I'm picky. By nature.
This year, I'm officially tired of trying to hide it. Accordingly, this is the best of the best -- some full albums, some album cuts -- according to me. And my dog.
Geordie; Of The Clay: In an age of gothic pretension, this cut from their debut EP puts folk music right back where it belongs -- in the hands of the people. A welcome trend from a duo to watch.
The Storm Won't Come; Richard Thompson: "Lonesome, On'ry and Mean" with a British accent.
The Waters and the Wild; Ninebarrow: It would be easy to dismiss this British duo as a Simon and Garfunkel soundalike. It would also be wrong. Ninebarrow are quietly riveting storytellers who say just as much with what they leave unsaid. Such subtlety extends to the deep river of environmentalism that runs through their lyrics. Like a millennial Wendell Berry, Ninebarrow ceased talking about their love and concern for Mother Earth long ago. They simply live it.
Outshine the Devil; Oxlip: Existential agony under the crumbling boot heels of Putin's puppets.
The Last Bandoleros; Self-titled: Combines roots rock, classic country, various styles of Mexican music, and heavy metal with uncompromisingly intelligent pop sensibility. I'm all in with the music as medicine crowd; but fun is medicine, too. And The Last Bandoleros made the most fun music of the year.
Put Down the Bottle; Red Pine Timber Co.: The horn section may make this feel like two bands, but Red Pine Timber Co. still does straight-up country better than anyone else around, and without a lick of irony. Pure, unadulterated heartbreak.
People Are My Drug; Phil Cook: Back in the day, punk left me cold from the start. The wholesale bleaching of the blues from rock 'n' roll; the insistence that melody, harmony, rhythm, and timing were corrupt and decadent tools of the wealthy -- all of it pointed to an eventual return of (surprise!) Nazism.
We still have a long road back, but Phil Cook has come along to encourage us with an album brimming with complex rhythms; soulful singing; pain; joy; and healthy, communal fervor. People Are My Drug is a potent reminder that it ain't Americana unless black folks have an equal place at the table.
Earth Is Sleeping; Judy Dyble: Dyble continues to do the tough work of uncovering emotional depravity, all the while refusing to let antisocial personalities rob earthly existence of it's simple, sensual pleasures. She is exactly who we need in an age of endless, emotional bleeding. If Stevie Nicks were British, this is exactly how she'd think -- and feel. Keep calm and carry on, indeed.
Rifles and Rosary Beads; Mary Gauthier: The misplaced anger and shame that greeted returning Viet Nam veterans are in the past. Even so, the idolization of the military serves as a virtue signal among a certain species of grudge-holding right winger.
This is so true that the series of American holidays running from Memorial Day to Labor Day has turned into a fever dream of white supremacist military vengeance, regardless of the true purpose of the holidays in question. In this climate, the wounded serve only as occasional mascots -- and only if their stories appeal to the grudge-holding crowd.
Thank God, then, for Mary Gauthier, who obeyed the first rule of the artist as trained observer: Listen without fear or favor.
Like all of us, Gauthier must have had her preconceived notions. She set them aside, working actively with veterans to record their stories in song. Rifles and Rosary Beads, which delivers its message without a hint of confirmation bias, is the welcome and healing result. Raw, unsparing, emotionally truthful, and entirely apolitical, it is a record everyone should hear.
Lonesome River from Epilogue: A Tribute to John Duffey; Various Artists: Absolutely irresistible. Bubbles over with the sheer love of bluegrass music.
Once upon a time, before advertisers and sponsorships decided we should all be mired in cosmetic misery, all bluegrass music was suffused with this joyful, indomitable spirit. That spirit, in the face of crushing disappointment and loss, was one of the things that set bluegrass apart from all other genres. May it be so again -- and soon.
I-89 and Ain't That Fine; I'm With Her: From "Hornets" to "I-89", from "Be My Husband" to "Ain't That Fine", the women of I'm With Her continue to wrestle with the decision to go or stay -- to run (again) from messy imperfection, or stick around for something that holds peace without promise. As always, they make a divinely-inspired racket while doing so.
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