Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/22/11 - Glenn Jones/The Black Twig Pickers with Charlie Parr and Big Black

One of the happiest surprises to manifest itself in vinyl form on this recently passed Record Store Day is the split LP featuring the guitar talents of Glenn Jones and the grand Old Time shadings of Virginia’s own Black Twig Pickers in collaboration with Piedmont-style country blues specialist Charlie Parr. This lovingly crafted disc sheds a wealth of illumination upon the deep allure of various North American root forms that continue to provide valuable insight and inspiration for all sorts of contemporary players, essentially the spark that’s spurred an inexhaustible fire, and the only reason I can formulate as to why the Jones/Twig LP survived the consumer plunder of Record Store Day is simply lack of name recognition. So let me get right down to rectifying that situation. Glenn Jones burst onto the underground music scene way back in 1989 as a member of the amazing New England avant-garage group Cul de Sac. That band majestically weaved an assortment of disparate out-rock influences (Pere Ubu, Can, Neu!, Girls, Tim Buckley) into a discerning and uncompromising blend that stretched out over the landscape of nine albums, including two that were collabs with such formidable figures as the late John Fahey and Can’s Damo Suzuki. This bit of background is especially noteworthy in the case of Fahey, for his groundbreaking and frequently dazzling American Primitive guitar work is a huge influence on Jones’ own exceptional guitar style, and the vast yawp of Fahey’s Takoma Records roster (Leo Kottke, Robbie Basho. Peter Lang, Max Ochs, Harry Taussig) has been the center of affairs for Jones’ upstart solo work. While there are numerous worthy disciples to the American Primitive tradition picking and plundering all over the globe, Steffen Basho-Junghans, James Blackshaw and Sir Richard Bishop among them, the loss of Jack Rose to a heart attack in 2009 sort of left this micro movement without a clear leader. By the evidence on Jones’ side of this split, it’s looking like he’s stepping up to the head of the class. Titled EVEN TO WIN IS TO FAIL, its mixture of guitar and banjo instrumentals finds him simultaneously deep in the throes of American Primitive science and at the forefront of the style’s endless possibilities, extending them well beyond the present. The opener “Anchor Chain Blues” is so indebted to the gorgeous luminosity of Fahey’s early work that it would easily be mistaken for the maestro himself in a blindfold test. If this was the full extent of Jones’ exploration here, he’d be valued as a particularly inspired and adept copyist but not much more. Thankfully, this powerful channeling of Fahey’s exquisite gifts is instead a launching pad/ground base for some rich and multifaceted string construction. “The Great Pacific Northwest” begins as a continuation of the more contemplative side of Fahey’s youngish mode, a gesture that seems far less frequent in the new generation of American Primitive players, but by the end of the tune Jones has asserted himself into the full on post-John Hurt zone that makes all those Vanguard-era Fahey recordings so eternally rewarding. It’s on track three that the proceedings take an unlikely turn, landing smack dab in the wide open territory of a beautifully nude banjo. My first thought upon hearing this sly twist spanned all the way back to BANJO, Billy Faier’s sweet and neglected 1973 Takoma solo joint, but upon reflection this connection is only accurate in spirit. Faier’s crisp, ramshackle, rollicking style was very much about dexterity and Jones’ ruminations on the instrument are far more about mood. In this case one of sadness and melancholy. The track’s title, “On the Massachusetts Virginia Border” is I think indicative of Jones’ relationship with the Richmond-born Jack Rose and possibly serves as a tribute to that departed titans’ legacy. If I’m correct on these counts the tune’s contemplative air is an unmitigated success. And if I’m wrong, well, Jones’ artistry is strong enough to withstand the misinterpretation. Track four provides Jones’ side of the disc with its title, and it takes another fine detour, this time into realm of the steel string guitar. It’s here where Jones shines at his most original, still clearly American Primitive in outlook but