An Acute Case: 26 May 2023
Second winds, second chances, and revitalising forces
Gracie Abrams: Good Riddance
Another Californian for whom “going home” is an achievement, “I feel like myself right now” is unusual, and consonants are optional. Unlike fellow Rodrigo/Eilish/Bridgers tributaries, she doesn’t have the literary flair of Jensen McRae or Sabrina Carpenter, but somehow the ordinariness of her therapy-speak still works. Though not when she sings “I was so negligent.” That makes her sound like she’s copping to corporate liability. * (“I know it won't work” “Difficult” “This is what the drugs are for””
Buck 65: Super Dope!
Richard Terfry’s latest full-length comes 329 days after and 16:24 seconds shorter than the last one—and yes, such distinctions do matter, because what he’s made is essentially the same thing. Anyone looking for marginal differences will have to settle for his increased concerns with an aging body—he’s watching his weight on “Mono No Aware”, biding his time till he needs orthotics on “Challenge To The Underground”, and weighing up whether that garage renovation was worth the hip replacement on “Breach The Wall Of Smoke”. Happily, such aches and pains don’t harm his youthful delight for beat and rhyme construction. After 51 years on earth and 30 in music, he’s figured out the most direct routes to his aural pleasures and is intent on mining them without making change for change’s sake. And so he continues to chase the most sought-after breakbeats on his 250-page list, tackles 120 bpm for the first time, scolds the judge who gave Roxanne Shanté’s freestyle 4/10 at the ‘85 New Music Seminar, and adds untold new rhymes to the rap lexicon—among them: Herbie Hancock/dirty shamrock/curried ham hock and Sissy Spacek/shitty pay-check/shifty tape deck. Where King of Drums was an unwieldy machine wresting control from its creator, this is sturdier, song-ier, and only slightly less exhilarating as a result. But how many rappers are even attempting anything like this, let alone doing it this well? As he humbly puts it: "I get a lot accomplished / Working in a modest office." Humbler still: “Not a hall of famer but an interesting career.” A MINUS
Rodney Crowell: The Chicago Sessions
I didn’t have Jeff Tweedy down as a revitalising force, but after a shared gig performing with Crowell on a Cayamo cruise led to the latter recording this album at The Loft, consider his entry updated. The band is split 50/50 between their favourite helpmeets, with the combination of familiar company and fresh blood giving Crowell the courage to tackle tricky notes at both ends of the scale. At 72, such feats count double. The playing is crisp, boasting a bright-eyed buoyancy that renders the all-but-one originals simple, limber and fresh rather than basic, casual or raw. Lyrically, Crowell's gift is for the uncomplicated boldness of a nursery rhyme, with a strong line in metaphors in common usage. Wife Claudia is beneficiary of his best couplets, though injustice, mortality, and Don Quixote also ring his bell. Starts by recalling his misspent youth, finishes by declaring he’s ready to move on, in between chronicles a lifetime. A MINUS
Fatoumata Diawara: London KO
A mild-mannered Anglo-Malian let's-call-it-fusion that doesn’t upset the average listener by including too many polys in its rhythms but does include Damon Albarn. While it’s commendable when anyone finds a way to put him to good use—really, he doesn’t need any more encouragement. That’s what the British music press is for. ** (“Nsera” “Netara” “Dambe”)
Robbie Fulks: Bluegrass Vacation
After 37 years in Chicago, 60-year-old Fulks moved to L.A. just before the pandemic started. When it did, he found himself at the backyard picking parties that rekindled his passion for his musical birthright and begat this album. The result is almost as genre-bound as the title suggests. Yet Fulks is such a nimble and thoughtful writer that his inclusion of poignant personal observation doesn’t just elevate this beyond an exercise, it proves that a tradition most would consider a relic is in good working order. He knows how the call of “any old somewhere” can appeal to a “middle of nowhere kid”, but he also knows that “only a fool thinks he can leave just by driving away.” And as befits an artist whose early songs include “Fuck This Town”, he’s got jokes—from the backwaters where “Long as you’re living you’re lost in this spell / And when you’re dead well man who can tell”, to the look he stole at sweet little Cora-Mae’s sister the day she wore that halter top and thong and for which he’s been suffering ever since. Occasioning no fewer than 4 mandolins, 3 guitars, 3 banjos, and 1 bass, dobro and fiddle apiece, it’s a lark—fast, dextrous, and probably the most propulsive drumless music you’ll hear this year. A MINUS
Kara Jackson: Why Does The Earth Give Us People To Love
Knowing Jackson was a published poet was enough to make me play her… hmm… art-folk album. What made me pay attention was her refusal to settle on a key to sing in and Nnamdi Ogbannaya raiding Arto Lindsay’s box of tricks. And, of course, her powerful words. Like when she calls all her exes dickheads. ** (“dickhead blues” “pawnshop” “rat”)
Babaa Maal: Being
A 69-year-old prestige artist getting a tech upgrade after a seven-year album break and cultural mission to Wakanda is the kind of thing that gets world music connoisseurs hot and sweaty. But truthfully, this is simple stuff and better for it. Assisted by Johan Karlberg (one of the connoisseurs who gets to participate by dint of his being a dandy beat-maker) this finds Maal trying on styles and sounds picked up from life as a frequent flyer. His most blatant moves are his best: ngoni licks deployed as pop hooks; jittering trap beats sharing polyrhythms with sabar slaps; vocal confections of unknown origin hiccupping in and out of the mix. Perhaps in consideration of his recent appointment to a UN Ambassador role he says he’ll use to advocate for the environment (so no one mention the NFT released as part of the album promotion) the themes include a celebration of fishermen in his home region of Podor. Also, two Fulani proverbs of mixed comprehensibility. One says to only forge relationships you can maintain, which checks out. The other says to share all the knowledge you possess but also that true knowledge is not sharing everything you know, which doesn’t. Outside the ravers, electronics cede to rustling textures, dark moods, and spry melodies. Perhaps as a concession to more conservative connoisseurs, closes with a nine-minute inventory of his head voices set to faint bird song and spare bass ngoni. B PLUS
Withered Hand: How to Love
One of the few famous(ish) sons of Bishop’s Stortford not responsible for harassing Andrew Sachs or colonising southern Africa, Edinburgh-based Dan Wilson rejected his Jehovah’s Witness upbringing as a teen and has been in one long crisis of faith since—at least in song. Except after 2014’s New Gods, the songs dried up. As, coincidentally or not, did his drinking, which he describes as having been constant until then. It’s only in the last couple of years that, with the help of folkie Kathryn Williams, he rediscovered his muse and assembled these fine new songs. They pair his pained vocals and shaky guitar tone with a lavish band and full choir. If that combination sometimes outmuscles his more tender qualities, it’s in pursuit of a musical reach as searching as his lyrics. Those, understandably, are tamer. But though he’s no longer beating himself off on your futon or daydreaming about sacrilegious undergarments, his capacity for self-doubt and talent for turning the everyday into the biblical remains undimmed. One verse is addressed directly to his “fellow fucked up sons of Abraham”; in another he finds the Grand Canyon reminds him of the devil inside; and everywhere he sees “you” (or more likely “You”)—from the bar he once propped up at The Lexington to food dropped on the Waffle House floor. And who’s to say he’s wrong? Google just returned 31,300,000 results for “Jesus’ face in a waffle”. A MINUS