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The Departed
Adventus
Thirty Tigers/Underground Sound

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The Latin title of the Departed’s new record, Adventus, means “arrival.” It’s a clever play on the band’s name as well as a signpost of sorts, marking the Departed’s progress over the last two years since its inception. And of course the word “adventus” just sounds and certainly looks cool on the cover, too, sorta epic and mysterious and somehow fitting just right with that what-the-hell? image of a cop with a bullet in his ear (taken, the band’s explained, by photographer Carl Dunn at a Led Zeppelin concert in Ft. Worth way back when).

All that’s well and good, and what’s done is done. But as far as the bigger picture goes, Adventus isn’t a destination point so much as the Departed’s official launching pad. Last year’s This Is Indian Land was a very good album — arguably a great one as far as the contemporary Texas/Red Dirt genre goes — but it was a relatively safe album, roaring out of the gate with training wheels. It may not have been Cross Canadian Ragweed, but Cody Canada’s name in front of the Departed’s on the cover and his seat at the frontman wheel gave fans still coming to grips with Ragweed’s breakup a comforting assurance of familiarity. So did the track list, comprised entirely of covers by other Oklahoma songwriters — some better known than others, sure, but all of them long-acknowledged influences on Ragweed’s sound. Hell, prior to the band’s split in late 2010, they had already planned on recording just such a tribute album together. So for all the talk of new beginnings surrounding its release, This Is Indian Land was Canada and bassist Jeremy Plato’s way of taking care of unfinished Ragweed business with help from a pair of fellow Okies (keyboardist Steve Littleton and drummer Dave Bowen) and simpatico Texan guitarist Seth James.

Adventus is another matter entirely. It rips open with Canada singing “Worth the Fight,” a strident rocker that could have easily been the alpha dog on any of Ragweed’s better albums, but armed to the teeth with a restless urgency — “Gotta keep movin’, can’t help myself/Just wanna be someone, somewhere else” — that slams the door on the past with conviction. And then James steps up and nails it shut, delivering a commanding lead vocal with two songs in row — the smoldering “Burden On Me” and the anthemic “Prayer for the Lonely.” For the rest of the album, James and Canada split frontman duties 50/50, with the former’s soulful howl countering the later’s nasal snarl to thrilling effect. (Plato gets a turn at the mic, too, singing the winsome “Hobo,” which is interestingly the most Ragweed-sounding track on the album despite being penned by James and Bill Whitbeck.)

Some of the songs get by on more groove and attitude than standout hooks, but the aforementioned opening three tracks, along with the Canada-sung “Cold Hard Fact” and “250,000 Things” and James’ closing “Sweet Lord,” are all knock-outs. But what really makes Adventus jump out and demand attention is the wholly organic overall sound and tightness of the band. This isn’t the same old re-heated, country-fried rock that’s characterized the Texas music festival scene for the last 15 years: it’s honest to goodness, straight-up rock ’n’ roll served with equal measures of blistering blues and sweet, saucy soul, with two distinctive lead guitarists trading licks both fat and razor sharp alongside Littleton’s equally prominent piano and organ and a solid rhythm section (Plato and new drummer Chris Doege) that can turn from muscular to supple on a dime. And it all holds together without a seam in sight, even as the whole thing shifts and twists from song to song without ever settling into a predictable comfort zone.

In other words, “arrival” my ass — as far as the Departed’s concerned, this is where it all begins. Ragweed fans, chuck your baggage out the window and buckle up.
— RICHARD SKANSE

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Ryan Bingham
Tomorrowland
Axter Bingham Records

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To folks who know him only from the Crazy Heart soundtrack or 2010’s T. Bone Burnett-produced Junky Star, Ryan Bingham’s new record, Tomorrowland, may seem like a risky move. Gone is the finely etched melancholy of the previous album and Crazy Heart’s Oscar-winning tune, “The Weary Kind.” It’s been replaced by a much more brazen sound with a heart full of rhythm and a handful of rockers that clearly owe a debt to Led Zeppelin and perhaps even punk rock, at least in attitude. The Bingham announcing himself in “Guess Who’s Knocking?” couldn’t sound less weary and beaten; he sounds ready to throw down full force: “Guess who is knocking on the door? It’s me, motherfucker, I’m knocking on the door!”

