne

FRESH BAKED
Megafaun
Gather, Form & Fly
2009 | Hometapes
B

So my advanced enthusiasm for Gather, Form & Fly was pretty unwarranted. Which is my fault, because I misunderstood and overestimated the relationship between Megafaun and Bon Iver and Bowerbirds. And because I’d heard their absolutely incredible song “The Fade,” and thought, “Well, here’s another North Carolina folk-rock band that’s going to make a perfect record out of the gate and generally be all awesome.”  Which isn’t really the case, as Gather, Form & Fly is imperfect and as Megafaun doesn’t actually sound anything like Bowerbirds or Bon Iver. I mean, Megafaun is a really interesting band that has made a really interesting album. And it’s an album that begs comparison and contrast to other albums. But, in its quiet ways, it consistently circumvents any attempt contextualize it.

Gather, Form & Fly is probably best described as some sort of revisionist folk album, albeit a maniacal and schizophrenic one. It segues thoughtlessly from the spectrally beautiful instrumental opener (“Belle Marie”) through its two sun-baked folk-rock jewels (“Kaufman’s Ballad” and the truly inspired “The Fade”), into “Impressions of the Past,” which itself is a restless and not-quite-seamless blend of quiet folk, propulsive and rhythmic distorted improvisation, orchestral pop, and even – dare I say it? – barbershop quartet. All of which are in fact quite lovely genres. And then it continues right on into “Worried Mind,” the first of the album’s true downturns, a near-gorgeous classic folk tune that’s weighed down by a shamefully underperformed lead vocal track.  “Solid Ground” is a repetitive basic blues riff that has no right following the fascinatingly raucous, hell-raising “The Process.” “Gather, Form & Fly” is a stunning (mostly) instrumental piece, all scratchy guitar and banjo, the kind bound inextricably to nostalgic reminiscences of summer, front porches, starlit country nights, the creak and howl of the forest. And that’s followed up with the awful a cappella opening of “Columns” (which never betters its embarrassing first moments), which is itself followed by “The Longest Day,” with Christy Smith, one of the finest true male-female country duets of this or any other year.

So one can see what the problem is here: Gather, Form & Fly is one of those records. It’s the kind of record that’s near-brimming with fantastic material, inspired performances, and interesting ideas, and yet weighed down at every turn by surprisingly sour efforts. What is made of an album like that?  Disappointed expectation?  Imperiled or defeated potential?  Or a promise of hope?  There’s so much good there, so much energy and enthusiasm, that it virtually guarantees Megafaun’s success, if only for their quite apparent capabilities, if only for the consistence of perfection they might someday give to the world.

by Chris Kiehne

IN THE TUBE
In the land of hushed, let-me-whisper-a-secret-in-your-ear folk music, J Tillman is the reigning king. His voice is one of the most textured and beautiful in folk music today, and, unlike some of the other whisper-singers (Sam Beam, we’re looking at you), he’s capable of creating dynamic and nuanced atmosphere using only his voice, rather than depending on instruments and production tricks to force it. His voice is a stunning instrument, both onstage and off.

But it isn’t always coupled with appropriately inspired material. While 2006’s Long May You Run, J Tillman is a fantastic album name, but it’s too quiet and repetitive; his other 2006 LP, Minor Works, contains more fleshed material, but buries it beneath an “Adult Contemporary” sheen that drains the songs and Tillman’s voice of their grainy authenticity. Both 2007’s Cancer and Delirium and 2009’s Vacilando Territory Blues (sidenote: in case you haven’t guessed, Tillman records a lot) utilized a pristine, dusty production style that properly accommodates his voice. But, again, much of the material was underwritten, threadbare, and felt incomplete. These are the kind of albums that make you pause and think (especially Cancer and Delirium) that if he’d just spent a little more time on this, it might have been a masterpiece.

Tillman’s upcoming album, Year in the Kingdom, is unquestionably his finest. It might not be the masterwork that he’s got in him, but it’s certainly the most interesting and consistent album of his career so far. It’s hard not to hear the influence of his tenure as Fleet Foxes’ drummer: it’s a significantly more harmonic and choral work than he’s attempted in the past. Kingdom is most reminiscent of what I consider the apex of his recorded career thus far: Cancer and Delirium’s “When I Light Your Darkened Door.”

So, for the uninitiated, here’s that bit of Tillman perfection. It is an example of what keeps Tilllman relevant. ”When I Light Your Darkened Door” stands as a promise that Tillman will record a masterpiece, at least someday.

by Chris Kiehne

FRESH BAKED
Bowerbirds
Upper Air
2009 | Dead Oceans
A

It seemed inconceivable that Bowerbirds could improve their debut, 2007’s Hymns For A Dark Horse. That album is one of the most assured and realized debuts in recent memory; more so, it’s one of the most cohesive and inspired albums I’ve ever heard. It’s an incredibly complex valentine to a diseased Earth and a call to arms against its assailants, and yet it asserts and maintains significant distance from any topical American music: it mourns and rages, but never proselytizes. It was powerful, but not forceful. And so I was fearful when Upper Air was announced; it seemed hubristic to attempt a follow-up so quickly after such a meticulously crafted piece of work. I didn’t want a sophomore album from Bowerbirds – I especially didn’t want a rushed one. I wanted another masterpiece.

Well, it’s been delivered. Upper Air is an incredible and profound accomplishment. Whereas Hymns was meticulous and measured, Upper Air is sprawling and breathless. It is to their credit that Bowerbirds Phil Moore and Beth Tacular recorded and released these songs as quickly as they did. In doing so, they circumvented any threat of a sophomore slump. Upper Air bears no real interconnected relation to Hymns. It feels isolated entity, alive, and couldn’t have been measured or delayed. It’s an album of love songs. As in, like, about a girl.
More on Bowerbirds | Upper Air