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miranda lambert

MIRANDA LAMBERT
Four the Record

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Miranda Lambert’s had one heckuva year: awards out the wazoo, officially becoming half of country music’s hottest power couple, taping her second Austin City Limits episode, debuting her new trio, Pistol Annies, and now, releasing her fourth album, Four the Record (get it?). Aside from singing, when does she breathe?

But hey, when you’ve got the momentum, run with it, right? And by now, Lambert’s got this recording thing down: brew up some bad-girl sass, some rockin’ rhythms, some heartbreak power ballads, some soulful laments, and you’ve got today’s country — with spike-heeled boots that’re gonna walk all over you.

That’s Four in a nutshell. In classic-Miranda vein, we have “Fastest Girl in Town,” a co-write with her Pistol Annies mate Angaleena Presley. With rip-roarin’ guitars and an insistent rhythm, she races through references to some of her favorite imagery: bullets, guns, drinkin’, drivin’ and getting away with mayhem. “Mama’s Broken Heart,” another anthem for Southern girls, tears down the primp-up, keep-it-together-for-appearance’-sake Dixie belle ethos with verses like, “Can’t get revenge and keep a spotless reputation/Sometimes revenge is the choice you gotta make/My mama came from a softer generation/Where you get a grip and bite your lip just to save a little face.”

Lambert gives a throwback feel to the Natalie Hemby/Luke Laird co-write “Fine Tune,” a slow rocker filled with distorted guitars and vintage-mic vocals. The retro vibe is especially evident when the Beach Boy harmonies kick in. But there’s nothing retro about rhyming “defibrillator” with “love innovator.” Call it lame if you want, but it’s kinda cute. Hemby, Laird and Lambert go over the clever-wordplay weight limit, however, on the already-hit single, “Baggage Claim.” Regardless, this country rocker, laden with fabulous Hammond B3 riffs courtesy of Nashville resident Steve Winwood, will no doubt play to the nosebleed seats in arenas.

She scores better with “Dear Diamond” (that glittering rock on her finger somehow must have inspired this mournful song of infidelity); Brandi Carlile’s “Same Old You,” which gets a classic country treatment; and “Easy Living,” a sweet old rambler of a tune made for porch pickin’. She also nails the David Rawlings/Gillian Welch composition, “Look at Miss Ohio.”

“Over You,” her collaboration with the guy who put that paperweight on her hand, would be better with less bloated production. Its heartbreaking twist redeems it somewhat, but the song would be more powerful as a quiet set piece. That’s the treatment she gives to “Oklahoma Sky,” the song Allison Moorer wrote for her. It’s beautiful. With lines like “There ain’t no goodbye with your hand in mine,” it makes a perfect finish for Lambert’s lastest album — and a perfect wedding present for this have-it-all bride.
— LYNNE MARGOLIS

 

Lisa Morales

ADAM HOOD
The Shape of Things

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Three years after releasing his acclaimed second album, Different Groove, Adam Hood is back with his highly anticipated follow up, The Shape Of Things. Although he hails from Alabama, the singer-songwriter has been steadily building up a loyal fanbase on the Texas music scene ever since his 2002 debut, 21 to Enter. Along the way, he found a vocal supporter in none other than Miranda Lambert, who took Hood on the road with her. But however much having a chart-topping country music superstar in his corner has helped his career, Hood still identifies with the struggles and hardships of an up-and-coming musician just to trying to find a break in Nashville — an empathy made especially evident in The Shape of Things’ potent opening track, “Hell of a Fight.” On the equally effective title track, Hood takes introspective, self-evaluating stock of his journey to date as a songwriter and touring artist. It’s a theme that ties the entire album together.

