Category Archives: Blues

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“Old Sock” by Eric Clapton & “Electric” by Richard Thompson

Eric Clapton
Old Sock
Surfdog Records
1 star (out of 5)

Richard Thompson
Electric
New West Records
5 stars (out of 5)

By Aaron Keith Harris

Eric Clapton’s place as the godfather of rock guitarists is undisputed—of course because of his brilliant early work, but also because he seems like a nice guy who has outlived greater talents like Hendrix and Duane Allman—but as a solo artist his work has been erratic, reaching a new low with the fittingly—and frighteningly—named Old Sock. All of the adjectives it brings to mind apply to this 12-track, 53-minute set that nearly put me to sleep on a recent road trip.

There are only two new songs here—more about them later—and the remaining 10 are don’t seem to have been chosen for any other reason that the minimal effort they required. A folksy “Goodnight, Irene” and a syrupy “Born to Lose” (from Ray Charles’ country and western phase) would be bad enough, but tossing in three chestnuts from the so-called Great American Songbook in as well, all with shimmering strings and Roy Conniff-style backing vocals, is just painful, surpassing even the dreck that Rod Stewart has been shoveling for the last decade or so.

“Further on Down the Road” (Jesse Davis/Taj Mahal), “Till Your Well Runs Dry” (Peter Tosh), and “Your One and Only Man” (Otis Redding) sound like faux-reggae rejects from the 461 Ocean Boulevard sessions, while the late British blue guitarist Gary Moore’s “Still Got the Blues” is most assuredly devoid of any trace of the purported blues. A soft arrangement, a lazy vocal, and a brief guitar solo that could have been pieced together from three or four other solos from different songs just doesn’t cut it.

Neither of the new songs did Clapton write. “Gotta Get Over” almost comes to life, but not quite. It’s a decent song, with a decent vocal and lots of those familiar guitar fills that Clapton does better than anyone, but which have been done to death. The other original is “Every Little Thing,” which may have already wrapped up the award for worst track of 2013. Not only is it another of the faux-reggae lot, complete with a faux-Marley title, but its chorus halfway in assaults the listener with the worst sound that can be captured by a recording engineer: a children’s chorus. After this debacle, I’d be surprised if we ever got a good new track out of Clapton again.

However, the constant stream of great work from Richard Thompson continues. Electric was recorded in Nashville with Buddy Miller producing, with Thompson including, for the most part, just Taras Prodaniuk on bass, Michael Jerome on drums, and, occasionally, Siobhan Maher Kennedy on backing vocal. Without anything to hide behind, Thompson’s strengths as a singer, songwriter, and guitarist—both electric and acoustic—continue to amaze.

“Stony Ground,” “Sally B,” and especially “Stuck on the Treadmill” have the thump and heft of the sort of rock songs that aren’t getting made much these days: a cranky guy belting out pointed lyrics and driving the point home with guitar solos that sound like the gleam on a shiny new barbed-wire fence you glimpse as you’re about to hit it face-first after being thrown over the handlebars.

“Salford Sunday” and “Where’s Home?” have the folk tinge that Thompson’s work has had since his days with Fairport Convention, the latter featuring the incomparable Stuart Duncan on fiddle and some of the Buddy Miller sound that one might have expected on the rest of the disc. (I also wanted a Thompson/Miller guitar duel, but I guess Buddy knew better). “Straight and Narrow” is another rocker that Thompson does well—a grungy look at an unattainable, frustrating vamp—but I’ve never cared for the Farfisa organ sound.

Another Nashville luminary—Alison Krauss—lends her translucent voice to “The Snow Goose.” Though it’s only for a couple of slight passages, the two voices together are as as gorgeous as a summer sunset sliding through the clouds.

Thompson has always been able to write about the bitter and the sweet of mature relationships as well as anyone, and “Another Small Thing in Her Favour” and “Saving the Good Stuff for You” are two more that resonate more deeply than anything new I’ve heard lately.

“My Enemy” and “Good Things Happen to Bad People” are aptly situated near the middle of Electric, and they amount to 11 devastating minutes of haunting melody, harrowing guitar work, and a vocal/lyric meditation on self-hatred and contempt for the world that holds everyone to account. The effect is not quite cathartic, leaving the listener to deal with the scab that’s just been scraped off.