Of course, to longtime, loyal fans (and with Bingham that’s a huge percentage of his audience), this show of vigor really shouldn’t be that shocking. In fact, for most of his fans, the pristine misery of Junky Star was the anomaly, even though it still contained more murder and mayhem than the average rap album. By contrast, the muscular grooves of Tomorrowland find Bingham picking up where 2009’s Roadhouse Sun left off — albeit with admittedly more aggression and minus his longtime band, the Dead Horses. This is a true solo effort, with Bingham not only co-producing (with Justin Stanley), but also playing most of the guitar — usually plugged in and cranked to 11. The result is not so much a radical left turn for Bingham as it is an assertion of his independence. He is confident enough in his vision to employ a “Kashmir”-like string section on opener “Beg For Broken Legs” and to make the album’s centerpiece an eight-minute song called “Rising of the Ghetto.” The former is far more successful than the latter, but none of Bingham’s peers would ever even attempt anything that audacious. Actually, that’s not really fair, as Bingham arguably doesn’t have any peers at the moment, with the exception of Hayes Carll. And like Carll, he is constantly pushing himself beyond the boundaries their contemporaries set up for themselves.

Is Tomorrowland a masterpiece? Not really. Some of the slow songs echo Junky Star a bit melodically and some of the chances he takes are more interesting than successful. However, it is a legitimate question to ask as Bingham is clearly headed toward making an album that will stand as a masterpiece and defining moment. He’s not there just yet, but Tomorrowland is another fascinating leg in the journey.
— GREG ELLIS


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THE DIRTY RIVER BOYS
The Science of Flight
DRB Music

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El Paso’s Dirty River Boys may hail from from a town that’s as far removed from the heart of the Texas music scene as you can get without crossing into New or Old Mexico, but you’d never know it from the amount of buzz they’ve generated over the last couple of years on the strength of constant touring and a pair of promising EPs (2010’s Long Cold Fall and 2011’s Train Station). As such, their debut full-length had a lot of hype to live up to, and The Science of Flight delivers with a diverse yet satisfyingly cohesive sampling of their engaging blend of tight harmonies and explosively energetic acoustic instrumentation. As is the case with many bands that hone their skills on stages rather than in studios, this album is best enjoyed after hearing the Dirty River Boys live, like a souvenir keepsake. But even if you’ve yet to experience the quartet in person — or if it’s been a while — there’s plenty here to get you sufficiently pumped up for their next stop at a bar, club or festival near you. In the wake of the Avett Brothers, the DRB aren’t the only young band of late to mix up an intoxicating brew of country, punk, and roots-rock, but songs like “Medicine Show,” “Raise Some Hell,” and “Lookin’ for the Heart” prove they can easily keep up with the best of them. As in their live-set, Nino Cooper, Marco Gutierrez, Travis Stearns, and Colton James swap turns at the mic and switch up tempos on a dime, but trying to keep up with them is half the fun. They’re just as impressive when they settle down, too, as proved by the stunning, Guy Clark-ian serenity of the sparse title track. Even when doing very little, it seems like these Boys can do it all. — KELLY DEARMORE

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ZZ Top
La Futura
American Recordings

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Let’s be honest: It’s been a little while since that little ole band from Texas really landed a solid wallop. Nevermind the fact that it’s been a good 20-plus years since their last fistful of chart hits (courtesy of 1990’s Recycler, released hot on the heels of the band’s cameo in that summer’s Back to the Future III); until now, ZZ Top had only released four albums since then, and the two that were better than average were all tease with no follow-up. 1996’s satisfyingly meaty Rhythmeen was followed by 1999’s utterly merit-free XXX, and 2003’s whacked-out but wildly entertaining Mescalero was followed by, well, nine long years of diddily squat. So really, despite producer Rick Rubin’s track record for coaching career turnarounds, who in their right mind could have ever expected Billy F Gibbons, Dusty Hill, and Frank Beard to not only roar back with a great record in 2012, but arguably one of the absolute best platters they’ve ever made?