reaching into largely uncharted waters. He does conjure up thoughts of Ry Cooder at his least commercially minded, but this is undoubtedly an associative leap on my part. Where many steel string new jacks are very much under the spell of the gigantic power of Son House’s stuff (the ‘60s-era work, to put a fine point on it), Jones instead utilizes the instrument for far more foreboding and personal ends. Side one’s final track “Tinka Marie” finds the banjo back in his sturdy hands, and once again it’s very much about texture. Easily the most relaxed and pretty tune of the bunch, it’s a fabulous denouement and summation of all that came before and points to the vast number of cards Jones has up his sleeve. He has a record set for release soon on Thrill Jockey and a joint DVD on deck from Strange Attractors Audio House, and my interest is seriously peaked. EASTMONT SYRUP, the Black Twig Pickers side of the disc finds us squarely in the middle of string band sensibilities, and while their seven tracks unwind that’s a fine place to be. Opener “Forky Deer” is loaded with much welcome fiddle action, but it’s the following cut, “Warming By the Devil’s Fire” that finds them really loosening up and melding with guest Parr, the whole crew throwing down a shithot batch of wound-up hunch that’s worthy of the ghost of Blind Willie McTell. The fiddle returns for the excellent if brief “Falls of Richmond” and that’s the mode that continues through the more upbeat “Horseshoe”. “Barnswallow” switches to an excellent solo turn for banjo, and “Wednesday Night Waltz” is an achy, forlorn lament, with loads of keening bow scraping to spare. Only on the final track “Death of Jerry Damron” do we get vocals courtesy of Parr, and his singing is in fine, mournful form. If it appears that I’m giving short shrift to the Twigs and Parr in comparison to Jones’ side of the disc, well that’s not at all the case. It’s just that the rich Old Time tradition of the Pickers is in far less need of deep description than the vast solo complexity of Jones. And when it comes to string band style, I’ll admit that my love of the genre finds me desiring my mustard uncut. With the exception of The New Lost City Ramblers and especially The Unholy Modal Rounders (one of my all time favorite bands of any stripe), I must fess up that any attempts at stylistic hybridization leave me chilly to downright cold. So the rough, raw textures of The Black Twig Pickers are right up my personal alley. Call me a purist if you must, but the front porch wrangling and wiggling of EASTMONT SYRUP is in no need of updating or sophistication. Just grab a jar, take a deep snort and huff. Then huff again. For it’s all right here.

In regards to the ‘80s rock underground, by this late date, only the stodgiest of moldy figs still obstinately refuse to acknowledge the importance and greatness of such bands as Black Flag, Sonic Youth, Mission of Burma and Minutemen. When it comes to the thornier presence of Big Black however, many minds are still deeply opposed to their entry in the hallowed halls of historical rock esteem. Frankly, I find this to be a very deep drag, but it’s hard to deny that the root of the unfortunate circumstance comes directly from the prickly personality of the band’s main honcho Steve Albini. Out of all the folks that populated indie rock Mk 1, Albini was easily the most confrontational, and his acerbic, abrasive attitude was matched with music that possessed an uncompromising, blunt causticity. It’s debatable just how well most of his youthful nihilism has dated, but that’s the risk of growing up in public. Albini eschewed politics and penned lyrics that were alternately obsessed with tabloid violence, lurid sexual themes, misogyny and general misanthropy, all while sauntering over the scene with the demeanor of a contemptuous, bookish smart aleck. Many people hated it (him), while others ate the whole thing up like it was a gourmet dessert. Now many urbane observers from the aboveground music press took a detached stance toward the guy’s persona, instead faulting him for crafting music of inferior quality, but in my mind that’s largely just a bunch of phony baloney, a tactic masking their disdain for his hard-line stance. For while I’ve never really had any guff with Albini’s attitude/beliefs, and in fact agree with certain aspects (particularly regarding commerce and art), it