New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Month: September, 2017

Everybody’s Favorite Americana Harmony Trio, Red Molly, Make a Triumphant Return to City Winery

Is there another Americana band with as individualistic and spine-tingling a blend of voices as Red Molly? Actually yes – Bobtown, who played the Brooklyn Americana Festival on Saturday. More about them later.

Red Molly’s first New York show in two years last night at City Winery was epic. The harmony trio of dobro player Abbie Gardner, guitarists Molly Venter and Laurie MacAllister really give you a lot of bang for your buck. In two long sets, bolstered by bassist Craig Akin and Roosevelt Dime guitarist/percussionist Eben Pariser, they played a wickedly fun, dynamic mix of originals and a bunch of choice covers.

Each group member has a solo album in progress: MacAllister fretted about how the trio would be able to “shoehorn the songs into a Red Molly show,” but everything worked seamlessly. As usual, the women took turns on lead vocals, often in the same number. Venter took centerstage on one of the best of the new songs, Cold Black Water, a portrait of an indomitable single mother making a new start on the rugged Oregon coast, rising from an enigmatic, quiet suspense on the verse to a ferociously anthemic payoff on the chorus. Another standout was a hauntingly muted ballad by Gardner, told from the point of view of a war veteran’s wife who’s watching her wounded warrior trying to keep himself together.

And the voices were sublime. Gardner has jazz bloodlines and Venter is a connoisseur of Texas Americana, with blue notes peeking out from every secret corner. MacAllister contrasts with a disarmingly direct delivery. And while there was plenty of the usual banter between the group and what seemed to be a sold-out crowd, MacAllister came across as the ringleader in this merry band. Introducing a rousing number inspired by a gig in Alaska that wound up with a dude in the crowd throwing a taxidermied fox onto the stage, she related how, for a woman in a state with a gender imbalance, “The odds were good, but the goods were odd.”

The best song of the night was When It’s All Wrong. Gardner’s dobro slid and slithered through every macabre passing tone in the scale as her voice channeled a bitterness and menace that Lana Del Rey and all the other wannabe noir pinups would die to have written.                   

The covers were choice, beginning with the famous Richard Thompson tune from which they take their name. Gardner drew lots of chuckles with a sly little dobro lick on the intro to Crazy, which Venter sang with a nuance that would have made Patsy Cline proud. The three-part harmonies, backed by just bass, on The Fever were a lot of fun, while the group’s most calmly rapturous moment was their a-capella take of their original May I Suggest. As long as Red Molly are still together and touring – something that didn’t seem likely a couple of years ago – maybe, despite the madmen in the White House, we are truly living in the best years of our lives. The darkest times sometimes produce the greatest art. Red Molly’s current tour continues on Oct 6 at at the Freight & Salvage in Berkeley, CA; advance tix are $25.

Next month is a particularly good one at City Winery, Just for starters, Willie Nile – the world’s most obvious choice to sing Dylan – does that on the 10th at 8 PM: tix are expensive, $30, but this could be an awful lot of fun. And then there’s a killer twinbill on the 15th at 8 with blue-eyed soulstress and fiery guitarslinger Miss Tess followed by one of the great songwriters in noir Americana, Eilen Jewell, for $20.

And Gardner has a solo show at Pete’s on Oct 17 at 8:30 PM

Advertisements

A Rare New York Appearance By Western Sahara’s Wild, Psychedelic Group Doueh

One of the most highly anticipated twinbills of the year is happening on Sept 29 at 7:30 PM at the Poisson Rouge, where one of New York’s hottest buzz bands, intoxicating Moroccan trance-dance group Innov Gnawa open for a very rare appearance by the similarly innovative Western Saharan Group Doueh, who’ve been brought here across the desert and then the ocean by the World Music Institute. Advance tix are expensive – $30 – but this could easily be your last chance to see them in the US until after 1/19/2021.

Their  2012 album Zayna Jumma – streaming at Bandcamp – is a feral, careening live performance from Dakhla in Western Sahara from a couple of years before. It sounds like it was recorded on somebody’s phone, too close to the lead guitar amp, which it probably was – Americans aren’t the only ones who go to a concert and then share files. The celebratory title track sets the stage: bandleader and patriarch Doueh playing frenetically spiraling variations on a catchy central riff, his wife Halima just as ecstatic on the mic with her trio of backup singers over son Hamdan’s boomy drumbeat. It’s a wild update on the region’s saharoui trance-dance music, something akin to a higher-register gnawa.

