Sound ‘Round: Carsie Blanton / Todd Snider

Songwriters endure in the aftermath of COVID

Carsie Blanton – Love & Rage (self-released) 

Being a relentless optimist is a tough tightrope to walk, especially as the world rushes headlong into oblivion. On the one hand, believing something good will happen is a simple and necessary means of self-preservation. On the other hand, it’s a slippery slope that can wind up insufferably twee to outright insufferable. Folk-pop spitfire Carsie Blanton is neither, as she’s smart enough to understand the difference between hope and Pollyanna. These songs were written during a yearlong lockdown and the summer of Black Lives Matter, hence the rage of the album’s title. The go-to anthem there is the gleefully-titled “Shit List” for Blanton’s simple declaration to the fascist pricks who helped cause our national crisis: “That ain’t the way we do it no more.” I have my doubts, although I hope she’s correct. The rest of the record concerns the agape and romantic love that sustains her and the cheerful spirit that makes her so vital. She toasts her native NOLA on a song as gentle as a bayou sunset, and “All My Love” knows a lifetime is too brief to properly demonstrate true romance. Elsewhere, she preaches the radical love of Jesus and MLK without shortchanging their bloody fate. “There ain’t nothing more criminal than kindness,” she sings. Which is why it’s reassuring to hear her extol the perks of being virtuous, anyway. GRADE: A- 

Todd Snider – The First Agnostic Church of Hope and Wonder (Aimless) 

Every Sunday for the last six months, I’ve made a point of watching my favorite pothead perform virtual shows streamed from his East Nashville studio/headquarters. For 75 minutes around lunch, he dishes the same acerbic wit, irreverent humor and killer songs that packed the house when I saw him live before COVID shut the world down. These songs were workshopped at that same complex in-between his weekly musical sermons and recorded on the type of budget befitting someone with a predilection for ramshackle folk. He’s never been this beholden to the groove before, and he sounds happy and confident enough to try and shuffle his blues away. Nice as it is to hear him record with band for the first time in five years, it comes at the expense of the lyrical truisms that won me over in the first place. I wish “The Get Together,” a call to drop out and tune in, had the one-liner it craves instead of a mere jam to finish it off, and I wish the eco-minded number about trash in the Pacific Ocean said more than “Do something.” But the centerpieces here are a pair of tributes to departed friends. “Sail On, My Friend” imparts a better farewell to an amigo in death than in life, and “Handsome John,” as in Prine, is a stirring sendoff wherein Snider recalls his old friend dancing off stage one more time. It’s a reminder that we should take a measurable amount of joy in listening to Snider dance while he still breathes. GRADE: B+ 

Sound ‘Round: Dramarama / Too Much Joy

Cult punk bands return from the void as if they never left

Dramarama – Color TV (Harvey Star, 2020) 

I contracted the coronavirus near the end of 2020 while I was compiling my year-end albums list. I got my ass kicked for eight days, two of which left me bedridden and unable to eat or drink. It also messed with my ability to listen to music. Any volume louder than an ordinary speaking voice invited immediate nausea, which obviously renders list-making a burdensome task. I ranked this comeback from Jason Easdale and the rest of his Cali-via-Jersey bandmates at number 27 and figured that was that. With the first dose of the vaccine in my bloodstream and a stabilized sense of hearing, I revisited these songs to see if my illness had obscured my initial thoughts — be it positively or negatively. In short, not really. Despite the 15-year gap between records, Easdale remains a strong melodicist because he continued writing songs in the meantime. Many of the tunes here are as sing-song as they come, with a bombastic pop-rock punch to boot. Even the slow numbers near the end possess the kind of catchy sincerity a lesser songwriter would wrench for as much maudlin schmaltz as they could muster. On the opener, he learns empathy from Saturday morning cartoons. Nine tracks and 50 years later, his favorite romantic memory includes staying sober. GRADE: A-  

Too Much Joy – Mistakes Were Made (People Suck) 