La Futura clocks in at a lean and mean 39 minutes, 22 seconds, and never before has the band adhered so strictly to the “all killer, no filler” playbook. The record is a front-to-back monster, crammed full of greasy riffs, memorable hooks, wit, and genuine ah-shit thrills that hearken back to the Top’s heyday as kings of Texas-fried boogie ’n’ blues. What’s more, there’s hardly a synth in sight; in this Futura, it’s like the ’80s (and MTV) never happened, with the only Top in the rearview mirror being the kick-ass hombres singing about border radio and “Tush” circa 1975’s Fandango! Of course that would just smack of nostalgia if not for the fact that songs here are all so damn good — whether they’re hot-rodding and chop-shopping borrowed wheels (turning Houston rapper DJ DMD’s “25 Lighters” into “I Gotsta Get Paid” and slathering BBQ sauce all over Gillian Welch and David Rawlings’ “It’s Too Easy Mañana”), or one-upping their past glories with insanely catchy (but hefty) new rockers like “Chartreuse,” “Have a Little Mercy,” and “Flyin’ High.” The slower tunes are doozies, too; for “Over You” alone, we can just about forgive these guys for Afterburner’s icky “Rough Boy.” Will any or all of that return ZZ Top to the top of the charts? Doubtful. But who cares. The same goes for whether or not the band will make us wait another decade before making another record this good, or even ever make another record at all. All that matters is, this one is built to last. — RICHARD SKANSE

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CHARLIE SHAFTER
Charlie Shafter
Dogs Hit Records

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With his song “Sea Wall,” Charlie Shafter may have penned the most personal universal love story not written by Walt Wilkins that I’ve heard in years. “It doesn’t seem so remarkable, looking back on it now,” he sings, but it is — especially with the sumptuous backing vocals of Brandy Zdan helping to focus the emotion. For my money, “Sea Wall” is hands down the best track on Shafter’s 10-song self-titled debut, but the whole album is teeming with heart and earth. Shafter, a native of Illinois, has been living and playing in Texas for enough years now to catch the attention of more than a few discerning singer-songwriter fans, and his smart teaming here with producers Ray Wylie Hubbard and George Reiff only makes his light shine brighter. Hubbard is felt the most in the opening lines of the closing track, “Dog on a Chain,” which starts slow before pouring itself into a jam worthy of the old Snake Farmer at his best. “Drunk on Desire” is another standout, with a strikingly suggestive beat to accompany the lyric and Zdan once again lending sweet support. Although not without moments of swelling grandeur when called for, the organic arrangements and non-flashy production keep Shafter’s strengths as both a writer and singer in sharp relief. If this guy’s not on your radar yet, he will be soon. — CODY OXLEY

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STEVE FORBERT
Over With You
Blue Corn Music


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There’s a bit of irony that the new Bob Dylan album (Tempest) and this new Steve Forbert album were both released on the same day. Early on in his career, the Mississippi-born Forbert was dubbed “the new Dylan” — just like dozens of other artists over the years, from Texas’ own Mouse and the Traps to John Prine and Bruce Springsteen. Although flattering and bestowed with good intentions, the designation is invariably as much of a curse as it is a blessing, because, let’s be real, real Dylans come around about as often as Democratic Texas governors see Halley’s Comet. Forbert persevered nonetheless, though because he never came close to achieving the same level of fame as Springsteen or Prine, his career has been woefully under appreciated for three and a half decades. Outside of the fans who’ve followed him faithfully since Alive on Arrival in the late ‘70s, most folks probably only know Forbert for “Romeo’s Tune” or, thanks to the inevitable nasty spillage every few years, “The Oil Song.” Well, it’s high time for this master songwriter to get another blast of attention. Over With You is an endearing and enlightened collection of 10 exquisite songs that speak with the wisdom of someone who knows quite well that things often don’t turn out as hoped; that even the best relationships are in constant states of precarious balance, and that when people do drift apart, it can be done with tenderness and dignity on all fronts.