While Hood’s songs have been covered by mainstream country acts such as Lee Ann Womack, the Eli Young Band, and Nashville newcomer Frankie Ballard, they invariably just sound more at home on his own albums. The Shape Of Things is a great example of what characterizes him as an artist, influenced by the country and blues music he grew up listening to and full of the can’t-fake-it passion and grit that makes those influences resonate. From start to finish, each track here stands out — be it by the bluesy, country-rock swagger of “Granpa’s Farm” and “Deep Ellum Blues” or the soulful vocals on “Moving Mountains” and “Once They’re Gone.” Even the one cover song on the record, Brian Keane’s “I’ll Sing About Mine,” rings 100-percent true. There’s just not a hint of filler to be found here — only further proof that Hood is shaping up to be one of the most consistently rewarding young troubadours on the Americana landscape.
— SHANE JONES

Todd Snider

RYAN ADAMS
Ashes & Fire

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A new Ryan Adams album always carries with it an interesting subplot of sorts: Namely, what exactly was the mercurial, often chameleonic artist listening to while writing and recording? After all, it’s no secret that Adams wears his muses on his sleeve, and those muses change from album to album. Still, even knowing that one should always expect the unexpected with this guy, the soft warmth of Ashes & Fire comes as quite a jolt following the Kiss homage and ’70s-style riffage displayed across his last release, 2010’s double-disc III/IV.

Many longtime Adams fans would cringe at the notion that the word “restraint” could play an integral role in a review of his work. It simply has never been in Adams’ playbook to ease off the pedal when he could hit a sharp turn at full speed. Even his more laid-back albums have been dipped either in layers of whiskey or sarcasm, so the tender earnestness that comprises Ashes & Fire is truly groundbreaking. While there’s the urge to relate it to Adams’ iconic solo debut, Heartbreaker, or even his Whiskeytown releases, those albums oozed youthful exuberance and offered sonic surprises that simply aren’t found here. Both musically and lyrically, the tone of Ashes & Fire is a lot closer to 29, Adams’ somewhat overlooked somber reflection on his fast-paced, hard-partyin’ 20s.

On its own merits, Ashes is a success. A focused, sober, and (perhaps most evident) content-in-life Adams has released a charming album of delicate, often minimalist acoustic tunes. Openers “Dirty Rain” and “Ashes & Fire” begin things in fine fashion. In particular, the former would make a nice change-of-pace ballad on Heartbreaker. With his gentle acoustic guitar accompanied by equally gentle piano and barely-there percussion, Adams’ moody vocals and evocative images take center stage. From there, though, things slow down to a snail’s pace on “Come Home” and “Rocks,” with Adams’ voice reduced to a hushed whisper. The immediately accessible and introverted “Invisible Riversides” and “Lucky Now” manage to be pleasant enough ballads to be tossed on repeat while getting dressed in the morning. And ultimately, that’s what makes Ashes seem a tad too soothing. An artist whose output used to be the perfect soundtrack for “anything-goes 3 a.m.” has now produced the perfect complement to the first Starbuck’s latte of the day.

There are jolts here, but they’re not exactly caffeinated. Where dramatic flair once ruled, subtlety is king on Ashes. “Do I Wait” is a perfect little rumination on uncertainty in relationships. With softly swirling, ethereal atmospherics in the background and one of the album’s true sonic crescendos, it’s the one Ashes song that would have sounded right at home on Adams’ gorgeously riveting Love is Hell. Dueting with Norah Jones, “Kindness” could have easily sunk under the weight of gross sentimentality, but the sincerity is impossible to ignore and the song shines.

Overall, it’s very pleasant album, with hints of true inspiration, but what it lacks — a true dramatic anchor — is critical. If Adams albums were women (and why not?), then Ashes is an attractive but comfortably conservative soccer mom, worlds removed from the kinky sexual dynamo of Heartbreaker, the up-for-anything Gold and even that beautiful muse of unrequited love, Love is Hell. It’s a warm and sincere effort that is unlikely to offend newcomers, but longtime fans are bound to miss the melodic curveballs, dramatic bridges and swelling choruses that always made Adams seem to titter on the cusp of creating something new or losing himself while trying. Maybe this is just the sound of Adams catching his breath, or enjoying a long-overdue sigh of contentment. And maybe, if one were to compare him to an artist like Neil Young (which I do without reservations), Ashes & Fire will ultimately be looked back on as his very own Harvest. I just hope he’s still got some Crazy Horse left in him.
— ZACH JENNINGS

 