The last time Tim Quirk and Jay Blumenfield made a record of new songs, Bill Clinton had yet to have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky. This comeback exists in part due to the panic-inducing boredom caused by COVID-19 — nothing like a global health crisis to spur the creative juices. It also exists because fans donated almost four times more than the $5,000 the band sought to cover recording costs. That such an overwhelming act of kindness funds music about man’s folly is not lost on the creators. Irreverent humor has a much longer shelf life than angst. It’s why punks who live-and-die by the latter age so poorly so fast. Quirk and Blumenfield are smart enough to go the other way, leaning into the pop references and aphorisms that made them cult figures 30 years ago. I still can’t tell who sings what, but both of them sound like poor Joe Strummer impressionists who wind up just south of Joey Ramone — nasally but knowable, bratty instead of cantankerous. Mr. Strummer gets a shout out, as does Catholic martyr Oliver Plunkett, whose severed head remains on display as a morbid reminder of violent rejects like the titular “Uncle Watson” who will “destroy us all in the end.” Better memories recall Pong and snow days, but a song called “New Memories” signals that this ain’t no nostalgia trip. This is a band happy to breathe, and grateful for those who helped this small dream come to fruition. GRADE: A- 

Sound ‘Round: Tune-Yards / Billy Nomates

Be it the beauty of the struggle, or the numbing isolation, women soldier on.

Tune-Yards – sketchy. (4AD)

The last time an album associated with former puppeteer and ukulele maestro Merrill Garbus demanded this much of my attention, she was behind the board as a producer helping Thao Nguyen work through her daddy issues. As for her day job as Tune-Yards, this is her best album in a decade — although it’s just her third release since Obama’s first term. Still, my point stands. Where she had begun to sound weary and worn down by a cruel world ever teetering on the brink, here she reaffirms her command for the sort of muscular, groove-centric polyrhythms that vivify her best material. Make no mistake, she’s still plenty weary. Pressing concerns include a continuing pandemic during which these songs were recorded, a patriarchy that likely won’t crumble in her lifetime (or yours), and the addictive, dehumanizing power of capitalism. She’s been here before, but for 11 songs and 37 minutes, she demonstrates the beauty made possible in the struggle. Her enormous voice sounds reinvigorated and refreshed, the layered harmonies can go toe-to-toe with any K-Pop outfit, and her melodic gifts are more knowable than many of her art-rock peers. Lyrically, she captures the zeitgeist. “Just sick of being sad.” “We all have trouble being brave.” “Take care of yourself.” “Liberation for all.” GRADE: A- 

Billy Nomates – Emergency Telephone EP (Invada) 

Before 2020 became the year from hell, it was supposed to be the bellwether of Tor Maines’ promising professional career. Her eponymous debut was well-received and garnered buzz in the digital sphere, but COVID-19 shut down the brick-and-mortar venues wherein so many budding professionals generate the word-of-mouth and face-to-face relationships upon which they earn a living. Instead of touring, she wound up in her dad’s cabin in north-central England recording this four-song EP that furthers her beat-centric brand of minimist post-punk. She’s got the right to sound defeated and blue, who doesn’t these days? And with music this sparse, the effect is rather chilling and drab. As impersonal and distant as it may sound, her lyrical conceit it anything but. Every song references telephones or other methods of communication, with sirens, dial tones and cellular pings often echoing in the background. The point is obvious — despite the many ways we have to contact our loved ones, we’re still confined by feelings of loneliness and isolation. Even if you don’t play this for fun, play it to know there are others experiencing the same fears as you. GRADE: A-  

Sound ‘Round: Loretta Lynn / Dolly Parton

A coal miner’s daughter near the end, Dolly at the peak of her powers

Loretta Lynn – Still Woman Enough (Sony)

At the age of 88, and most of her peers having already kicked the bucket, she took a look around and decided it was time to make a proper death album. 2016’s Full Circle dealt with the same grim topic but was counteracted by her signature coal-country spunk — “Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.” Here, we get the requisite hymns necessary to appease her God. I count four hosannas, all of which are standards. “Keep on the Sunny Side,” “I Don’t Feel at Home Anymore,” “Where No One Stands Alone,” and “I Saw the Light.” Her looming date with the grave has also softened her to the point of gross sentimentality. A pastoral rendition of “My Old Kentucky Home” precedes a spoken-word recitation of “Coal Miner’s Daughter,” because she loves her earthly father, too. She largely sounds peaceful, well-rested and content with the life she’s got left to live. Such a softhearted disposition makes the songs that reassert her rowdy and tough femininity seem forced and disingenuous — an icon painting by numbers before she rejoins her friends in eternity. But then I remembered staring death in the face with charisma, charm and humor is its own kind of toughness. Then the songs don’t sound forced at all. They sound quite natural, actually. GRADE: A-  