The title track — one of the most mature kiss-off ballads you’re ever likely to come across — makes this point with Forbert’s signature phrasings and anguished, unique vocal stylings: “Keep this in the back of your remarkable mind/Somethings don’t make sense and some are so hard to find/Over with you, over and through.” The bouncing “Baby, I Know” ruefully acknowledges the tendency to fall short of expectations 10-percent of the time and cheerfully promises to do better. And Ben Sollee’s sympathetic cello is the perfect complement on “Don’t Look Down, Pollyanna” as Forbert commiserates about life’s ebbs and flows and dizzying high-wire acts. But it’s “All I Need to Do,” the up-tempo, off-kilter head-nodder of a love song, that will remind longtime fans of what they’ve always loved about Forbert’s realistic optimism and hopefully help introduce him to a few new ones. “All I need to do is just find someone who’s just like you,” he proclaims. “All I need to change is just the seven letters of your name.” It’s been years since it was suggested that changing the seven letters of Forbert’s own name could give the musical world a new Dylan, but we’re lucky he’s still around helping us get over the fact that he’s not and never really cared to be.
— D.C. BLOOM

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JERRY JEFF WALKER
Live from Austin, TX: Dixie’s Bar & Bus Stop
May 6 Entertainment

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This 1984 performance, available for the first time as both a double CD and a DVD, finds ol’ Scamp Walker sober and fronting a pretty dang good band featuring a couple of Lost Gonzos (Bob Livingston and John Inmon) along with Mike Hardwick and Freddie Krc. It’s a good selection of material from what we now know was the heart of his career. The DVD and the CDs feature exactly the same track list, but the DVD is the way to go; it gives you an undoctored view of what Walker was like onstage at the time. The video quality is charmingly rough while the audio is just great. But although certainly enjoyable, especially for diehard Walker aficionados, this set isn’t perfect. Some of the tempos are rushed and there are times where it seems Walker clearly wishes he was somewhere else. However, that was as surely a part of the Jerry Jeff experience as hollerin’ the chorus to “Redneck Mother” was. The full-on main set (CD 1) is where you’ll find that number and most of his hits (from “Mr. Bojangles” and “L.A. Freeway” to “Pissin’ in the Wind”), but the eight-song acoustic set (CD 2) turns out to be the highlight. That’s where you hear Walker digging a little deeper into his catalog, reaching back to his pre-Gonzo days as a gypsy songman for “Morning Song to Sally” and other early nuggets that he sounds a lot more engaged in. (Not surprisingly, Walker would spend the rest of the ’80s and much of his career since favoring the solo acoustic format for his concerts.) All in all, the performance captured on Live from Austin, TX: Dixie’s Bar & Bus Stop may have its flaws, but Walker fans will find it a welcome time-capsule addition to their collection, and it serves as a pretty good introduction to Jerry Jeff for newcomers as well. Genius and indifference have skipped together down the entire path of his career. This catches a little bit of both at their respective best, making it as honest a portrait of the artist as you’re ever likely to find.
— GREG ELLIS

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NICOLETTE GOOD
Monarch
www.nicolettegood.com

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San Antonio’s Nicolette Good is certainly having a namesake year. You know, a good one. She’s won the Texas singer-songwriter’s equivalent of an Oscar and an Emmy, earning Kerrville’s prestigious New Folk Winner status on the heels of snagging honors at Dallas’ Wildflower Performing Songwriter competition — to say nothing of being one of the dozens of Texas musicians featured on Texas Troubador, that little ol’ show where Glee meets Gruene Hall. And to top it all off, she’s just released her full-length debut, Monarch, and it’s a beauty. Like fellow San Antonian, Edith Frost, Good trades in eerily blissful vocals and mature songs whose atmospheric gestalt lure you in upon first listen and then shock and unsettle upon further lyrical dissection. Good is a poet of the first order, as revealed on the mosaic “Marathon,” a resigned and forlorn West Texas breeze of self-examination (“I am a woman, hot-blooded and bored in the moonlight, hanging on your every word”), and the title track, about a mysterious pauper patron of her art. The diabolical “Pretty Clementine” reveals Good cavalierly getting away with it 49er-style in an intensely drawn character sketch, and “Call Me” finds her issuing half-hearted drunken ultimatums to a lover on the other end of a payphone line. And on “The Road,” we hear Good at her best, enveloping the longing to roam with divine understanding and a sweet music-box melody: “And I said, ‘Baby, just remember that the man upstairs can hear your lies,’ and he said, ‘Darling, I think the man upstairs will sympathize.’”) Good is an insightful and unsympathetic observer of the world she sees around her ... and imagines for us. Good stuff. — D.C. BLOOM