Todd Snider

DREW KENNEDY
Fresh Water in the Salton Sea

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Drew Kennedy’s fifth album, Fresh Water in the Salton Sea, comes with the disclaimer that it’s meant as a “companion piece” to his new (and first) novel of the same name. That’s cool and all, but it’s also kind of like sticking the listener with a homework assignment, so here’s the Cliff’s Notes on the book: A 30-year-old, New Braunfels-based singer-songwriter chronicles a three-week solo tour across the Western United States, all the while running from the ghost of a broken relationship and ruminating on why he picked the guitar over law school. The songs he writes on the journey are the ones on the album, and said songwriter just happens to share Kennedy’s affection for joints like New Braunfels’ Phoenix Saloon and San Angelo’s Blaine’s Pub (and especially its late owner, Blaine Martin), but we know this is all fiction and not autobiography because the songwriter’s name is “Daniel Murphy” (see what Kennedy did there?), and Murphy can’t grow a beard.

For the record, it’s a good read, especially for Kennedy fans and/or anyone interested in what life on the road is like for a solo artist. But it’s not really essential for “the record” — at least not any more so than any batch of well-written songs requires a minutely detailed account of every encounter, conversation or epiphany that might have directly or indirectly inspired them. The 10 songs on Fresh Water all riff in one way or another off the novel’s central “what’s it all about, anyway, and am I’m really doing the right thing with my life?” theme (“I can’t see the sunshine for the rays,” he frets on the gospel-tinged opener); but there’s no concept-album storyline to keep up with or get in the way of the music. Kennedy’s voice and melodies are exceedingly easy on the ears, strongly reminiscent of ’70s singer-songwriter fare (more Nilsson, Schmillson or Sweet Baby James than Waylon and Willie), but the wistful “Vapor Trails” goes down like prime Whiskeytown, and “I’ve Got Some Leaving to Do” blurs the line between country weeper and 2 a.m. blues. The toe-tapping “We’ve All Got Our Marks to Make” serves as the album’s rousing centerpiece, and also hints at why Kennedy probably felt compelled to explore long-form fiction in the first place; he stuffs so many words in the verses, he can barely keep up with himself. But he pulls it off with a devil-may-care verve. “Line by line and age to age,” he sings in the chorus, “we’ve all got our marks to make.” And with Fresh Water in the Salton Sea, he’s made a fine one — with an entire book’s worth of words to spare.
— RICHARD SKANSE

 

jesse dayton

MIKE MCCLURE BAND
50 Billion

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jesse dayton

THE DAMN QUAILS
Down the HatchD
50 Billion

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Up the road and down a ways, tucked away in a small basement, sits Boohatch Studios, where madman Mike McClure is churning out music at a break-neck pace. It has been a hectic year for McClure, who has long been one of the most prolific players on the Texas/Red Dirt music scene. Most recently, he has been busy producing projects for other artists such as Tahlequah’s Turnpike Troubadours while also putting together a short run of reunion shows with his former band mates, the Great Divide. And just like clockwork comes another fine offering from the Mike McClure Band, 50 Billion — almost exactly one year after Halfway Out of the Woods.

While 50 Billion may offer a slight deviation from his previous releases, there is plenty of that classic “McClure” sound to be found here — just witness the gritty guitar licks on “Black Diamond.” But what really sets this album apart from McClure’s earlier efforts is the way he seems to have been inspired by the other acts he’s worked with lately. This is clearly evident with “Horse Shoe,” a song about days on the road that could just as easily fit on a Turnpike Troubadours album. The same can be said about “Old Crow,” which fits the profile of his production work with Oklahoma’s Damn Quails. The take-away lesson here is that sometimes the best teachers are the ones that learn from their students, and McClure is savvy enough to take notes and continue to evolve as an artist.

Speaking of the Damn Quails, the up and coming covey of musicians from Norman are really ruffling a lot feathers since the release of their debut, Down the Hatch. Whether a folk-influenced jam band or a jam-band-influenced folk outfit, the Quails offer up a compelling blend of top-notch songwriting and superb vocals and harmonies by co-frontmen Bryon White and Gabriel Marshall. Bring in studio guru McClure, co-producer Joe Hardy and the “Quail Philharmonic” (as they’ve named their revolving cast of backing musicians), and Down the Hatch offers up a unique and compelling sound that heralds the arrival of an outfit truly worth keeping an eye on.
— SHANE JONES