was still relatively easy to identify much of his swagger as shtick back when Big Black was a thriving entity. And if there is one thing that skinny bespectacled dude knows inside and out and top to bottom, it’s music. Complaining that his stuff is one dimensional or lacks subtlety simply makes no sense to me. Is a jackhammer one dimensional? Sure, but it gets the job done. Is a pile driver subtle? No, and by design. Long after most of the world had turned their back on the form, Big Black grabbed the dripping vitriol that was punk rock at its best, combined it with the icy alienation of post-punk before it went all soft at the center and then crossed it with that severe outlook that throbbed like the sordid contents of an extremely pulpy true crime magazine on bad blotter and rotgut liquor. It certainly did take a while for Albini to perfect the project (by his own admittance), his early EPs (LUNGS, BULLDOZER) being largely solo affairs that while aggressive and worthy were less heavy than gnawingly post-punk. The classic Big Black lineup was the trio of Dave Riley on bass, Santiago Durango on guitar and Albini on guitar and vocals enlisting the trusty thump and thwack of a stressed out Roland drum machine, and while many consider 1986’s ATOMIZER album to be their definitive statement (it does include their two best tunes), I feel their overall strongest disc was the last one, 1988’s SONGS ABOUT FUCKING. For starters, SONGS was the first Big Black full length to spread the songic quality more equitably over both sides of the vinyl. ATOMIZER’s first side is an absolute doozy; the second not so much. While it’s certainly arguable, I’m tempted to credit SONGS’ overall best cut as the second side’s acidic sex murder chronicle “Fish Fry”. The deck is still slightly stacked in Side One’s favor, but that’s to be expected with music of this style, pounding fast and hard right out of the gate. Another reason I value SONGS so highly is how unlikely roots start to peak through; for one example the scorching cover of Kraftwerk’s “The Model”, for another the stylistic similarity to The Ramones on “L Dopa”, and for one more “Columbian Necktie”, which underneath its caterwauling thunder and distortion is ultimately a surf tune. A further example of SONGS superiority for me exists in the cut “Precious Thing”. If ATOMIZER’s “Kerosene” personified the stultifying atmosphere of ‘80s small town boredom, standing as a blistering update on Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues”, then “Precious Thing” details emotional obsession with the explicit desperation that feels like the bastard child of the Delta Blues at its most lyrically extreme. In addition; “Bad Penny” is a first person tale of a passively sadistic life ruining lout, “Kasimir S. Pulaski Day” contains much of the band’s occasional abrasive funkiness and “Pavement Saw” holds some of Albini’s most direct and least affected vocals. Overall, SONGS ABOUT FUCKING is a smashing success, and if it’s not as great as DAMAGED, DAYDREAM NATION, VS., or DOUBLE NICKLES ON THE DIME, well it’s not behind by much. Is it dated? Yeah, somewhat. But I don’t really think that’s a fault. I do think Albini’s current band Shellac, along with his vast credits as engineer will ultimately vindicate his legacy.  But what Big Black lacked in maturity it more than made up for with youthful vigor. They were a thrilling, highly influential band, and it’s high time they got their due.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/15/11 - J Mascis and The Sea and Cake

Dinosaur Jr. was one of the first groups to combine two distinctly different kinds of heavy. By the band’s second album, 1987’s YOU’RE LIVING ALL OVER ME, they’d essentially perfected their mixture of punk and hard rock, paving the way for Nirvana and the whole grunge explosion. Dino’s achievement was unique in the specificity of its makeup however, drawing upon the density of hardcore, the aggressive sludginess of early Sabbath and the bruising melodic dynamic of Crazy Horse. Yes, there were also small flashes of softer acoustic based stuff, but this largely took a back seat to Mascis’ dual roles as laconic vocalist and scorching guitar hero, particularly after bassist Lou Barlow exited the picture and initiated the long prickly journey of his often unplugged solo work. But it was apparent to anybody who stuck with J’s work