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JAMEY JOHNSON
Living For a Song: A Tribute to Hank Cochran
Mercury Nashville

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Jamey Johnson is the latest country artist to gain success with a retro, or more properly, traditional country sound. It’s obviously not a just an empty stance, either; his own songs are steeped in heartache, hangovers and divorce, delivered in a rumbling baritone that sounds like it’s coming from under the floorboards of an old honky-tonk at closing time. A tribute to the late Hank Cochran thus seems like a natural exercise for Johnson: Johnson, no slouch of a songwriter in his own right, knows his way around a classic country tune, and Cochran wrote ’em for decades — beginning auspiciously with 1960’s “I Fall to Pieces” (a Harlan Howard co-write that Patsy Cline took to No. 1). Johnson covered a Cochran song himself (“Set ’Em Up Joe”) on his last album, 2010’s acclaimed double-disc set, The Guitar Song, and he visited Cochran at his bedside hours before his death the same year. Unfortunately, Living For a Song is a bit of a letdown — not for lack of heart or good material, but because Johnson just invited too many cooks into the kitchen. Every song on the album but one (“Would These Arms Be in Your Way”) is recorded as a duet, and the all-star lineup — including Willie Nelson, Emmylou Harris, Merle Haggard and a host of other notables — proves distracting to the point that Johnson sounds like a guest on his own record. The end result doesn’t always represent Cochran at his best, either; he was certainly a great songwriter, and there’s a good mix of familiar and obscure tunes here, but somehow it doesn’t all hold together. Some of the lesser known songs don’t quite measure up to the big ones, and the big ones here often pale in comparison to their best-known versions. “The Eagle,” with George Strait, rides a Waylon Jennings-like backbeat, but hints of right-wing jingoism. Elvis Costello’s turn on “She’ll Be Back” is fine, but it’s a rather slight tune. “I Fall to Pieces,” of course, is a great tune — but the somnambulant version here with Haggard doesn’t hold a candle to Cline’s. Granted, there are a few keepers here, too, including Johnson and Alison Krauss’s take on “Make the World Go Away,” which serves as a reminder that country and pop aren’t really that far apart. But overall, Living For a Song is an album that just doesn’t rise up to the level of its good intentions. — J. POET

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UNCLE LUCIUS
And You Are Me
eOne

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The mental mix tapes in the minds of each member of Uncle Lucius would make for some mighty fine road trippin’ music across Texas — and there’d be enough musical diversity to keep a Greyhound full of unlike-minded vagabonds content. On And You Are Me, the Austin band’s third release, Uncle Lucius dips into a rich stash of musical styles and tastes to create a sound all their own, yet vaguely familiar. You’ll detect whiffs of late-period Beatles on the kaleidoscopic “Willing Wasted Time,” get a hint of the Brothers Allman riffing into “Somewhere Else,” and hear Rodney Crowell’s graceful influence on the exquisite ballad of hard times in the shadows of H-town’s oil refineries. But it’s on “Pocketful of Misery” where the band brings it all together best, with Keith Richards-like licks and economic rock rollin’ from lead guitarist Michael Carpenter, a window-rattlin’ horn section, and powerful vocals by Kevin Galloway spinning a T-Bone Walker worthy tale of bluesy, hard-luck woe. While there a few jejune lyrical observations, with “All We’ve Got Is Now” and its pedestrian paean to the present (“There’ no past, there’s no future, all we’ve got is now”) and a lovestruck philosophy major’s insight on “I Am You” (“I am you, you are me, I love me, I love you”), it’s the gratifying grooves that really move the needle here. And You Are Me is both timeless and novel music you’ll want to go back to time and time again.
— D.C. BLOOM