Doueh’s guitar blasts through a wah pedal over his son El Waar’s lo-fi organ as Ishadlak Ya Khey pounces along: – it sounds like the Stooges playing a Grateful Dead song with a woman out front.  Zaya Koum is just as catchy but with a harder-hitting funk beat.  Doueh leaves his wah wide open, the drums keeping perfect time as the sound oscillates around.

He takes over lead vocals on Met-Ha – without the guitar, the swooping, smartly terse bass comes into focus alongside the organ, percussion and chorus of voices, both onstage and off. His axe back on, he fires off volley after volley of machinegunning hammer-ons as the organ shadows him throughout Jagwar Doueh.

The band brings it down to a slow, loping duskcore ttriplet groove for Aziza: Doueh throws off a tantalizingly short, lightning-fast solo, his distortion pedal off so the notes ring out, Vieux Farka Toure-style. They stay in that same vein but pick up the pace with Ana Lakweri  and bring the show full circle with the catchiest number in the set, Wazan Doueh, a clanking, circling mostly acoustic saharoui folk theme. A band couldn’t want better advertising for their live show than this. And if the Poisson Rouge is wiling to pay for a competent sound engineer – which at the prices they’re charging, they really ought to – you’ll be able to hear everything this album alludes to.

Tredici Bacci Kiss the Sky at Barbes

This is what old NEC students do when they’ve had too much to drink: play slow, simmering oldschool soul vamps, take a stab at faux-operatic vocals and then bop their way through a bunch of summery, serpentine instrumentals inspired by 60s Italian cinema. At their most recent Barbes gig back in July, Tredici Bacci did all that tighter than most bands could do sober.

Not everybody in the band was half in the bag. Singer Sami Stevens was a force of nature and then some, giving the music all the drama it demanded with her full-throttle vibrato and passion worthy of a primo Sophia Loren role. Keyboardist Evan Allen went from creepy with his tremoloing funeral organ, into outer space with the synth and then all the way back to the Middle Ages with a wry electric harpsichord patch.

The strings shimmered and shivered behind the blaze and blips of the horns – this is a big band – through a cheery mix of mostly original material, a lot of which sounded like 60s Burt Bacharach on steroids. They did one Morricone cover, but in a similar vein. The lone spaghetti western number, late in the set, was an original, and turned out to be the night’s best song.

Bandleader/guitarist Simon Hanes was in a surreal mood: “Gimme a generic bossa,” he ordered the band, and they obliged: practice this enough at conservatory and you can pull it off in a split-second like this crew. Then he had Stevens free-associate on random topics over the music, and she ran with it: she’s funny, and managed not to embarrass herself. The effect was akin to Ingrid Sertso doing her stream-of-consciousness jazz poetry thing with Karl Berger’s improvisational big band, but at doublespeed and a couple of generations removed.

Barbes is home base to a whole slew of the funnest bands in town: organ-fueled psychedelic surf rockers Hearing Things; mesmerizing Moroccan trance-dance band Innov Gnawa; Afrobeat monsters Super Yamba; fiery Ethiopian jamband Anbessa Orchestra; spectacular Bollywood cumbia band Bombay Rickey; and at the top of the list, slinky noir soundtrack trio Big Lazy.  Count Tredici Bacci as one of the newer additions to the elite: they’re back at Barbes on Sept 28 at 10 PM. The Austin Piazzolla Quintet, who open the night at 8, play both classic nuevo tango and originals in the same vein and are also excellent.

And Stevens also leads an oldschool soul group whose next gig is at the Parkside (the Brooklyn boite at 705 Flatbush Ave between  Winthrop and Parkside,  no relation to the Manhattan one) – on Oct 20 at 9:30 PM.

Mdou Moctar Brings His Mysterious Saharan Duskcore Sound to Lincoln Center

The Lincoln Center atrium space on Broadway just north of 62nd St. has become as fertile a breeding ground for paradigm-shifting musical collaborations as any other venue in New York. Booking is as eclectic as it gets: with the exception of autotuned corporate schlock, there doesn’t seem to be any style of music that’s off limits here. If the longterm plan is to build a new customer base that draws pretty equally on every demographic, nationality and neighborhood in this city, Lincoln Center’s going to be mighty busy over the next several years. For that reason, this blog’s sister site chose the atrium as the best Manhattan venue of 2017.