Dolly Parton – Best of Dolly Parton (RCA Nashville, 1975) 

When I was a child, I knew her simply as the woman with big hair and enormous hooters. As an adult and learned Dolly fan, I know she’d laugh at the previous sentence and brush aside these ensuing sentences with the aw-shucks demeanor and self-deprecating charm that makes her so lovable. No joke: she’s the greatest country songwriter of her generation. It isn’t just her storytelling, always sharp and economical, nor it is just her ability to express the gamut of human emotions so convincingly. The topper is her command for the English language and all its malleable wonder — I giggle every time her rocky-top drawl bends the words “courting” and “oughtn’t” into an impossible rhyme. She’s always playful, unpretentious and unbeatably sincere. Although she’s always played up her public image as a walking cartoon, she’s neither a persona nor a shtick. She’s completely human and smarter than history gives her credit for. If she were truly a punchline, “Jolene” wouldn’t be nearly as devastating and “Coat of Many Colors” would lose much of its rag-tag potency. This is a hall-of-fame compilation, no doubt, the sound of an icon at the peak of her powers. And for the magnitude of the music, I keep coming back to “I Will Always Love You,” a plaintive ballad wherein the crushing weight of a broken heart sounds as fragile as a chickadee. Whitney Houston missed the point. GRADE: A+  

Sound ‘Round: Brian Wilson / The Monkees

Pop-rock survivors keep on the sunny side.

Brian Wilson – Brian Wilson Presents Smile (Nonesuch, 2004) 

The older I get, the less utility I find in The Beach Boys. I swore by Pet Sounds as a younger man. I was taken by its totemic status among rock’s literati, and Brian Wilson’s melancholic chamber-pop fit squarely with my self-perception as a mature teen who thought he understood sadness (lol). As an adult with a better grasp of mental health, I’m touchy about praising creators whose supposed genius is predicated on their very real health concerns. More specific to Wilson, I simply don’t find him to be a fascinating figure beyond his noted psychiatric struggles. Here is a man who wrote a song called “In My Room,” and then proceeded to live there the rest of his life. His aborted attempt at recording Smile in 1967 was largely the catalyst for his well-documented breakdown and subsequent retreat from society. Despite its turbulent history, here is the rare reclamation project that surpasses the myth from whence it came. Effervescent, impossibly melodic, humorous, heartfelt, a love letter to the whole of American pop. Credit lyricist Van Dyke Parks, whose whimsical wordplay evokes the sort of psychedelic beach-house utopia Wilson always chased. Major props as well to Indonesian-born Darian Sahanaja, musical director who did the bulk of the work to turn these songs and vignettes into wonderful movements befitting a Gershwin suite. But the real treasure is Wilson himself. He’s 62 here, with a voice that’s clearly weathered by age and a lifetime of trauma. But he doesn’t sound fatigued. He sounds like a survivor — happy to be alive and finding peace in the music that always sustained him. It’s that joie de vivre that injects this record with so much charm and humanity. Even a song as maudlin as “Surf’s Up” can’t help but sound faintly resolute. And then there’s the finale, “Good Vibrations,” Wilson’s magnum opus and arguably the best American pop song ever written. Transformed here from a teeny-bopper symphony into a testimonial for eternal love. Hallelujah. GRADE: A+

The Monkees – Good Times! (Rhino, 2016)