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BART CROW BAND
Dandelion
Smith Entertainment

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Suggesting that most Texas singer-songwriters take pride in offering up original work is a bit like saying Willie doesn’t mind the occasional toke. It just basically goes without saying. But there’s no shame in making good use of just the right outside material, as Austin’s Bart Crow proves with the two choice covers that give his band’s new album, Dandelion, an added wallop of heart and emotional depth. The title track is a bombastic take on Texas-based Matt Powell’s majestic signature tune that preserves the song’s confessional integrity while augmenting its overall vibe with barroom sing-along big-ness worthy of hoisting one’s beer into the smoky air. The other song not from Crow’s own pen is the emotionally gutting “If I Go, I’m Goin’,” by Gregory Alan Isakov. With the sweet vocals of newcomer Macy Maloy helping out, this is the stellar ballad that Crow has been waiting to put out for years. The original tunes will no doubt please longtime fans, especially “Didn’t Mean to Break Your Heart.” That one would probably be a rather dour ballad in other hands, but Crow makes its sorrow both anthemic and exalting.
— KELLY DEARMORE

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KASEY CHAMBERS AND SHANE NICHOLSON
Wreck and Ruin
Sugar Hill Records

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Kasey Chambers and Shane Nicholson may be from the Land Down Under, but they draw as heavily on the influences of American roots music as any act on the Americana scene today. The songs on Wreck and Ruin, the couple’s second album together, are full of hard luck, hard times, and hard-bitten characters facing a life that’s bound to bring more of the same. “Adam & Eve” sounds like an old-time banjo ballad and tells the familiar Biblical tale with a touch of wry humor: “We’re on the run with God on our trail,” they sing with a jaunty presence. “Familiar Strangers” is a sold country tune addressing a dying relationship. “Wreck and Ruin” salutes self-destruction, poverty and eco-disasters with a bouncy two-step beat, and the stomping “Sick As a Dog” thumbs its nose at sickness and death. The subject matter may be grim, but Chambers and Nicholson never succumb fully to the dark and dour; their refreshing Aussie take on Americana music is chock-full of energy and a spirit of resilient optimism. — J. POET

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AMERICAN AQUARIUM
Burn. Flicker. Die
Last Chance Records

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A band that evolves from a loose group of rowdy punks into a cohesive unit of seasoned players requires true, significant progression, and Raleigh, N.C.’s American Aquarium show off that maturation process in remarkable ways on their fifth album, Burn. Flicker. Die. The Jason Isbell-produced set finds the country rock outfit taking a step back from the tales of lovers and wild nights that they’ve favored in the past in order to examine a more expansive panorama — one that requires an honest vulnerability to view properly. Life, death and the worthiness of a nomadic existence provide the thematic fodder here, with the band broadening its sonic scope accordingly. “Northern Lights,” to cite but one satisfying turn, wraps a delicate string arrangement around frontman B.J. Barham’s molasses croon as he sings, “Anything I’ve ever loved, I’ve found a way to lose.” The album’s not all introspection and existential crisis, though. In the sing-along worthy, rocking ode to their home, “St. Mary’s,” Barham memorably proclaims himself a “pearl-snap poet with bad tattoos.” Six years into their run, American Aquarium is now a band with a firm grasp on both who they are and all that can be. Burn. Flicker. Die. is their coming of age.
— KELLY DEARMORE

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TIM O’BRIEN & DARRELL SCOTT
Live: We’re Usually A Lot Better Than This
Full Light Records/Thirty Tigers