Electric is my frontrunner for this year’s best album, and it’s going to take something remarkable to change that.

RichardThompson-Cover-300dpi

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“Bluegrass Bluesman: A Memoir” by Josh Graves, edited by Fred Bartenstein

Bluegrass Bluesman: A Memoir
Josh Graves (Edited by Fred Bartenstein)
University of Illinois Press
5 stars (out of 5)

By Aaron Keith Harris

If you made a Mt. Rushmore for bluegrass music instrumentalists, there would have to be six faces—not five as Bill Monroe originally intended—and that sixth face would have to be the smiling visage of Josh Graves. Burkett Howard Graves, known professionally as “Buck” or “Uncle Josh,” was born in Tellico Plains, Tennessee (Monroe County, oddly enough) in 1927 and popularized the use of the Dobro, or resonator guitar, in bluegrass music.

Others, including yodeler Cliff Carlisle and his Hawaiian steel guitar and Bashful Brother Oswald, who played Dobro with Roy Acuff, had made the slide guitar sound part of country music, but when Monroe’s new brand of music called bluegrass branched off just after World War II, the Kentucky bandleader brought with him only guitar, upright bass, fiddle, and his own rapid-fire mandolin. Joined with Earl Scruggs three-finger banjo style, the new style became a separate and distinct form of country music.

In a series of recorded interviews that Fred Bartenstein has shaped into Bluegrass Bluesman: A Memoir, Josh Graves tells us how his Dobro playing was able to cut in and become a partner in what quickly became a highly stylized dance. First with Mac Wiseman and, starting in 1955 with Lester Flatt & Earl Scruggs’ Foggy Mountain Boys, Graves’ tone-rich, loud Dobro sound—the right hand influenced by Scruggs’ picking style, the left hand by Lightnin’ Hopkins and other black blues players—cut through the other noise to become an accepted part of a music played by hard-headed men whose main innovation was to tweak and then codify tradition.

At 176 pages (including a foreword from Neil Rosenberg, an introduction from Fred Bartenstein, and 16 pages containing 41 great black and white photographs) Bluegrass Bluesman is a slim volume, but that’s one of its virtues. The effect is that of spending a a day on the bus with a genial host who has lots of great stories not only about himself, but of many of the founders of one of America’s unique contributions to world music. Some of portraits are less-then-flattering, but there’s nothing vindictive or gratuitous, just the confirmation that our musical heroes are people too, and that their foibles and faults sometimes had important effects on the music just as their incredible talents did.

About 20 pages are dedicated to short tributes and remembrances from well-known colleagues, friends, and acolytes, and there’s a short appendix from Bobby Wolfe about Graves’ best-known guitars that will be of great interest to many.
Bluegrass Bluesman belongs with Can’t You Hear Me Callin’: The Life of Bill Monroe, Traveling the High Way Home: Ralph Stanley and the World of Traditional Bluegrass Music, and Still Inside: The Tony Rice Story as essential portraits of musicians essential to the history of bluegrass music.

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“Country Funk: 1969—1975″ by Various Artists

Various Artists 
Country Funk: 1969-1975 
Light in the Attic
4 stars (out of 5)

By Donald Teplyske

Before seeing advertising for this album, I’m not sure I had read the term “country funk” anywhere. I may have, but I don’t recall doing so. Country soul, yup. Country swamp. Memphis country. Delta country. I had heard of them all, but country funk is as good as any of them, I suppose. I knew what type of music would be on an album called Country Funk: 1969-1975: a bass throbbing, guitar-riff rich, sultry and lusty amalgam of reality, equal parts inner city blues and Chickasaw County kissin’-cousin country.

Larry Jon Wilson’s performance of “Ohoopee River Bottomland” in Heartworn Highways may have been my gateway into this music, but having spent 30-plus years listening to country, rock, and soul music, I was more than primed to fall under its spell. Following paths from Clarence Carter, Kate Campbell and Bobbie Gentry to Spooner Oldman, Charlie Rich and Tony Joe White, I’ve amassed a huge appreciation for music that combines the grittiness of real country with the effortlessness of thoughtful soul.

