"Cosmic American music" is a now famous phrase the late, great Gram Parsons once coined to describe the Flying Burritos Brothers' genre-defining brand of country-rock, a dreamy fusion of Bakersfield honky tonk, old school rock & roll, Southern soul and California hippie vibrations. Though both Gilded Palace and Burrito Deluxe are filled with gems, the no. 1 best representation of this cosmic Americana thingy just might be the cover of "Dark End of the Street." That song is so heavenly.
Blues-rock lovebirds Derek Trucks and Susan Tedeschi have flirted with a large-ensemble sound in the past, but with Revelator, they attempt to make it a full-time occupation. This is one of them big, sprawling albums, one that incorporates numerous facets of deep Southern music. Though both principals know how to really cook, especially in the live setting, they keep the proceedings introspective and muted for the most part; keeping that in mind, Revelator feels like a first meeting, an opportunity for these musicians to establish a foundation upon which they'll build future temples.
Rarely does an artist's debut album feel as fully realized as Hans Chew's. One could argue the making of Tennessee & Other Stories... began the minute Chew entered this world: crying, bald and naked. The record -- incorporating elements of Southern boogie, country rock and bluegrass -- is a loose song cycle, one that documents Chew's stormy life as a Southerner. It's all here: death, loss, temptation, failure, betrayal and (finally) redemption. Several tracks, including "Queen of the Damned Blues" and a version of Tim Rose's "Long Time Man," exude a gothic vibe that's heavy and powerful.
Here We Rest is Jason Isbell's third album since leaving Drive-By Truckers, yet just his second with The 400 Unit. The musicians' growing familiarity with one another is one of the record's more salient qualities. They cover an awful lot of terrain, from the Muscle Shoals-flavored tenderness of "Heart on a String" to the funky Little Feat romp that is "Never Could Believe." Overall, the group emphasizes the folksy qualities that have always haunted Isbell's tunes. In fact, this just might be the most plaintive album the country-rocker has yet to produce. "Daisy Mae" is a total heartbreaker.
On their sophomore effort, Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears tighten up the grooves and go raw, creating a seamless foundation of classic soul and gritty Detroit garage rock. Their sound is neither trendy nor retro, and yet it is both: While "Livin' in the Jungle" borrows heavily from James Brown, it's also not far removed from Cee-Lo's mega-smash "F You." Then there's "Booty City," a crazed, amped-up boogie rock number whose scorching, fist-pumping chorus hits a sweet spot when the group shouts, "Right on everybody, won't you take me to Booty City."
JJ's fifth studio album since 2001 opens with a funky, smoky swamp-rock groover that recalls the great Tony Joe White at his most sultry. It's exactly the kind of bluesy jam that will help you understand why Grey and his band Mofro have become such a popular draw throughout the South. Georgia Warhorse also proves Grey's twin abilities as country-soul balladeer ("Gotta Know") and acoustic-flavored singer-songwriter ("King Hummingbird"). The album's top highlight is "The Sweetest Thing," featuring both Toots Hibbert and a horn section that is all about vintage Stax.
Patrick Sweany gets it. The blues-rock bard wails and moans about those folks stalking the fringes of society with an understanding that's downright uncanny. The character in the opening tune, "Sleeping Bag," is right out of a Gary Stewart tale. Crashing at his bro's house for the time being, the poor schlub yearns for shelter and stability: "Tell me, where do I sleep at night?" Yet he just can't get his life together. Later on, in "Police Car Blues," the same guy (most definitely) gets all nervous and antsy at the mere sight of the fuzz -- must be on probation, right?
The Truckers love their down-and-outs, and Go-Go Boots is a fine collection of such. The title track is a swampy blues number about a preacher who hires a hitman to kill his wife so he can marry his go-go-boot-clad mistress. "Cartoon Gold," with its rolling banjo and shuffling rhythm, is all glass-half-empty: "It's like bringing flowers to your mama/ Tracking dog sh*t all over the floor." The highlight is "Mercy Buckets," a slow-burning Southern gothic number that emanates despair like the South oozes humidity: clinging, unrelenting and omnipresent.
Hailing from Gainesville, Fla., The Takers deal in no-frills country rock lathered in outlaw vibes -- equal parts Little Feat, Uncle Tupelo and Waymore. It's not a unique concoction, but the band, as Taker Easy demonstrates, nails it. Most of the tracks are about raising hell or drinking hard or raising hell while drinking hard. Again, nothing too original, but The Takers possess a kind of honky-tonk duende that allows them to pull it off: "I'm chained to the bar, that's chained to my seat. And I'd ask her to dance, if I could get to my feet. My boots are too drunk to try and put on a show."