 

jesse dayton

NATHAN HAMILTON
Beauty Wit and Speed

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Nathan Hamilton has come to confess what every singing poet who has every crafted sentiment into song has known: “Sometimes,” as he sings on his latest album, Beauty Wit and Speed, “you gotta fake it until you can believe.” Because the Abilene native and 2000 Kerrville New Folk Winner has arrived at a destination many songwriters set off for but few reach: bold, stark, simple and beautiful truth. 
It’s a trite cliche, “less is more,” but true nonetheless, because as Hamilton has cranked out fewer steely, twangy songs steeped in those familiar but — let’s be honest here — tired ’ol red dirt-dyed motifs, he has revealed more and more of himself.  As Hamilton says, “While in the past, I have written songs about outlaws and bar fights, my days of late are more realistically filled with swim meets and car seats. The seemingly ordinary and mundane often holds a galley of riches.” But fear not. These aren’t the sappy musings of a hipster guitar dude new to the chores of parenting and going all baby gaga over his adorable offspring’s tiny little toes. These are the songs of a man who is thinking long and hard about the passing of time, the intimacies we cherish and the connections we lose with each calendar turn, and the memories we leave behind.

With a voice that resides somewhere between Jackson Browne and Sam Baker — and songs that could have easily been penned by either — Hamilton has evolved into a confident songwriter who, one senses, labors intently over every ounce of syllable for authenticity and efficacy. Today, Hamilton wastes precious few words, delivering songs of compact precision that dramatize the honesty at their core. Nowhere is that more evident than on “Rust of Age,” a gorgeous reflection centered on a mournful muted trumpet, a plaintive piano and an elegant observation that “we all must face our grave mistakes of body, mind and soul, but I believe I’ll take the dirt and leave behind the hole.”  On “Roadside Prayer,” a song that builds from a stark solitary strumming to a Joe Henry-like lushness in the chorus’ admission that “I fear that I may fail you, though I pray it isn’t so.” And on “Days of Caution,” which finds Hamilton joined by Amy Cook in celebrating that “the end is the beginning, there is grace enough to spare.”  

Faking it no more, Hamilton is making believers of us all.
 — GLEASON BOOTH

 

Todd Snider

VARIOUS ARTISTS
The Lost Notebooks of Hank Williams

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When Nora Guthrie first came up with the idea of having musicians breathe life into her father’s unused words, correctly insisting that the folk music tradition was all about evolution, the result was two fine Mermaid Avenue albums by Billy Bragg and Wilco. The concept works slightly differently on The Lost Notebooks of Hank Williams, for which Bob Dylan recruited participants to spin Williams’ words into worthy tunes.

In this case, there’s more of an effort to stay true to Williams’ high-lonesome country roots than to use his work as a springboard for exploring new territory, as Rob Wasserman did on another fine Guthrie “collaboration,” Note of Hope. That’s OK, though. Williams’ progeny have already taken care of carrying his legacy wherever they may (whether it should go there or not). Still, while all of these artists deliver credible contributions, some evoke Williams’ memory more powerfully than others.

Alan Jackson gives a convincing Hank feel to “You’ve Been Lonesome, Too.” Levon Helm also conjures a nice Hank vibe on “You’ll Never Again Be Mine,” though the backing vocals could be lighter. Jack White puts on his hurtin’ voice, but sounds a little too affected on “You Know that I Know.” And Merle Haggard sounds more like late-era Johnny Cash on the closer, “The Sermon on the Mount.”

Jakob Dylan’s voice rings clear and sweet on “Oh, Mama, Come Home,” unlike his dad’s croak on “The Love that Faded.” Sheryl Crow, who’s turned into quite the country vocalist, gets the catch in her voice just right, then lubricates it with a little honey on the lullaby-like “Angel Mine.” Norah Jones, another balladeer who knows her way around a country tune, offers a smooth “How Many Times Have You Broken My Heart?”