I resisted downloading Country Funk simply because I decided early on that this was an album that I wanted on vinyl. It just seemed to be appropriate to hear this album on a turntable. I’ve not ‘gone back’ to vinyl with the enthusiasm others may have for two simple reasons. One, I never completely left vinyl behind: it is tough for me to pass by a garage sale without looking for a box of records. I don’t know if vinyl sounds better than digital versions of music, but I know I appreciate it more and have recently lugged my twelve or thirteen boxes of records around the new basement more times than I should have. Secondly, regularly spending $25 or $30 for a vinyl album has never made sense to me. I have bought a half-dozen contemporary releases on vinyl—Mark Davis’ Eliminate the Toxins and the Del McCoury Band’s Bill Monroe tribute immediately come to mind—but it is still a special occasion when I buy new vinyl.

Based on my experiences with the Karen Dalton and Kris Kristofferson packages of a few years back and their more recent Louvin Brothers album, I knew Light in the Attic releases were well done. It therefore made sense to me that I would lay down $24.99 plus tax for this rather concise examination of a music I’ve felt a kinship toward.

Before we get to the music contained on this two-album set, a word about the package. Gatefold sleeve with an illustration that absolutely does justice to the 12×12 format; Jess Rotter’s line drawings and colours work beautifully to set the scene for these (mostly) early ‘70s recordings. Jessica Hundley’s notes provide some context, most importantly pointing out that no one was setting out to make music within a genre: people were just making music. She highlights Bobby Darin’s place within the compilation, and uncovers insights from artists including Dennis Caldirola, Dick Monda, Jr., and Tony Joe White. I would have liked more information about Larry Jon Wilson, Bobbie Gentry (whose name Hundley misspells as Bobby), Johnny Adams, and especially Gritz and Jim Ford, but what is contained provides a starting place.

The music is ’bout what you would expect. Album cuts and singles from various labels. Sixteen tracks, from the familiar and readily available (Jim Ford’s “I Wanta Make Her Love Me,” Tony Joe White’s “Studspider,” and Bobby Charles’ “Street People”) to entirely new, to me at least. Dale Hawkins, who I only know from “Susie Q,” gets things started with the shout-out “L.A. Memphis Tyler Texas.” Choice cuts include Johnny Adams’ brilliant “Georgia Morning Dew” and Link Wray’s “Fire and Brimstone,” a track that reveals more in four minutes than every version of “Rumble” I’ve ever heard. While Cherokee’s “Funky Business” doesn’t really go anywhere, it is a cool little tune, and I wouldn’t mind hearing more from them.

An album project such as this one should introduce listeners to under-appreciated artists, and this set does that through the music of Gray Fox (Dick Monda, Jr.), Dennis the Fox (Dennis Caldirola), Gritz, and John Randolph Marr. Caldirola’s “Piledriver” captures the drive-in movie sensibilities that I recall from the early to mid-seveneties, and yes, I went to a lot of drive-in movies with elder siblings and cousins in those days: the song doesn’t really come together into a coherent song, but seems ideal as written for a trucking exploitation movie that was never made: I can see Susan George as the “mean, mothertrucker of a girl.”

Like “Piledriver,” some of these songs have novelty appeal. Others, like Larry Jon Wilson’s “Ohoopee River Bottomland” and Johhny Jenkins’ “I Walk on Gilded Splinters” are timeless. The Bobbie Gentry track, “He Made a Woman Out of Me” was the second most successful single off her Fancy album, but never came close to the country top 40 and isn’t likely to be heard on classic country radio. Its sophisticated arrangement seems at odds with ‘country funk,’ but her voice and what sounds like an amazing band pull off this “Strawberry Wine” forerunner; I would love to know who was playing on this- and every- track, but no session notes are provided.

The biggest surprise on the album for me was the inclusion of Mac Davis, who I am only familiar with from a couple country hits and as a guest star on various 70s and 80s variety shows and movies. “Lucas Was a Redneck” is culled from Davis’ most successful album Stop and Smell the Roses, and is a killer track. Here, singing unsympathetically of a Tupelo boy born “one half stupid, the other half dumb,” Davis sounds a little like Larry Jon Wilson. This scathing indictment of southern bigotry and self-limiting behavior makes me want to investigate a singer I’ve never given more than a passing thought toward.

I was very satisfied with my purchase of Country Funk: 1969- 1975 on vinyl. I will enjoy listening to the album several more times and I know I’ll be sent on wild journeys as I seek out the music from most of the included acts. As mentioned, information about the backing musicians would have been appreciated, and I was especially disappointed that a download code wasn’t included with the album, a feature that I mistakenly believed was a ‘given’ with modern vinyl releases as I’ve received one with every other recently purchased vinyl package.