What’s more, shows at the atrium are always free. The latest in the ongoing parade of global talent to swing through here is Niger duskcore guitarslinger Mdou Moctar, who’s playing on Sept 28 at 7:30 PM. Because the space is popular and security never lets it get uncomfortably crowded, getting there early is always a good idea.

Moctar’s latest album, Sousoume Tamachek, is due out momentarily and soon to be streaming at Bandcamp (there are a couple of tracks up already). As with a lot of music from his part of the world, his long, expansive songs have a nocturnal quality, a welcoming sonic oasis to get absolutely lost in, artfully layered guitars over simple calabash percussion. Interestingly, Moctar often eschews the swaying, camelwalking gait typical of Saharan Tuareg psychedelia for a hypnotically circling triplet beat.

Anar, the opening cut, clocks in at over six minutes of lingering and biting contrasts between guitar multitracks. With its aching, unselfconsciously beautiful, vamping melody,  it’s akin to a desert rock take on Australian psychedelic legends the Church (who happen to be playing that same night at the Bell House).

Moctar layers starry, glittering electric and acoustic tracks over a hypnotic, gently insistent triplet groove on the album’s title cut, sparkling with quick hammer-ons and pulloffs. Tanzaka has a similar, slow pace but with a much darker, blues-oriented tune, a simmering cauldron of lusciously interwoven textures.

Ilmouloud is hushed and suspenseful, Moctar’s vocals calm and slightly flinty. He takes his time opening Allagh N-Tarha with spare, spiky blues phrases and then follows an even sparser, mysterious, droning path. With an almost imperceptibly crescendoing trajectory, Nikali Talit comes across as more of a lullaby.

Moctar picks up the pace with the anthemic Amidini, a return to a mini-constellation of ringing guitars. The album’s closing track, Amer Lyn, slowly coalesces out of an exploratory intro to a catchy, circular vocal call-and-response and fast hammer-on guitar phrases. Lyrically, the songs – in Moctar’s native Tamachek – run the gamut: love songs, sad breakup scenarios, spirituality and in the album’s title track, longing for peace and unity in the desert. More rapturously low-key than Moctar’s countryman Bombino but more guitarishly adventurous than, say, Etran Finatawa, it’s the best and best-produced album Moctar has made, an entrancing ride for fans of psychedelic sounds.

Charanga America Provide Some Uplift in a Dark Time For Puerto Ricans

A full house was already on their feet and dancing as golden-age 60s and 70s charanga music played over the PA at Lincoln Center this past evening. Their monthly Friday night Vaya 63 dance party series at the atrium space just south of 63rd Street has become a New York institution and draws major players from across the decades. Charanga America, based in the Bronx since their beginnings in the late 70s, were the latest to get a multigenerational ocean of bodies slinking and twirling, a rare appearance by a band who still enjoy a big fan base.

In the devastation left behind by the hurricane, it’s certain that there were plenty of people in the crowd still uncertain about how their loved ones are doing. But as lead singer Jorge Maldonado insisted, “Puerto Rico will rise again.” This time out, Eliot and George Maysonet Jr., scions of a five-decade Nuyorican music legacy, led the musicians – in this current incarnation, a hefty ten-piece charanga – in place of their dad, George Sr., the group’s founder, who was unavailable.

Where classic Cuban big band salsa music relies on brass, classic Nuyorican charangas typically feature violin and flute. This version of the group currently has two of the former and one of the latter: barely a couple of minutes into the first brightly vamping number and their bespectacled lead violinist was firing off a long, wildly shivery solo.

The flute took flight on the next groove as the rest of the the sharply dressed group – on elegantly tumbling piano, fat punchy bass, hypnotic congas and wryly emphatic timbales – ran a bubbly, upbeat 1-4-5 Afro-Cuban riff behind the trio of singers.

They waited until about a third way through the show before they broke out their signature 1978 hit,  Ayúdame San Antonio, steady clave from the woodblock contrasting with the lushness of the strings as the flute bobbed and weaved in between the call-and-response of the voices. A swaying mambo featured a biting, suspensefully syncopated, blues-infused Ely Rivera piano solo.

As the night went on, the music grew more majestic and enveloping, a big cha-cha ballad followed by the funnest and funniest tune of the night, an irrepressible 99-percenter anthem capped off by a high-voltage violin solo. The only thing that could have possibly have made this more fun, in a distinctly New York way, would have been a big steaming plate of maduros straight from the pot – with a squeeze bottle of hot sauce. Charanga America don’t play live much anymore but if you get a chance like this…now you know what you don’t want to be missing.

