Week in Review

The first full week of December just came to a close, and I am sure that I am not alone in having my eyes and ears unjustly assaulted by countless "best of the year" lists. It seems as if every aspiring writer and every established critic becomes frenzied during the last month of the year, and what ensues is attempt after attempt at distilling the year's "best" into neat, compartmentalized hierarchies based on some preconceived, and often unfairly subjective, criterion. Admittedly, I had toyed with the idea of such a list, or better yet from my perspective, a grouping of awards, some comical in nature, that reflected my musical predilections over the past twelve months. That was until, I read this wonderfully written post via No Depression, one that I found myself sympathizing with greatly, entitled "This Was Going to be My End-of-the-Year Best of List, Until I Met Umberto Eco." I urge you to spend a few minutes reading this passage, and not just because Umberto Eco is perhaps one of the foremost authorities on medieval/classical philosophy and semiotics. Ever an author I have found myself drawn to, I won't delve too much into the specifics of the passage, but will only reiterate Eco's assertion that lists play a integral role in civilization: "And how, as a human being, does one face infinity? How does one attempt to grasp the incomprehensible?" I found myself thoroughly questioning, with more internal deliberation and indecisive reflection than I'd previously thought a simple "best of" list required, how to put a concrete capstone on 2010 and music. I am not sure that it is possible, or even warranted given the vast bulk of artists and albums that we are exposed to on a day by day basis.

Such musing was inspired to some degree by the albums I listened to most these past few days, two of which were not released in this calendar year, but were equally new and fascinating from my standpoint. Both Dawes' North Hills and Chatham County Line's IV carry a distinct flavor of americana, with a nod to having drawn inspiration from more traditional American folk, blended together with more modern fancies. I missed Dawes at this year's Newport Folk Festival, opting to take in other acts I was better acquainted with. Their debut album has led some to vault the group into the same stratosphere as other rising indie-folk acts such as The Low Anthem and Delta Spirit. But I find some of their songs lack an immediate, indescribable sincerity in the vocal delivery that an initial listen can easily confuse for an overlying and undesirable flatness. The much of album is marked with that even-tempered approach, which lends itself well to the flow of some songs, but strips the credibility of frontman Taylor Goldsmith when he sings "I live less like a workhorse, more like a slave" and claims that he is "howling at moons" on "When My Time Comes." The concluding track, "Peace in the Valley," was, for me, the furthest resonating on the album. Here, finally, was a track on which an earnest quality to Goldsmith's lyrical articulation broke through.

I became aware of Chatham County Line after reading a particularly tasty and informative post on Muzzle of Bees, and IV features the same beautiful acoustic arrangements as the key track "Crop Comes In" from the quartet's 2010 album Wildwood. Not to detract from their newer album, the range of lyrical ability and the corresponding harmonies on IV are one of its most distinctive attractions, at times chilling on "Birmingham Jail," which swells with the haunting fiddle during the bridge, and equally thrilling tales of past loves from "The Carolina," a sweet track, off which the influence of traditional folk rolls thickly. As I mentioned in my last bit, Clem Snide's The Meat of Life has also been on the pallet of late. Like Dawes and Chatham County Line, it is difficult to assign or singularly categorize Clem Snide as being of a particular genre, with the inclinations of a variety of musical styles heaped in conjunction. Additionally, I spoke about Eef Barzelay's songwriting ability, whose adeptness at illustrating acrid burning and helplessness of the deterioration of a relationship bares no better archetype than a verse from "Walmart Parking Lot:" "Punched in the brain, in the gut, in the tear ducts too / Feeling more than a little unsure I couldn't make it through / How I cried all day, my heart a twisted knot." Barzelay's skill and flare for remarkable descriptors of emotion may derive from being raised bilingual, a nugget that my brother offered up while we discussed some of the more unique and overlooked American songwriters of this generation.