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“Legacy” by the Peter Rowan Bluegrass Band

Peter Rowan Bluegrass Band
Legacy
Compass Records
5 stars (out of 5)

By Aaron Keith Harris

Like the sight of a well-groomed baseball field, the styling of a Fender Stratocaster or the strength of a 1965 Ford Mustang, the sound of Peter Rowan’s voice to me represents freedom, and a particularly American brand at that. Half-controlled, half-wild, that voice can convey the high lonesomeness of bluegrass (Rowan was indeed once a lead singer/guitarist for Bill Monroe himself) as well as the liberation of the sort of rock that has influenced bluegrass.

The band he’s chosen—Keith Little (banjo), Jody Stecher (mandolin) and Paul Knight (bass)—supports his supple voice well, preferring to trade off tasteful licks rather than rip blistering breaks. Rowan, who wrote or co-wrote 10 songs on this 13-track, 48-minute effort, kicks things off with two strange but memorable songs over simmering grooves: “Jailer Jailer” and “The Family Demon.” In the former, the prisoner asks to remain imprisoned, among other strange sayings, and in the latter, the narrator matter-of-factly relates his travails with alcohol and abuse.

The gentle, plaintive mourning song “Father, Mother” gives way to “The Raven,” a rollicking tune in all the ways that its namesake by Poe is precise and measured. “So Good” is just that: a hippified ramble with Gillian Welch singing backup and David Rawlings cross-picking his Epiphone. (Though for some reason he doesn’t get to take a full solo.)

“The Night Prayer” is another aptly named tune, a gentle nostalgia for the traditional child’s bedtime prayer, while “Don’t Ask Me Why” is a woodsy, loping tune that ends up being a guide to living and loving.

Stecher steps to the fore with a growling vocal turn on the traditional “Catfish Blues”—one of the better blues/bluegrass crossovers I’ve heard—and on his self-penned “Lord Hamilton’s Yearling,” on which Tim O’Brien appears as guest fiddler.

While Little’s lead vocal does credit to Carter Stanley’s “Let Me Walk Lord by Your Side,” Rowan includes a couple of great new gospel tunes: “Turn the Other Cheek” and “God’s Own Child,” a gorgeous quartet featuring Ricky Skaggs and the inimitable Del McCoury, dog-whistle tenor in fine form.

“Across the Rolling Hills (Padmasambhava)” closes the album, a nature tune that mimics the rhythm of the free horseman in the lyric, giving Rowan a chance to mix in a little Buddhism with his Americana classic.

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“Live at the Old Idaho Penitentiary” and “Skinny Mammy’s Revenge” by Hillfolk Noir

Hillfolk Noir
Live at the Old Idaho Penitentiary
http://www.petometz.com
2.5 stars (out of 5)

Hillfolk Noir
Skinny Mammy’s Revenge
http://www.petometz.com
4 stars (out of 5)

By Donald Teplyske

The most recent releases from Boise, Idaho’s Hillfolk Noir, led by Travis and Alison Ward, are lively, risk-taking examples of what can happen when musicians throw their fate toward the wind.

Live at the Old Idaho Penitentiary and Skinny Mammy’s Revenge are billed as field recordings, capturing the group—on Old Idaho a seven piece, on Skinny Mammy a quartet—in their natural environs within Boise. The recordings are unencumbered to the point of pretentiousness—a few mics, no sound system in the case of the former, a single mic to analog tape in the case of the latter, 20-track project. Fortunately for Hillfolk Noir, they overcome affectations with aplomb.

Recorded in late 2009, Live at the Old Idaho Penitentiary is an inconsistent, ten-track offering played before a small but appreciative audience. Travis Ward carries the water throughout, singing the lead parts over instrumentation that—excepting the percussion—stays largely in the background.

Mandolinist Thomas Paul comes to the fore on occasion, as on “Johnny’s Last Run,” but the intricacies of the band’s arrangements are frequently lost due to production decisions. “Sleeping Under Stars” and “Stealin’” are exceptions where the band is allowed to cut loose a little and this is captured in the recording; unfortunately, the trade-off is that Ward’s vocals are more distant.