post-GREEN MIND that he could work quite satisfactorily in a more acoustic context, though the guy defiantly, determinedly remained plugged in; with the righteous regrouping of the original Dinosaur a few years ago, it appeared that the chances for a quieter, stripped down Mascis to assert himself were suddenly slimmer than ever. Well, my personal odds have been defied, for that wily longhair has just kicked out SEVERAL SHADES OF WHY, a collection of ten mostly acoustic songs that find a lesser explored side of the man’s work opening up like a fresh blossom. What’s nice is how the set has been methodically crafted as a fully fleshed out group of tunes, completely eschewing any “unfinished’ or “demo-ish” qualities. Much of the reason for this is due to his splendid supporting cast. Yes, this is a “solo” record in name only, with contributions from such esteemed names as Kurt Vile, Matt Valentine, Kurt Fedora, Kevin Drew (Broken Social Scene), Ben Bridwell (Band of Horses), Pall Jenkins (Black Heart Procession), Suzanne Thorpe (Mercury Rev/Wounded Knees) and Sophie Trudeau (Godspeed You Black Emperor/A Silver Mt. Zion). Everybody conspires to craft a superb early morning listen, the kind that inspires the busting open of springtime windows, letting the sunshine and crisp air flood in, the music mingling with the gleeful freedom of chirping birds and the delicious scent of brewing coffee. Pour a cup, sit back and let the day unwind. Sneaky electricity doesn’t really assert itself until track 5 “Is It Done” and then in the form of a typically loose and lazily gorgeous solo from the fingers of J, and that’s essentially the dominant mode of the LP’s amped accents (though closer “What Happened” does work up a bit of crunch muscle). But there are other joys to be had. The layering of Trudeau’s violin with J’s crisp picking on the title track is likely to please partisans of Nick Drake, the dark country singalong strum of “Not Enough” feels like a campfire readymade, and Thorpe’s wispy flute on “Make It Right” recalls the maypole-cavorting lightness of Brit-psyche-folk and is the closest this record gets to the blessed-out sweetness of fellow New Englander's Damon & Naomi. “Where Are You” feels like tough ‘60s New York streetcorner folk ala John Sebastian or Fred Neil, and it contrasts well with the fragile indie minimalism (think Mountain Goats or Bright Eyes) of “Too Deep”. The album’s penultimate track “Can I” is a dusty sun-baked western shamble, and its stretched-out atmosphere really points to the understated diversity of the whole record. SEVERAL SHADES OF WHY is simply an outstanding album from a reliable, sturdy hand. Hopefully he’ll grace us with a follow-up before too long.

The Sea and Cake started way back in the mid-‘90s as a sort of Chicago supergroup, with members Sam Prekop and Eric Claridge hailing from the still confoundingly underappreciated Shrimp Boat, Archer Prewitt arriving from the very fine and somewhat misunderstood Coctails and John McEntire being known most prominently as a member of Tortoise. The connection with Tortoise and the Thrill Jockey label found the band lumped into the whole post-rock thing, which made sense back then due to the fresh direction they and their cohorts were taking, essentially avoiding the standard indie trappings of loud, distorted guitars and well worn song structures. This isn’t to imply that The Sea and Cake lacked precedent; it’s just that their forbearers were largely quite neglected. The Scene is Now, Mofungo, Fish & Roses and late-era Talk Talk all figure as stylistic antecedents to what The Sea and Cake were doing, and I think it’s safe to throw the Minutemen in there (more for ideology than overt sonic similarities) as well. Initially, The Sea and Cake provided a fresh, smart alternative to a bunch of indie-rock dead ends, a quality they shared with such diverse ‘90s artists/acts as Gastr Del Sol, Jim O’Rourke, Rodan, Slint, Shipping News, Ui, Labradford, Stereolab, Mogwai and Don Caballero. Now that most of those names have faded away and post-rock has become an accepted if still debated form of underground musical affairs, it’s time to laud The Sea and Cake for sticking it out. They have a new album set to arrive next month, but first things first: 2008’s fantastic CAR ALARM is an excellent entry point for the uninitiated, full of what’s become a trademark sound. Specifically, the