Patty Loveless certainly holds her own on “You’re Through Fooling Me,” and Vince Gill and Rodney Crowell deliver an interesting duet on “I Hope You Shed a Million Tears” — on which Crowell does the talking stanzas and Gill sings the rest. But the most outstanding moments come from Holly Williams, Hank’s granddaughter, on “Blue Is My Heart,” and an unrelated — biologically, anyway — Lucinda Williams on “I’m So Happy I Found You.” More than any other artist here, she really inhabits the song, instead of simply singing it. And even though it’s about happiness, her delivery is as mournful as Hank’s at his saddest. That’s how a true tribute sounds. If there’s a follow-up, maybe she and Holly should share the honors.
— LYNNE MARGOLIS

 

Todd Snider

Carolyn Wonderland
Peace Meal

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Carolyn Wonderland is a Houston-born guitarist and songwriter with a long resume as a session player and bandleader. This, her seventh CD, sports an impressive array of production talent including Ray Benson, Larry Campbell (Levon Helm) and ex-Monkee Michael Nesmith, but it’s Wonderland’s soulful belting and impressive axe work that take center stage. She’s often compared to Janis Joplin, even though her voice is smoother and has a wider range of expression. She tips her hat to Joplin with “What Good Can Drinkin’ Do,” a Joplin composition that gets a jaunty delta blues arrangement, while she shows off her slashing slide guitar licks on “Dust My Broom.” Pianist Cole El-Saleh adds some syncopated N’awlins fonk to “Only God Knows When,” a second line romp with Wonderland delivering a playful vocal and a short gritty slide guitar solo. She closes the album with “Shine On,” a mellow profession of faith with her gospel-flavored vocal supported by El-Saleh’s sanctified piano work.
— J. POET

 

Todd Snider

DALE WATSON & THE TEXAS TWO
The Sun Sessions

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Dale Watson channels the vibe of the Sun Records artists he so obviously admires on this set, recorded at the legendary Memphis studio. His band is pared down to drummer Mike Bernal and stand-up bass man Chris Crepps, and they perfectly capture the vibe of Johnny Cash’s legendary Tennessee Two. The band leans heavily on Cash’s trademark chucka-boom rhythm. There’s not a weak track in the bunch, and many sound like takes from a newly discovered Cash recording session. “Down Down Down Down Down” is a morality tale that makes perdition sound like fun; “Big Daddy” has a shout-along chorus that’ll bring a smile to your face; and “The Hand of Jesus” is a moving gospel/protest song. Watson wrote and cut most of these tunes in a few days, but the result is a timeless salute to the studio that helped create rock ’n’ roll.
— J. POET

 

 

Todd Snider

SHELBY LYNNE
Revelation Road

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Shelby Lynne has always had a way of turning heartache into beauty, but on Revelation Road, she faces straight-on the traumatic childhood and harrowing event that shaped her adult life: her parents’ murder-suicide.

Through gorgeous ballads and deceptively upbeat tracks, she offers candid confessions about the unique form of suffering no amount of success can ease: the depression that causes low self-esteem, wrecked relationships and thoughts of suicide. Lynne has addressed these issues before, but never with quite this depth. In the title tune, she starts out singing alto and strumming a mandolin, letting the song unwind until she unleashes its passion with call-and-response cries of “Revelation” and the snake-rattle of her tambourine. It’s powerful.

In the exquisite “I’ll Hold Your Head,” she sings of trying to proect her little sister, Allison Moorer, from the anguish aroused by their father’s alcohol-fueled tirades. Her guitar effects change from distant and ethereal to direct acoustic strums as she delivers bluesy lines about soothing the heartache, as big sisters do. Her Dusty Springfield inclinations grace “Even Angels,” “Lead Me Love” — which has a slightly breezy, tropicalia feel — and the elemental “Heaven’s Only Days Down the Road.” But her Southern soul threads through all these cuts; “Woebegone” drags heavy blues chords into gospel-rock territory, her smooth vocals offsetting the roughness of her playing – and her desperation. “I Want to Go Back” is a heartbreaking confessional in which she sings, “I just add to the collection of my broken dreams/And I want to go back so I can run away again.” She follows it with another bluesy piece, the mid-tempo “I Don’t Need a Reason to Cry,” which will make you want to simultaneously hum and cry along as she recites gut-wrenching lines with incredible sweetness. Lynne adds to the woe with “Toss It All Aside,” in which she drops diamonds like “I can’t get you off my devastated state of mind,” like watermelon seeds. It all builds up to “Heaven’s Only …,” in which she inhabits the mind of her crazed father, playing bitter notes as she careens toward its dark, stark ending. She leaves us with a cathartic finish, however, in the perfectly crafted “I Won’t Leave You.” In fact, the entire album — which Lynne did completely on her own — is close to perfection. Her pain is sad, but oh, so sweet.
— LYNNE MARGOLIS