The malfeasance often captured in traditional songs is also present including in the slight but enjoyable “N. Idaho Zombie Rag,” featuring the walking (dead) bass of Mike Waite.

Far from perfect, Live at the Old Idaho Penitentiary is an album to which one may not frequently return. Still, as an artefact of a time and place in a group’s development, it serves a purpose.

Subtitled The Gage Street Market Sessions, Skinny Mammy’s Revenge features better sound quality and production than its predecessor and as a result is a more complete and listenable project.

Featuring a dozen Travis Ward originals, this album would stand proudly even without the inclusion of various blues and folk standards; with them, the album becomes an hour-long pleasure.

A gorgeous take of Jean Ritchie’s “The L & N Don’t Stop Here Anymore” is bookended by a pair of old-time blues numbers, the first a Ward original. “Broken Record” is one of several Ward compositions contained herein that could have been lifted from a Revenant reissue while “Ragged and Dirty Blues” is familiar from any number of performers including Willie Brown and Sleepy John Estes. A pair of Henry Thomas, Texas blues are ably covered, “Run, Molly, Run” and “Charming Betsy,” while “The Coo Coo” and “Jack of Diamonds” are given a blues bent.

Ward’s songs may not have the authenticity of centuries old standards, but he has mastered the art of replicating their structures. Seldom using more than a dozen lines of lyrics, his blues-based creations, among them “Dyin’ Bed Blues” and “Mr. Wilson’s Lament,” contain the genuine ache, frustration, and turmoil found in tunes much older than he.

Ward uses a resonator guitar throughout, providing a naturally amplified sound to the recording and he lays out some finely played blues riffs. Alison Ward maintains a strong instrumental presence on Skinny Mammy’s Revenge, contributing banjo, saw, and laundraphone which is, I believe, washboard as well as harmony vocals.

Like other old-time revivalists, Hillfolk Noir has found a way to mix their own sound with that of musicians who performed several generations ago. Depending on the song, their music has both old-time, Appalachian string band and Delta blues qualities, making for an uncommon but ultimately sustaining dissonance.

What sets them apart from Old Crow Medicine Show and their ilk is an insistence to not allow themselves to get ahead of the music; by not allowing for pop culture compromise throughout Skinny Mammy’s Revenge, Hillfolk Noir allows their largely unadorned music to stand on its own—for better or worse—and to be absorbed by listeners discovering these types of sounds for the first time.

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“Low Country Blues” by Gregg Allman

Gregg Allman
Low Country Blues
Rounder Records
4 stars (out of 5)

By Aaron Keith Harris

Gregg Allman is at a distinct disadvantage when making an album, and has been since the death of his legendary brother, Duane Allman, in 1971. The pairing of Gregg’s growling, bluesy voice with Duane’s fluid, singing side guitar is one of the most exciting combinations in the history of rock and American music. When you hear one, your ear is conditioned to hear the other.

But Gregg Allman has much to offer, as that amazing voice of his seems to have withstood the proverbial ravages of time and his passion for infusing blues with a rock sensibility is unabated on this 12-track, 53-minute album.

Delving into the blues is a priority here, as signaled by the booming opening track, Sleepy John Estes’ “Floating Bridge,” Skip James’ “Devil Got My Woman, which begins with solo Delta guitar and blooms into a full band stomp, and rollicking romp through Muddy Waters’ “I Can’t Be Satisfied.”

“Blind Man,” “Please Accept My Love” and “Tears, Tears, Tears” have the swing of a 1950s-style show band, while “My Love is Your Love,” “Just Another Rider” and “I Believe I’ll Go Back Home” veer closer to the Allman Brothers’ sound, and all benefit from heartfelt vocals, especially “Just Another Rider.”

The final track is a seven-minute, ominous “Rolling Stone” filled with swampy drums and slinky guitars drawing to a close to a fine album by a still-vital artist.

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“Baby, How Can It Be?: Songs of Love, Lust and Contempt from the 1920s and 1930s” by Various Artists

Various Artists
Baby, How Can It Be?: Songs of Love, Lust and Contempt from the 1920s and 1930s
Dust-to-Digital
5 stars (out of 5)

By Aaron Keith Harris

I’ve been listening to this one in the car for the last several weeks, struggling to decide what to say about it. With 66 tracks spread over three CDs and more than three hours, there’s a lot of material here, and all of it is simply engrossing.