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Longtime pals Darrell Scott and Tim O’Brien show off their chops on this ironically titled live album, concentrating on guitar, mandolin, and banjo. They deliver these 13 tunes, a combination of originals and covers of iconic classics (Lefty Frizzell, Hank Williams, Townes Van Zandt), with a loose-limbed panache that belies their often jaw dropping instrumental work. Scott’s guitar attack on Van Zandt’s “White Freightliner Blues” is as forceful as any rocker’s, with O’Brien’s mandolin solos a model of driving economy. O’Brien’s “Climbin’ Up a Mountain” is rowdy bluegrass at its best, while Scott’s “Long Time Gone” — a hit back in 2002 for the Dixie Chicks — is a nostalgic mid-tempo country number with O’Brien and Scott trading solos hot enough to make the crowd shriek with delight. They close with a medley of their Garth Brooks hit, “When There’s No One Around,” and a sanctified take of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” that shows off their soul-stirring harmonies. — J. POET

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ROSIE FLORES
Working Girl’s Guitar
Bloodshot

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Rosie Flores steps into the producer’s chair for her 11th album, Working Girl’s Guitar, a solid effort that, true to its name, is another guitar-heavy outing that shows off the San Antonio-born rockabilly filly’s splendid — and varied — chops. “Little But I’m Loud” is a primal mid-tempo rocker with a snappy, sexy lyric and a spunky vocal supported by a couple of short, smokin’ solos, while “Yeah Yeah,” a touching song Flores wrote for her late friend and fellow songwriter Duane Jarvis, highlights the more lyrical side of her playing. “Surf Demon #5” is a twang-drenched instrumental that takes surf music into a smoky inner city bar with the help of Red Young’s big Hammond B3. Those are the only three songs Flores had a hand in writing on the record, but she shines just as brightly on the remaining half-dozen cover tunes. “Drugstore Rock and Roll,” by the late Janis Martin (whose recently released final album, The Blanco Sessions, was produced by Flores), shows Flores bringing a bluesy feel to a rockabilly standard. She also delivers “Too Much” with just enough gritty soul to make you forget all about Elvis’ version, and takes a delightfully unique approach to tackling George Harrison’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” turning the Beatles classic into a gently swinging, late-night lament.
— J. POET

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CHRIS KNIGHT
Little Victories
Drifter’s Church

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Chris Knight has little need for musical experimentation. His grizzled blend of rural poetry and folk-inflected roadhouse rock is as foolproof as a time-tested family moonshine recipe, so why mess with a winning formula? On the Ray Kennedy-produced Little Victories, Knight’s official follow-up to 2008’s Heart of Stone, the Kentucky troubadour offers up another 11 sterling cuts of prime Americana as fit for the front porch as they are a for a rowdy biker bar, all of which should connect just fine with fans who have followed him since his 1998 self-titled debut. But while there’s little to signal any sort of departure here sonically, the finely wrought lyrics reveal a subtle but unmistakable political consciousness that’s rather new ground for Knight. Instead of proselytizing, though, he simply offers an eyes-wide-open look at the impact of the current economy — specifically in his own backyard — and comments on what makes life worth living and the struggles that require relief. Songs such as “In the Meantime” and “Nothing On Me” find him empathizing with the fears, pride, and plight of Middle America and deftly spinning them into compelling narratives without patronization. He finds room for optimism, too, most notably in the title track, in which the legendary John Prine joins him in a glass-half-full list of everyday blessings worth singing about — from a sack full of common groceries to having “a deer and a half in the freezer.” For Knight as well as for the characters that populate his songs, “little victories” in life are anything but small, because they are so very real. — KELLY DEARMORE

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THE PEAR RATZ
“Still Hungry … Still Hurtin’”: Live at Brewster Street Ice House
Rancho Azul Records