And the free, frequent Thursday night, 7:30 PM concert series at the atrium continues this Sept 28 with hypnotic Niger duskcore guitarist/bandleader Mdou Moctar.

Celebrating a Tragic, Iconoclastic Hungarian Hero at the National Arts Club

Wouldn’t you wash your hands after you touched a corpse? Hospital physicians at Vienna’s Algelemine Krankenhaus didn’t. From a 21st century perspective, the results were predictably catastrophic.

Ray Lustig’s grim, powerfully resonant song cycle Semmelweis, which premiered on September 11 at the National Arts Club, begins in 1848, One of Europe’s deadliest outbreaks of puerperal fever is killing one in ten new mothers at the hospital. Hungarian-born obstetrician Ignac Semmelweis is at a loss to explain it.

Semmelweis was a tragic hero in the purest sense of the word. Decades before Louis Pasteur, Semmelweis discovered the bacterial connection for disease transmission. But rather than being celebrated for his discovery and for saving countless of his own patients, he was derided as a medical heretic,  ended up losing his mind and died alone in a mental asylum seventeen years later. If not for the reactionary Viennese medical establishment, terrified of being blamed for the epidemic, today we would say “semmelweissed” instead of “pasteurized.” In an age where leakers are murdered, whistleblowers are jailed as terrorists and 9/11 historians are derided as conspiracy theorists, this story has enormous relevance.

And the music turned out to be as gripping as the narrative. Out in front of an impressively eclectic twelve-piece ensemble for the marjority of the performance, soprano Charlotte Mundy dexterously showed off a vast grasp of all sorts of styles, singing Matthew Doherty’s allusively foreboding lyrics to Lustig’s shapeshifting melodies. Pianist Katelan Terrell. accordionist Peter Flint and violinist Sam Katz wove an alternately austere and lustrous backdrop for the rest of the singers: Lustig himself in the role of Semmelweis, alongside Marcy Richardson, Catherine Hancock, Brett Umlauf, Charlotte Dobbs, Jennifer Panara and Guadalupe Peraza.

The suite began with a wash of close harmonies and ended on a similarly otherworldly note with a Hungarian lullaby sung in eerily kaleidoscopic counterpoint by the choir. The story unwound mostly in flashbacks – by women in peril, ghosts or Semmelweis himself, tormented to the grave by all the dead women he wasn’t able to save.

Many of the songs had a plaintive neoromanticism: the most sepulchral moments were where the most demanding extended technique came into play, glissandoing and whispering and vertiginously shifting rhythms. That’s where the group dazzled the most. Recurrent motives packed a wallop as well, voicing both the dread of the pregnant women and Semmelweis’ self-castigation for not having been able to forestall more of the epidemic’s toll than he did. The Hungarian government will celebrate the bicentennial of Semmelweis’ birth next year, a genuine national hero.

Paraguayan Harpist Silvio Solis Leads a Classy Multi-Stringed Ensemble in His Lincoln Center Debut

Paraguyan-born harpist Silvio Solis made his Lincoln Center debut this past evening leading an acoustic guitar ensemble and playing his own innovative take on traditional music from his home turf…on the harp that he’d built for himself. Lincoln Center impresario Viviana Benitez grinned and told the crowd that it they ever needed one custom-made, he’s the man to talk to, “A master of his instrument in every way, shape and form.” She wasn’t kidding.

The music brought to mind the drama of mariachi, and the sweep of Mexican rancheras, but in this group’s hands both the songs and instrumentals in their set came across as more low-key. Solis opened with a gracefully cascading waltz, a duo with guitarist Dani Cortaza, whose harmonics and slides on the fretboard complemented the bandleader’s snazzy glissandos. A bittersweetly gorgeous, bouncy dance number followed, awash in spiky textures: the intricacy of Solis’ two-handed chords was as breathtaking as it was subtle.

Then Solis took a seat as guitarist Federico Tottil joined Cortaza for an understated, shapeshifting Paraguayan ranchera balad lit up with flamenco tinges flyiing from Cortaza’s fingers. Solis functioned essentially as both bassist and lead player on the scampering folk dance after that.