area in which they excel is in delivering a deceptively light/airy twin guitar attack propelling pop songwriting that’s tough as diamonds. People often speak of jazz in relation to this the band, and that’s fitting but not in the expected way. Their proclivity for Brazilian/Caribbean strains and rhythms finds them closer to the relaxed attractiveness of Stan “Samba” Getz than the muscular dynamism of Coltrane, though there is also the modal thing (sort of a post-rock Chicago thing), so Miles is all up in there too. The rhythmic thrust courtesy of McEntire and Claridge is crisp and propulsive, never far away from Krautrock motorik, that Autobahn inspired ceaseless simplicity that’s proven so influential to post-punk, post-rock and general indie/u-ground affairs. The band’s use of electronics is non-gimmicky and perfectly integrated into their attack, balanced with the traditional instrumentation so that no one element overwhelms the other. As far as contemporary references go, I feel safe in recommending this to folks that dig Broken Social Scene (with whom The Sea and Cake toured), the Godspeed/Silver Mt. Zion Constellation Records crew and even the techy-instrumental prog of Battles, but it’ll also likely go down a storm with anybody swayed by the recent work from Scottish guitar popsters The Clientele. That’s what’s called diversity. With that said CAR ALARM is very much its own thing. The Sea and Cake have eight full albums to their credit, which points to their position as survivors from the fertile ‘90s indie scene, and they seem poised for a fresh round of activity. I look forward to where they're headed.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/8/11 - Mike Watt and Neko Case

Mike Watt has journeyed a long way from his San Pedro roots and his position as the bass-man for the greatest North American punk band (and arguably the best rock trio ever) the Minutemen, but no matter where circumstance takes him it’s quickly apparent that a well maintained personal compass will reliably lead him back home. Furthermore he stands as one of the few defiant proles to draw firsthand inspiration in the original punk wave that can still be described as legitimately carrying on that thorny ideological and musical tradition. And by that I simply mean he can be accurately described as “punk” without a) stretching the concept like taffy or b) having to contend with any obnoxious fashion garbage. But this is ultimately no surprise since two main tenets of Watt’s substantial rep have always been to push boundaries, never falling back on cliché, and to keep the scale small, the distance from the stage and the floor as infinitesimal as possible, the better to relate to those in the audience as peers instead of consumers. And while I continue to take much personal inspiration from the man’s approachable, encouraging personality and how it twines with his unflagging enthusiasm and parsimonious ingenuity, I do think this has sorta taken precedent over the boundary kicking/cliché shredding side of Watt’s enduring gush. For the guy is as comfortable spieling on the Modernist literature of James Joyce as that of music writer Richard Meltzer (which maybe isn’t so odd since as formidably uncompromising and challenging as Joyce’s work could be, he was always a street-level writer [no ivory tower for him] and one endlessly concerned [later consumed] with the sound, the music of language) and not only knowledgeable on the groundbreaking jazz of John Coltrane/Ornette Coleman and the unruly spirit of punk pioneers Richard Hell/The Germs but equally giving with all of it (that’s “Relatin’ Dudes to Jazz”). And he doesn’t just end his gigs with the exhortation “Start Yr Own Band!” he follows it with “Paint Yr Own Picture! Write Yr Own Book!” Which is more than just encouragement; it’s also a finely spoken way of saying that every great musician was once a member of the audience, every painter a denizen of the museum, every writer a patron of the library. From this it can also be inferred that the greatest artists never truly disconnect from the audience, the museum, the library, identifying them as reliable locales of leaning and inspiration: Art as an endless cycle of give and take, or (if you will) communication. And all this profoundly connects to Mike Watt’s new release THE HYPHENATED MAN, his third opera, this one partially inspired