They never made a good record (never mind a great record) because they weren’t supposed to. Concocted by a TV studio eager to cash in on Beatlemania, they were a marketing gag instead of a band. Image first, songs second. It’s why they were forbidden by management from writing their own material and playing their own instruments in the studio. Instead, they were force fed songs that often weren’t worthy of a Lennon/McCartney b-side. Nevertheless, “Daydream Believer,” “Pleasant Valley Sunday,” “I’m a Believer,” and “Last Train to Clarksville” are all-timers worthy of their high regard. That still doesn’t mean the world needed another Monkees record, which is why I gave this album short shrift and promptly forgot about it upon its initial release. However, the sudden death of songwriter Adam Schlesinger from COVID-19 prompted a revisit. Here he serves as producer and contributes a song to the cause (“Our Own World”). Other hired hands include Rivers Cuomo, Ben Gibbard, Paul Weller, Harry Nilsson and Neil Diamond. It’s the best roster of songwriters The Monkees ever recruited, and for 13 songs and 36 minutes they do what they never did — string together a consistent batch of giddy, excitable pop songs. The premise is the same, but the execution has never been this enjoyable. Don’t get it twisted, though. This ain’t no nostalgia trip. This is music for those who relish the simple things: dates at the mall, root beer floats and summertime dances included. It’s really that simple. GRADE: A-  

Sound ‘Round: Paris / Public Enemy

Old heads fight the same battles with the same vigor 

Paris – Safe Space Invader (Guerilla Funk)

Oscar Jackson Jr. never plays nice. His first music video was banned by MTV for depictions of violence back when such a thing was a big deal, and his label dropped him for lyrics that fantasized killing cops and then-president George H.W. Bush. Right, he’s a radical. Right, he breathes. After burning bridges in the music biz, he put his econ degree to good use and made a comfortable living on the stock market to further fund his musical ambitions. He’s Oakland to the bone, which means the beats are thick and blunt while the bass lines are as muscular and sleek as a race horse. Think Chronic-era Dre with subdued pop flourishes, because Jackson has no use for pop or flourishes. This is old-school militant music for a new era of socially-conscious listeners. And I do mean militant. He views violence as a legitimate means to an end, and prefers “freedom fighters” over “protestors” who march hand-in-hand with cops he still harbors animosity toward. His convictions aren’t nearly as palpable on the anti-Trump “Baby Man Hands,” a ham-fisted protest that comes off as obligatory and dull. I prefer the one about gentrification instead, where man-bun-sporting IPA bros displace Black residents from the hoods they called home. “It ain’t no black people in San Francisco / I see more black people in Sacramento / And we all know that none of this is accidental.” GRADE; A- 

Public Enemy – What You Gonna Do When the Grid Goes Down? (Def Jam)

Last time I reviewed a Public Enemy record, I earned a follow from Chuck D on Twitter. That was during the summer of 2015, when Trump’s presidential run was merely Daily Show fodder and not a ruinous endeavor that left our nation in shambles. Chuck’s political rage transcends administrations, obviously. He’s always kept this unit loud and aggressive regardless of who controls the levers of power. But it’s a small disappointment that this particularly terrible time in history had seen the OG writing some of his most rudimentary rhymes to date. I’m happy to report this pre-election comeback is a success. Chuck sounds reinvigorated thanks in-part to a guestlist of day ones: Nas, The Beastie Boys, George Clinton, Rapsody, Black Thought, Ice-T and Cypress Hill among them. But these songs also succeed because they go as hard as any group this side of Run the Jewels. And while “State of the Union (STFU)” encapsulates the national mood (“Sorry-ass muthafucka, stay away from me!”), Chuck’s main gripe and conceptual linchpin is the digital grid that consumes our lives, specifically what happens when it goes kaput. What of the police brutality videos that permeate Twitter? What of Black Lives Matter? What about books, remember those? Give it a listen. Then tell Chuck D what you think. He might just follow you, too. At least until the grid goes down. GRADE: A-

Sound ‘Round: Denzel Curry / Ka

A Miami hot shot bucks the trend, and a New York firefighter keeps it real

Denzel Curry – ZUU (Loma Vista, 2019) 