The number of strings onstage kept growing as they switched out Tottil for Paraguayan guitarists Duo Los Maqueda and a dramatically waltzing love song: the orchestral effect generated a clapalong throughout the crowd. Cortaza switched to bass for a stately shout-out to the musicians’ home country, then the guitar trio brought down the lights with a brooding ballad spiced with Cortaza’s chromatics.

The permutations of the group kept shifting, to harp, two guitars and bass, singer Fatima Burgos delivering a spacious ballad with a disarming, low-key directness, underscoring the longing in the lyrics. A couple of propulsive Paraguayan polkas contrasted with a brooding solo ballad sung by Tottil. As the trajectory of the set moved upward, the sparks generated by the strings grew even as the tunes grew simpler and more hard-hitting. The night ended ecstatically with the full sextet.

The programming at Lincoln Center’s atrium space on Broadway just north of 62nd Street has been amazing this year. Next up: a dance party tomorrow night, Sept. 22 at 7:30 PM with vintage Nuyorican salsa crew Charanga America.

A Wickedly Catchy Weekend Show by the Mysterious Melissa & the Mannequins

Melissa & the Mannequins are New York’s most exciting new band. There’s very little about them on the web. The only one of their songs that’s made it online so far is Slip Away, the gorgeously bittersweet, propulsively jangly number they closed their deliciously catchy set with at Long Island City Bar over the Labor Day weekend. They’ve been around for about  a year, tops. Quietly and steadily, they’ve put what’s obviously been an enormous amount of work into this band, equal to their formidable chops. Up-and-coming rock acts seldom have as much command of their instruments, let alone as many styles as this group winds their way through.

In roughly an hour onstage, frontwoman/guitarist Melissa Gordon sang with a cool, collected delivery over a tight rhythm section. Lyrically, most of the songs dealt with brooding breakup scenarios, often in contrast to the tunes’ bright,upbeat quality, Stylistically, they really ran the gamut. Several numbers worked a psychedelic soul vein, bringing to mind Chicano Batman with a woman out front and a more subdued, atmospheric keyboardist: throughout the set, the Mannequin on keys kept a tight focus and added all kinds of subtle textures and washes of sound.

Midway through the set, the band switched it up with an unexpectedly funky song, like Turkuaz in a rare low-key, trippy moment. There were also a couple of detours in the direction of Jacco Gardner-ish retro 60s sunshine pop and a distant Beatles influence. The most riveting song of the set might be called I Wasn’t Listening, an uncharacteristically haunting, epic, wounded noir soul ballad in 6/8 tiime, lead guitarist Steve Flakus capping it off with a long, biting, purist blues solo.

Gordon is also an excellent guitarist (which you wouldn’t know from her Soundcloud page, something she obviously put up as she was learning the fretboard). She and Flakus took a grand total of three perfectly synchronized twin solos: it wasn’t Iron Maiden, but it was just as tight. Gordon also engaged the crowd with her deadpan sense of humor: she seems to come out of a theatre background. LIC Bar also seems to be the group’s home base these days as they build a following, an aptly cool joint for this band. They’re also at Bowery Electric at 9 on Oct 1; cover is $10.

80s Psychedelic Rock Cult Hero Russ Tolman at the Top of His Uneasy Game at Pete’s Last Week

It feels so good to be alive.

That’s the punchline of a song called Shot You Down. In context, it’s one of the most vengefully delicious lyrics ever written. It’s arguably the best track on True West’s 1982 cult classic Drifters album. In his Pete’s Candy Store debut Thursday night, such that it was, True West bandleader Russ Tolman didn’t play that one. But he did play Hollywood Holiday. That’s the title track of the group’s first ep, a snarling mashup of post-Velvets rock, Americana and psychedelia.

The music media at the time called that stuff “paisley underground.” It’s a horribly inaccurate term. True West and their contemporaries the Dream Syndicate, Long Ryders, Green on Red and a whole bunch of other great bands weren’t exactly underground. As the mergers and acquisitions of the deregulated Reagan 80s devastated the radio waves, college radio suddenly was the closest thing to Spotify available at the time. All those bands ruled the college charts. 

And fashion had nothing to do with it. While most kids of the era were bopping to the cheesy sounds of DX7 synthesizers, these groups clanged out a gritty, sometimes trippy sound with the volume and fearlessness of punk but also a country twang and a willingness to go beyond punk’s three-minute marker.

The original incarnation of True West didn’t last long – they broke up in 1985. Tolman reunited the band for a memorable couple of  tours in the late zeros, and most auspiciously, joined forced with his old guitar sparring partner Richard McGrath and a series of collaborators for a well-received west coast tour last year.

