|
 The
Air up There
Kathleen
Edwards
Failer
(Rounder)
It’s an old joke that Canadians do Americana better than most—from
Neil Young to the Band to Blue Rodeo and beyond—but there’s
often something intangibly tragic and bruised in the way they
go about it. You can certainly feel it in Neil Young’s ungodly
vocal timbre or in the torch twang of Blue Rodeo, whose lyrics
often find them shell-shocked and trying to ponder their way
out of heartache across hard, vast Lake Ontario.
Even the (four-fifths Canadian) Band’s deft, rollicking musicianship
seemed a thin cover of bluster for the deep-seated tragedy
lurking in Richard Manuel’s voice. (Just as, to paraphrase
writer Barney Hoskins, their folksy farm-boy image was a red
herring for the rock-star bullshit that would eventually hobble
the group.) And the Cowboy Junkies haven’t even been mentioned
yet.
This leads us to latest Canadian export Kathleen Edwards,
who has weighed in with what will probably end up being one
of the finest roots-rock albums of 2003. And sure enough,
even in its brightest moment, it carries significant emotional
weight; hers is a voice that wants to sing like a clarion,
but there’s something (winter, heartbreak, bitterness) tugging
it down around the edges. Maybe this is the Northern blues.
Lazy comparisons to Lucinda Williams have been dogging Edwards,
but Edwards’ is a young woman’s muse and Williams has seemed
like an old soul since she first emerged in the late ’70s
(and Williams’ work is as distinctly Southern as William Faulkner).
Neil Young’s influence is apparent here, particularly on “One
More Song the Radio Won’t Like,” but overall Edwards is very
much her own woman.
What the listener is left with, then, is a batch of gorgeous,
earthy tunes with their heart in their throat (fleshed out
by strong production and a great roots-rock band). And listening
to shell-shocked, pensive beauties like “Lone Wolf” or “Hockey
Skates,” it’s hard not to ponder the dimensions of the literal
and figurative coldness that these creative fires were stoked
against.
—Erik
Hage
Various
artists
Almost
You: The Songs of Elvis Costello
(Glurp)
Message to indie-label music acts: Just because you like the
song doesn’t mean we need to hear your version of it. That
excellent bit of advice comes to the fore with so-called tribute
albums. Almost You presents 14 acts performing Elvis
Costello songs, nearly all of which hew closely to Costello’s
original template. In fact, most of them succeed by dint of
vigor rather than reinvention. Fastball’s “Busy Bodies,” Matt
Pond Pa’s “Green Shirt” and the Deathray Davies’ “Men Called
Uncle” are three such solid examples. Jon Auer’s version of
“Beyond Belief” sheds the original lavish arrangement, focusing
on the underlying strength of the song. However, a few others
attempting such streamlining don’t have lead singers with
sufficient dynamics and confidence to keep them from falling
into forced caricatures or inconsequential coasting (such
as “Riot Act” by Okkervil Rover, “Sleep of the Just” by Mendoza
Line, and “Indoor Fireworks” by Kev Russell’s Junker). One
of Costello’s finest numbers is the undercelebrated “Blue
Chair.” Here Li’l Cap’n Travis tosses its subtle but unrelenting
intensity out the window, leaving a woozy barroom stagger
in its stead—not a good trade. The most frustrating selection
is “Alison,” which would be intriguing to hear performed by
Vic Chesnutt. Unfortunately he shares the spotlight with Jack
Logan and Mr. and Mrs. Keneipp, foolishly passing the lyrical
narrative around like a hot potato.
Bottom line: There are some charms to be found on this disc,
but it serves mostly as a reminder of how great the original
recordings are.
—David
Greenberger
 Ry
Cooder and Manuel Galbán
Mambo
Sinuendo (Nonesuch/Perro Verde)
Ry Cooder, who helped shepherd the Buena Vista Social Club
toward international stardom, steps out in far more modern
style in this stunning collaboration with guitarist Manuel
Galbán—arranger for Los Zafiros, an idiosyncratic Cuban doo-wop
group of such prowess they wowed the Beatles. Backed by Jim
Keltner and Cooder’s son Joachim on drums, various Buena Vistans,
folkloric Bata percussionists and occasional, luscious singing,
Cooder and Galbán concoct a new musical hybrid that swings
and twangs and intoxicates. “Drume Negrita” launches the 12
tunes in shadowy, mysterious style. “Monte Adentro,” a spirited,
swirling mambo, follows. The tracks tumble, twitch, and always
seduce. They include a salacious take on Perez Prado’s “Patricia,”
the spirited cha-cha “Caballo Viejo,” the determined title
track (featuring Herb Alpert’s burnished trumpet), and Galbán’s
“Bolero Sonambulo,” an otherworldly, deeply bawdy foray whose
tempo and approach sum up the comfortably surreal, unique
atmosphere of this work. You might hear shades of ? and the
Mysterians, smears of Tex-Mex, a lot of Duane Eddy, some Santo
& Johnny (S&J’s guitar swoon “Sleep Walk” messed with
a lot of teen minds at about the same time Prado’s “Cherry
Pink and Apple Blossom White” was a hit). You’ll surely hear
originality. The closest Norteamericano CD relative is Los
Lobos’ Kiko, which, like Mambo Sinuendo, probes
musical connections to come up with magic. Mambo Sinuendo
is the sound of sensuality, courtesy of an electric-guitar
band so far south of the creative border they’ve devised their
own musical country.
—Carlo
Wolff
John
Fahey
Red
Cross (Revenant)
John Fahey completed this, his final album, just a few months
before his death in 2001. Much like Fahey himself,
Red Cross (which was released by the label he started
in the ’90s) is at once beautifully designed and stubbornly
unique in its sizing; the package stands three-quarters of
an inch taller than most CDs. Musically, the album touches
on most of the major musical themes of his career, from crystalline
slices of traditional Americana (Irving Berlin’s “Remember”
and Gershwin’s “Summertime”) to rich, resonant and spiritually
compelling originals like “Charley Bradley’s Ten-Sixty-Six
Blues.” Fahey steps easily between fingerpicked acoustic purity
and sonic experimentation. The accompanying booklet offers
an essay by Glenn Jones that succeeds in giving context to
Fahey’s often personally troubled and publicly confused final
dozen or so years. Fahey could frustrate his friends and fans,
but all in service to his art. Red Cross is a perfect
final chapter.
—D.G.
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