What struck me two years ago, and continues to strike me now, is how different he sounds in comparison to his contemporaries. A quick glance at the Billboard Hot 100 shows a scene inundated by young male impresarios addicted to autotune, self-pity, Xanax, mumblecore and TikTok memes. So, I was relieved to hear this Dade County native eschew the current model and stick to the basics. Ya know, big beats, casual brags, en-unc–ia-tion. But the real difference maker on these nine songs is his subtle but no-less assured understanding of melody. Every track comes with sing-song rhymes and catchy choruses that are more fun and memorable than anything found on the last Lady Gaga record. At a scant 29 minutes, it’s brief enough to pack its intended wallop but hefty enough to feel as substantial as a proper album. He honors Daddy by loving his homies and honors Mama by keeping his guard up. It’s why rhymes about Glocks don’t glorify violence. They simply show him as an obedient son. And while boasting about your bank account is customary, notice he hopes his speedboat doesn’t get repossessed. He’s as smart as he is self-aware, which renders the stripper anthem rudimentary. But I won’t begrudge a young hedonist his share of cheap thrills. GRADE: A-  

Ka – Descendants of Cain (Iron Works, 2020) 

The first thing you should know about Kaseem Ryan is that he’s a captain for the New York Fire Department — a gig he says is “just a job” and “not his calling.” According to the New York Post, he earned nearly $150k in 2015. I know a dollar doesn’t stretch as far as it otherwise would in a major metropolis, but it’s safe to say he does well enough financially that his music is a passion project instead of his bread-and-butter. Good thing, too. While Ryan’s albums are routinely met with critical acclaim, he’s 48 years old and will never be capital “F” famous. This suits him and his songs just fine. He doesn’t rap as much as he gruffly narrates, and the groove often plays second fiddle to the samples — which are equally nebulous. In short, this is neo-noir rap that sounds like, well, a passion project. But there’s plenty of realism here. Mostly unflinching portraits of the Brownsville ghetto in his native Bronx, where his heroes and teachers were drug pushers and police only instigated more violence. Though his monotone delivery sounds detached from the cruelty, the reality is anything but, and is confirmed by a line as grief-stricken as “Times the inner me cry from the imagery.” A rare moment of joy comes on the finale, named for his wife, mama, and a deceased homie. It’s a simple reminder that loved ones carry us through the worst of times. Like is said. It’s a passion project. GRADE: A-  

Sound ‘Round: The Hold Steady / Justin Farren

Songwriters with a thing for specificity, for better or worse. 

The Hold Steady – Open Door Policy (Positive Jams / Thirty Tigers)

As a white man from Indiana who grew up listening to John Mellencamp songs in his dad’s work truck, I’m genetically predisposed to liking this sort of shit. Thing is, I’ve never been fully hooked. For one, Craig Finn’s Minnesota sprechgesang isn’t fond of melody — imagine Randy Newman imitating the cast of Fargo. and his storybook lyricism can be so specific only an English major can fully appreciate his sharpest one-liners.  That means the music has to pick up the slack, a task guitarist Tad Kubler has only modestly succeeded at. I can’t think of another axe man I like more when he plays less. Take it as a mark of improvement that there’s only one guitar solo found on these 10 songs, and that keyboardist Franz Nicolay is given ample room to provide a softer spot for Finn’s voice to land. All of which means after 20 years of singing about a good time, they finally appear to be having one. Lyrical themes? More of the same. Namely local losers striving and failing to attain their 15 minutes of fame. That’s rock n’ roll, folks. No English degree required. GRADE: A-

Justin Farren – Pretty Free (Bad Service Badger) 

On first listen, I found him insufferably twee, a walking parody you’d find on SNL if white guys with guitars still had enough cultural cache to warrant the airtime. Here is an average-looking schmuck from the very unhip city of Sacramento with an indistinct voice singing detail-heavy songs for anyone interested. On second listen, the empathy of his lyricism and the practicality of the music became apparent, and I realized he wasn’t insufferable at all, rather a nice guy whose pleasant simplicity does the trick when the world gets too much to handle. That’s not to say these songs exhibit escapism. On the opener, a faded picture from his Costco membership card brings back memories of his younger days along with the truism that getting older comes with “a little more love, always a little less time.” Then comes a preacher’s son who learns the difference between faith and the power of suggestion, followed shortly after by a song about the treasure and trash left behind by his dead Uncle Bill. There are also memories of old flames and plaintive takes on being married with children. Whatever his chosen subject matter, he always sounds happy to be alive, thankful for lessons learned, and blessed to sing in whatever capacity he can. GRADE: A-