Tolman’s a band guy – solo acoustic isn’t his default setting. But with one anthem after another, he reaffirmed that if anything, he’s an even better songwriter than he was thirty-plus years ago. On the surface, Hollywood Holiday is about a sleazy hookup. But it also might be about a murder. In very few words, Tolman built a series of scenarios which could have gone any number of ways: it’s up to the listener to figure out how they resolve, if at all.

And the tunesmithing was sublime. As with his lyrics, an unease and a frequent gallows humor pervade his music. The breakup tune Marla Jane and the wryly boisterous Something About a Rowboat – which as it turns out recounts a thwarted booze-fueled pickup scenario – were among the catchiest. Several others, notably the surrealistically apt Two Drinks From Genius brought to mind Tolman’s old college bandmate Steve Wynn, who was in the house. Was Tolman going to go up the fretboard for those two evil little chordlets as the chorus of Hollywood Holiday turned around? Yesssssss! He closed with a vicious, 60-style garage-psych number: That’s My Story and I’m Sticking To It: “You can sign my name to the story, because I won’t,” he intoned over its minor-key changes.

Shows like this you walk away from thinking to yourself, damn, after all these years, it still feels so good to be alive. Not to give anything away, but we may be seeing a lot more of Tolman in New York in the coming months: watch this space!

A Diverse, Smartly Lyrical New Album and a Fort Greene Release Show From Karen & the Sorrows

Karen & the Sorrows are one of New York’s most most individualistic Americana bands. For those who might think that’s like being the best cumbia band in Iceland, keep in mind that Americana, hip-hop and reggaeton are this city’s default styles of music right now. The band’s brooding first album traced the narrative of a ghost story from lead guitarist Elana Redfield’s native New Hampshire. Their new one, The Narrow Place – streaming at their music page – also covers a lot of dark territory, but it’s a lot more eclectic. It’s inspiring to see how much the group has grown musically. They’re wrapping up their current US tour, with an album release show at 10 PM on Sept 22 at C’Mon Everybody; cover is $10.

Drummer Tami Johnson keeps a stark, practically hypnotic beat as the album’s first track, Back Down to the Dirt gets underway: frontwoman/guitarist Karen Pittelman’s wary, soaring voice delivers an aphoristic, metaphorically-charged cautionary tale. Producer Charles Burst plays bass; on the rest of the album, Gerard Kouwenhoven keeps the four-string groove going.

Redfield’s pedal steel mingles with Julia Read’s fiddle behind Pittleman’s precise, chirpy vocals in Can’t Miss What You Never Had. a moody tale of 99-percenter longing for something better. The Wire is an ominously swaying noir Americana rock anthem that brings to mind the Walkabouts: “J.B. Flatt” supplies the funereal Hammond organ behind Redfield’s resonantly edgy guitar lines.

Pittelman’s bittersweet vocals bring to mind Amy Allison in the brisk, backbeat-driven Nowhere:

All these bones
On the other shore
How my sister sang
But I don’t sing no more

Take Me for a Ride is a big, aching, seductive rocker: “Here comes my girl in a flatbed Ford…let me take you out on the town, don’t care what those folks say,” Pittelman insists. Then she makes it clear that “I”m just the man who loves you” in the brisk highway rock number after that.

In The Price of the Ticket, Pittelman draws inspiration from James Baldwin’s assertion that artists should always reevaluate their work. It’s a bitter but resolute anthem for anyone who’s had to make a break with the past:

Write your notes back to home
In an alphabet they can’t read
Save your change for the phone
But no line could ever reach back

The album’s best and most allusively political song is the southwestern gothic-tinged Walk Through the Desert:

When they write what has happened here
It will seem so clear,
Like they knew
All that loss, all the haze and fear
It will disappear like the truth

The band go back to the country for the sad breakup ballad Do It For Myself. I Was Just Your Fool stomps along with some bitter theatrical imagery. The album winds up with Everything We Had, an unexpectedly welcome southern soul number.

Apropos of changing gender roles, isn’t it funny how the typical chick role in this band, i.e. the bass player, is a dude, while the women in the group play the rhythm guitar, lead guitar and drums? Maybe we’ve finally smashed the glass ceiling in music…or we’re just going back to an earlier era when groups like the Carter Family – or bands in villages across the world – divided up responsibilities among whoever was available to play regardless of who had the Y chromosomes.