 

Todd Snider

HALLEYANNA
The Country

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When you’ve spent most of your formative years in a place that rightly bills itself as a museum to Texas music, it’s a good bet that you’ve learned a thing or two along the way about the finer points of songcraft. HalleyAnna Finlay — whose father, Kent, owns Cheatham Street Warehouse in San Marcos, where folks such as George Strait, Todd Snider, Terri Hendrix and Randy Rogers all launched their careers — soaked up every songwriting lesson that lingers in the dusty atmosphere of that grand old place and puts them on display on her impressive debut, The Country. And rightly named it ’tis, because HalleyAnna (who’s elected to go the first-name only route) sure delivers that old school country thang. Hers is voice that may or may not grow on you, but there’s no question that this gal’s certainly got a knack for those crying-in-your-beer/getting-over-no-good-you songs. On “I’d Rather Be a Memory,” she delivers the Patsy Cline or Patty Loveless-worthy line “I’d rather be a memory lyin’ sweetly on your mind than a woman by your side that you’ve forgot” with conviction and resigned heartache. She plays the hopeful, dreamy flirt on “So Heavy” and then goes a tad quirky with “Making a List for You,” enumerating a playful series of honey-dos in the brassy manner of the Mardi Gras trumpet that punctuates her point. And on “Back in Your Arms Again,” the finely appointed slow waltz, she acknowledges the “power of songs we once danced to” to pull even the most lovelorn back together again. HalleyAnna adds her voice to those many Texans that just have to sing for the song’s sake, and she’s getting it right from the get-go.
— GLEASON BOOTH

 

 

Todd Snider

SIDESHOW TRAMPS
Tramps and Freaks

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Perhaps no band represents the eclectic, free-ranging musical tastes of Inner Loop Houston more than the Sideshow Tramps. The band’s second album in its 10-year tenure approaches music like Jimmie Rodgers, Louis Armstrong, Lightnin’ Hopkins, and Django Reinhardt stumbling into an all-night gypsy party — it’s no coincidence the opening track is a romp-stomping carnival barker tune called “Here Comes the Party” that is part invitation, part warning — and swaggers from genre to genre like Gogol Bordello on a bender. In fact, along with inventive arrangements and stellar musicianship, the strongest aspect of Tramps and Freaks is its stubborn insistence on refusing to be bound by genre considerations. Inventive, mind-bending covers of traditional blues songs like “John the Revelator,” “See that My Grave is Kept Clean,” and “In My Time of Dying” intersect with a sly honky-tonker titled “Only a Drop Left,” a slinky, deceptively happy bluegrass tune about a heroin addict, “Hambone’s on the Needle Again,” and “Shady Little Girl,” a punk rocker that explodes like a quasar. Never ceasing to wander musically, the album also beautifully manages moments where metal guitars shred over the gospel styling of members of the Houston Symphony Choir while timpanies explode in the mix, Dixieland toodles make their way into a rocker, and a jaunty party track becomes a dangerous dirge. Welcome, tramps and freaks, to the new sound of Houston.
— WILLIAM MICHAEL SMITH

 

Todd Snider

SLOWTRAIN
Bound to Find You Out

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Adoniran Lipton and the rest of the boys in Austin’s Slowtrain play a highly melodic blend of Americana and pop, crisp warm tunes that strike rootsy and retro chords that will resonate with lovers of folk, blues, soul and classic rock. Bound to Find You Out’s opener, “Not the Only One,” brings to mind The Band playing a Beatles tune, without sounding overtly derivative. It’s a neat trick. The title track is a complete change of pace, a gritty blues with a sneering vocal from Lipton to compliment his waling harmonica. “Nobody Loves Me (Like You Do)” is a blues with a reverb-drenched, over-the-top rockabilly vocal, leading up to a brilliant processed guitar and organ coda. Other contenders include “Beautiful Soul,” a smoky late night blues full of glistening slide guitar accents, the faux Dylan romp “Just Like Cheever,” a tongue in cheek salute to the late literary icon, and the poignant lament, “Love Me Again.”
— J. POET