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Pear Ratz fans, your cries have been heard. After three albums of thrash-metal-fortified honky-tonk, the high-octane band out of George West, Texas, has finally captured the full testicular fortitude of their live show on disc: “Still Hungry … Still Hurtin’”: Live at Brewster Street Ice House. The set list is impeccable, relentlessly rocking but with just enough melodic songs chucked in for you to catch your breath. For those with only cursory knowledge of the band, here’s what you’ll get: the Allman Bros Band and Waylon Jennings mixing it up at a party thrown by Motley Crüe — though the only cover here is Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River.” The Pear Ratz marry their seemingly disparate influences into a sound wholly their own, and the result is especially hard to resist in a live setting. And Still Hungry, recorded in front of a suitably rabid crowd in Corpus Christi, is so live, so true to the moment, that you can practically feel the evening’s pouring rain that frontman Bob Strause acknowledges a few songs in. This party is wild as hell and soaking wet. If you like it loud, Still Hungry will hit the spot and have you coming back for more. — CODY OXLEY

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DANA FALCONBERRY
Leelanau
Antenna Farm

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Dana Falconberry’s despondent visions and unique vocal style will captivate anyone who looks at life with more suspicion than romance. The Austin songwriter’s simple melodies support lyrics blending plainspoken simplicity and subtle literary touches, producing music that’s as much gothic pop as it is wistful Americana. The arrangements here feature a mournful string quartet, reverb-soaked pianos, sparse dub effects, brittle steel-string acoustic guitars, mournful muted banjo and vocals full of a heartbreaking sense of longing and sadness. While there are a few sunny moments on Leelanau, at least musically, even those tunes carry lyrics that belie their sprightly melodies. It’s an autumnal record that faces the coming darkness with more trepidation than hope, but its somber tone has a compelling, hypnotic poetry that’s hard to resist. If you’re one of those souls intent on wallowing in gloom and melancholy, you’ll love spending time in Ms. Falconberry’s shadowy, overcast world. — J. POET

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BOBBY DUNCAN
Forever From Here
www.bobbyduncanmusic.com

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North Texas-based singer-songwriter Bobby Duncan has returned to his full-band ways with Forever From Here, his first album since 2009’s Faith, Hope and Everything Else. It seems as though the past couple of years of regularly performing as a solo-acoustic act made Duncan antsy to plug in and polish up, though the results are somewhat mixed. Duncan’s firmly established knack for crafting earnest lyrics is still evident here, but that trait fails to hold center stage due to the highly glossed-up audio veneer. At its best, Forever From Here is a well-crafted guitar-pop album in the vein of John Mayer’s better work; at its worst, it comes off as fluffy American Idol fodder. But although the amplified pop-rock arrangements consistently drown out the more interesting elements of Duncan’s writing, there’s still just enough sincerity and heart in the mix to warrant a closer listen. It all comes together best on the album’s title track, where Duncan’s engaging wordplay (“We need to reach for tomorrow, so don’t run from today”) aligns just right with the tune’s unabashedly poptastic piano majesty.
— KELLY DEARMORE


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SLIM BAWB
Pardon Me
Swampgrass Records

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Although Slim Bawb — aka Bob Pearce, former frontman of Sacramento, Calif.’s long-running band the Beer Dawgs — has only called Austin home since 2006, anyone who’s heard him live can attest to him being one of the most phenomenal guitar, banjo, mandolin, dobro, bass, and pedal steel (whew!) players in Texas. Whether he’s doing his own thing, playing pedal steel with Jordan Minor, or mixing it up with the Bastrop-based Chubby Knuckle Choir, Slim Bawb’s chops routinely cause jaws to drop. I once even witnessed him whip up a mosh pit at a bluegrass festival with his song “Farmer’s Tan.” Pardon Me, Slim Bawb’s latest mostly one-man-band solo effort (recorded with drummer Ron “Cornbread” Sherrod), opens with “Swamp Time,” a song somewhere between the theme from Shaft and a ’70s porn soundtrack, and once that gets your feet tapping and your head bobbing, there’s no turning back. The vocal processing on a few tracks, like “Rescue Dog Blues,” is a little distracting, given that Slim Bawb’s gravelly but expressive voice is best heard sans such treatment, but that’s not enough to spoil the Cajun-fried, back-porch vibe that runs through the entire album. While maybe not quite as good as last year’s double-disc Calexiana, Pardon Me still makes for a fine introduction to the Slim Bawb experience for the uninitiated.
— CODY OXLEY