And it all comes from the 78 RPM record collection of John Heneghan, one of those valuable souls whose gentle madness perpetuates these essential nuggets of recorded culture. The package s beautifully illustrated and presented in a fold-out box, with a centerfold illustration by (thankfully, not of) R. Crumb and liner notes by Nick Tosches.

The selections themselves are varied and inspired, with styles such as blues, jazz, pop, Hawaiian and what we now call old-time country. Some of it sounds like it could be one of those manic soundtracks to Tom and Jerry cartoons (The Broadway Bellhops with “Wimmin-Aaah!), some sounds like it could have been recorded in an old barn with just a fiddle and guitar or banjo (Fiddlin’ John Carson with “It’s a Shame to Whip Your Wife on Sunday).

In spite of all their differences, a few things emerge from this collection: the emphasis on musicianship serving the song rather than the ego of the performer, and the concept of the song as something that, even with just about three minutes to spare, should be given time to develop and grow, as evidenced by the fact that many of the instrumental introductions approach one minute or so.

There are some well-known names here like Bill Carlisle, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Cab Calloway, Mississippi John Hurt, the Mississippi Sheiks and the Memphis Jug Band. But you’ve also got some racy fare in the form of Harry Roy and His Bat Club Boys with “Pussy” and Hartman’s Heartbreakers with “Let Me Play With It.”

And you’ve got the Callahan Brothers with the haunting “I Want to Ask the Stars,” Laura Smith with the arresting “I’m Gonna Kill Myself” and Mississippi Matilda with an amazingly powerful falsetto vocal on “Hard Working Woman.”

There’s plenty more that will grab your ear if you take the plunge on a truly satisfying collection of rare and beautiful time pieces.

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“The Rounder Records Story” by Various Artists

Various Artists
The Rounder Records Story
Rounder Records
4.5 stars (out of 5)

By Aaron Keith Harris

I got bit by the bluegrass bug in November 1997 when I heard Bob Dylan sing the Stanley Brothers song “I’ll Not Be a Stranger” in concert in Columbus, Ohio. Less than two years later, I was training to take over the hosting job on Bluegrass Breakdown, a Saturday-night, four-hour live radio show on WYSO in Yellow Springs, Ohio.

In the interim I had been listening to host Steve Allen, whom I was to replace, been listening to CDs from the library and from the Borders Books & Music record section in which I worked, and had been reading up on bluegrass music, most notably Bluegrass Breakdown by Robert Cantwell and Bluegrass: A History by Neil V. Rosenberg. Allen was impressed at the amount of bluegrass history I had absorbed.

But when I took the helm of Bluegrass Breakdown in December 1999, I was still nervous about what songs to pick, fearful that more knowledgeable fans would bombard me with calls belittling my choices.

However, I had a plan for whenever I wasn’t sure what next to slide into the disc player: just pick a Rounder CD and cue it up to any sing title that sounded cool. It always worked, and I always grabbed more than a proportional share of those CDs with disctinctive, uniform spines when I was doing show prep. Other labels soon became trusted as well, but Rounder was always, as Jim Eanes would say, my old standby.

This four-disc, 87-track set, complete with exhaustive liner notes, shows not only that Rounder has been an impeccable source of bluegrass music for 40 years, but for all kinds of Americana, roots and even pop and rock music. From the old-time strains of George Pegram and Ed Haley, to the blues of Charles Brown and Gatemouth Brown, to the Cajun of Beausoleil and D.L Menard and the Louisiana Aces, to the rock of Robert Plant and Rush, Rounder has covered it all.

Rounder’s approach has been the opposite of labels from the past like Atlantic, Motown or Stax, which pumped out high-quality product that all bore the unmistakable stamp of their in-house studios, producers and songwriters. They instead have sought affiliations with uniquely individual artists and, for the most part, let them create.

The result is that this varied boxed set is a tossed salad of great music, each bite with a different combination of flavors, but great taste in every one. Some great, sometimes unexpected morsels for this taster include: “Killing the Blues” by Woodstock Mountains Revue, a perfect song picked up by Rounder artists Alison Krauss and Robert Plant for their album Raising Sand more than three decades later; “Jula Jekere,” a haunting groove from Alhaji Bai Konte; the yodeling bluegrass of Joe Val’s “Sparkling Brown Eyes;” the original version of “Mama’s Hand” from Hazel Dickens; Jimme Dale Gilmore’s mournful “One Endless Night;” and Linda Thompson’s lush “Versatile Heart.”