Keys to the Kingdom is bare-knuckled, eccentric and cracked. They are qualities that make total sense, considering the album is a tribute to Luther and Cody Dickinson's late father, the legendary Southern eccentric Jim Dickinson. The record kicks off with "This A'Way," a rocker that sounds like a cross between Exile On Main St.-era Rolling Stones and The Flamin' Groovies. From there, the album only gets better -- and far more self-aware of rock 'n' roll history. On "How I Wish My Train Would Come" the Allstars morph into a long-lost relic from the 1970s that bridged Lou Reed and Gary Stewart.
Topping practically every critic's poll as one of the best rock records of all time, with many counting it as the best, Exile came out at a time when people thought the Stones had been taking too many drugs, losing too many friends and making way too much money for too long to really be able to pull off another great record. Well, they did it. This deluxe re-release features no less than 10 previously unheard tracks.
The 2011 installment by these rib-joint rockers mostly sounds best when they sound like ZZ Top: in opener "Stoned Again," about Jesus and Satan getting drunk; in "Workin'," about politicians being lazy while the rest of us labor hard; in "She Sees Ghosts," about a dog with a sixth sense. Horn charts, soul-sister backup, gospel-quartet harmonies and Hendrix riffs vary the palette elsewhere, and "Daddies Bones" is a smart fugitive murder mystery. But the big surprise is the title cut, in which Too Slim and his son Austin team up for some shrieking, funked-up, Bang Tango-style sleaze metal.
At first blush, Buffalo Killers sound like your archetypal California stoner-rock act: Zep-inspired blues rock dripping with fuzzy swagger. But here's the thing: the group hails from southern Ohio, a longtime hotbed for country and bluegrass. Play Let It Ride loud enough, especially "Leave the Sun Behind," and you'll discover a layer of heartland twang. These dudes aren't cosmic --they're earthy. If you live life like a late '70s Mountain Dew commercial, then Buffalo Killers are for you.
Indiana's Delta duo get more Southern-rock-bittersweet on their fourth album, notably in "Cracker Barrel," the dusky-organed "Giving Tree" and "Pig Farm," which sets a hunt for an old cornfield house off I-94 in Michigan to sodden Crazy Horse guitars. The Memphis metal-funk "24 Hr" praises all-night greasy spoons; "Hip-Hop"'s boogie-rap has a Big Mac attack in its Cadillac. But from back-porch harmonica shuffles to spittle-voiced geezer stomps, there's as much drinking as eating: "Weed Vodka," for example, and a song detailing preferred beverages at sundry Southwestern tour stops.
For such a young band -- this is just their second long player -- Seattle's Moondoggies sound torn, frayed, tired and ripped. To bust an all too appropriate Neil Young analogy, comparing Tidelands to its predecessor Don't Be a Stranger is a lot like comparing Time Fades Away to Harvest. Where the latter balances the artist's darkness and anxiety with comfy rustic hooks, the former ditches the country comforts all together. Indeed, Tidelands is a downer, a muddy, second-gear trudge full of voices wailing about sad, desperate times. Give it some time, though. It's important work for sure.
Bonamassa is seriously prolific. Not more than a year after the release of Black Rock, as well as Black Country Communion's sophomore effort, he drops Dust Bowl. Lovers of vintage blues rock need to explore this excellent album. The production -- inspired by Stevie Ray's early work with Double Trouble -- is dark, cloudy and intensely moody. On the six-string front, Bonamassa's playing is top-notch as always; it's his songwriting that's the greater revelation. He uses such classic American images as coal mining and the ravaged dust bowl of the 1930s as metaphors for his own weary soul.
Dirty Side Down just might be Widespread Panic's strongest studio effort since Ain't Life Grand, released all the way back in 1994. Well crafted and mindfully constructed, just about every song here has a unique character all its own. One of the very best is "Clinic Cynic," a propulsive country-rocker that cruises down the highway like a 1972 Chevy Vega. "Visiting Day," with its hypnotic harmonies, chug-a-lug strut and stinging licks, is another cool tune. All in all, Dirty Side Down is a total keeper.
Set on making his dead-end dump-road mysteries even more mysterious, J.D. Wilkes grumbles through his spittle far beneath all the old-timey picking, barbecued blues slide, gospel-tent harmonica stomping, metal-object clanking and spaghetti western whistles. Digging through the murk to figure out the stories about stogie-smoking hobo heroes and crucifixions in 19th century Kentucky takes time. But from the 83-year-old Dock Boggs cover to the opening and closing factory racket, the Shakers -- now beefed up by Jesus Lizard axeman Duane Denison -- keep the death-train locomotion on track.
Fresh off of a most impressive Oscar win, Ryan Bingham doesn't use his time in the spotlight to write catchy, upbeat songs to expand his fan base. Instead, he lays out a sepia-toned world of down-and-out characters, desperate souls gone astray by design or circumstance. Producer T-Bone Burnett creates a crisp, uncluttered musical path for Bingham's gritty voice to wander. As Bingham introduces us to his set of characters, he weaves an intoxicating spell of desperation and heartache that sucks you in and changes your mood, making Junky Star an oddly powerful release.