Del McCoury and his band, who recorded a handful of classic albums for Rounder in the 1990s, are absent from the collection for some reason, and I could have stood for more bluegrass on the later discs, but this set is a perfect gift for anyone who truly enjoys good music and will serve as a jumping-off point for many a fruitful explorations into a vast catalog of treasures.


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“Reckless” by The SteelDrivers

The SteelDrivers
Reckless
Rounder Records
5 stars (out of 5)

By Aaron Keith Harris

It’s hard to imagine a group’s sophomore album improving over something as good as The SteelDrivers’ self-titled 2008 debut, but this band has done it.

My only quibble with that fine effort was that most of the songs—as great as they were—sounded pretty similar, not taking full advantage of the range of expression offered them by their band’s greatest asset.

That asset is the voice of Chris Stapleton, who can out-sing any rock or country frontman within hundreds of miles of Nashville. Not only is his bluesy voice capable of what I termed a “full-throated holler” but it is unusually supple and expressive even when not at top volume, as evidenced on “Where Rainbows Never Die,” “Can You Run,” “You Put the Hurt on Me,” “Higher Than the Wall,” and “The Price,” which swings back and forth from quiet to raucous.

The rest of the tracks hew close to the line traced by The SteelDrivers, bluesy numbers propelled by Richard Bailey’s banjo, Mike Fleming’s bass, Mike Henderson’s mandolin and Tammy Rogers’ fiddle.

Indeed, the only thing wrong with this album is that it is apparently Stapleton’s last with the group, a major blow in light of the fact that he helps write most of the songs that he so soulfully sings.

 

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“Band of Joy” by Robert Plant

Robert Plant
Band of Joy
Rounder Records
5 stars (out of 5)

By Donald Teplyske

Not being as familiar with Robert Plant’s influences as others may have been, I was stunned with fear in early 2007 to hear whispers of his coming project with Alison Krauss. Upon hearing Raising Sand I was forced to take back all youthful, uninformed, and disparaging words spoken about Plant and his caterwauling with Led Zeppelin; still not a huge appreciator of the lead balloon, as I delved deeper into his recorded legacy, I found much to appreciate and respect in Plant’s singing.

Even with a band centered about the twin forces that are Buddy Miller and Darrell Scott, one may not have anticipated that Robert Plant’s second foray into the roots-country-Americana field would be as entirely successful as Band of Joy most obviously is.

As on his previous, award-winning collaboration with Krauss, Plant surrounds himself with the finest talent and songs that money, influence, and friendship can solicit. This time out Bekka Bramlett and Patty Griffin serve as Plant’s female foils, although their contributions are less consistently present than Krauss’ were.

Vibrant and full, the instrumentation on this album swirls into dirges that are almost trance-inducing. Reworking songs from key writers — Hidalgo & Perez, Richard Thompson, Townes Van Zandt — as well some less familiar and those whose names are lost within traditions, Plant and album co-producer Miller have created a bold, sonically challenging and sturdy interpretation of modern roots music.

“Silver Rider,” one of two Low songs included, most directly ghosts the sound of Raising Sand. Layered harmony is gently filtered through a swirl of sounds owing as much to north Africa as Memphis and Nashville. “You Can’t Buy My Love” perhaps comes closest to exploring the sounds most frequently associated with Plant pre-Raising Sand; the Barbara Lynn track is stretched out a little while being given a rock ‘n’ roll cover that should stand as one of the album’s crowning achievements.

“Cindy, I’ll Marry You Someday” and “Satan, Your Kingdom Must Come Down”, familiar to all who embrace traditional folk music, have never likely sounded quite like they do here. Plant gives “Cindy” an erotic overtone absent on previously heard recordings.

While a thoroughly engaging album in its own right, albums like Band of Joy can lead one in new directions. Much as listening to an early Emmylou Harris album did, this one sends listeners on a search to learn more about the writers and artists covered, like Barbara Lewis, Low, and Milton Mapes, a fairly obscure outfit whose “The Only Sound that Matters” allows Plant to revisit the thrill of discovering the music that will maintain a significant presence for the rest of one’s life.

What a joyful thing it is to hear afresh songs long familiar.