by Early Netherlandish painter Hieronymus Bosch, specifically his triptych THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS. Now, operas are often recorded, but the main point of the form is live performance, and if a fancy bug touched down on my shoulder and mentioned an anonymous opera connected to the work of Bosch I’d form a couple of preconceived notions, thinking I’d either need to rent a tuxedo and take out a loan for the ticket or that I’d end up in an art-space/loft where everyone in attendance has a Master’s Degree but somehow still needs to sell plasma to pay the rent. Now if that bug waited to inform me that this opera was indeed by Mr. Mike Watt, I’d brush him off my shoulder like a pest, for time is valuable. And this too is something Watt has always seemed to understand. THE HYPHENATED MAN is thirty songs in less than fifty minutes, so it has a lot on its mind but doesn’t go a lingering. Points are arrived at quickly but always artfully, and while each track is inspired by a different character from the mammoth wacked-out beauty of THE GARDEN, it’s readily apparent that the best entry way into MAN is to absorb it as one flowing, uninterrupted piece, kind of like an, um, opera. This is distinct from the gargantuan sprawl of the painting, which almost forces the eye to reject the whole and instead focus on its vast, rich minutiae. MAN is instead a self contained if angular work that can be swallowed in one joyous gulp. In this sense it’s similar to Minutemen’s WHAT MAKES A MAN START FIRES? Don’t think for an instant that I’m letting unbridled enjoyment form a faulty comparison to the exalted grandeur of the Minutemen. Watt with the Missingmen throws down his most cohesive and dynamic work, simply his best instrumentally since the death of D. Boon. Much as I love fIREHOSE, I feel the real significance of that group was in allowing Watt to regain his musical footing through the aid of George Hurley and inspired journeyman Ed Crawford. And much as I love The Black Gang, The Secondmen, his work with Nels Cline and the fruitful All-Star party that was BALLHOG OR TUGBOAT?, all of it lacks the intuitive power of Minutemen/Missingmen. Perhaps this is why the names are so similar. The only comparable spot in Watt’s oeuvre is Dos, his duo with ex-wife and fellow bassist Kira Roessler. Bands that attain this level of telepathic (jazz-like) understanding are often described as “tight”, but I feel that’s an inferior adjective. Blood Sweat and Tears and Fishbone are tight; never a note out of place but sadly lacking in musical surprise. The Missingmen are something different, maybe best described as Beefheartian.  If I were to sum up the essence of THE HYPHENATED MAN onto a fortune cookie message, I might say “Capt. Don piloting the B.O.C, through Watt’s channel”. B.O.C. means Blue Oyster Cult, and that means Watt is still refining and perfecting the hard rock dynamics through punk economy that was part of the whole SST Records shebang back in the day. Missingmen guitarist Tom Watson was involved with that scene through the criminally underheard band Slovenly, though they weren’t hard rock, far more an extension of the avant-garage ala Pere Ubu (and that ex-Ubu Tony Mamione engineered and mixed THE HYPHENATED MAN unites a whole lot of thematic circuits). To be brief (for once), Watson’s never sounded better. Drummer Raul Morales is the trio’s youngest member, but you wouldn’t know that by skill, for he weds jazzic brains and finesse to rockish (not rockist) muscle like an aged vet. And Watt’s strumming, plucking, singing and spieling like a true champ. While this fine record easily deserves another 1,000 words, I’ll sum it up thusly: it’s as great and intelligent as rock music gets, straining at the confines of genre and simultaneously redefining it, a record destined to last millennia (like Bosch) and with an ultra-suave Raymond Pettibon cover as the cherry on the top.



Neko Case has developed into one of this toddling new millennium’s finest singer songwriters, though her roots extend back to the mid-‘90s twee-pop movement, where she was briefly in Cub along with playing drums and singing with the pleasant if short lived outfit Maow. She shifted gears into her current mode of operation in ’97 with THE VIRGINIAN. Released by Neko Case & Her Boyfriends, it was a cannonball plunge into the strong currents of contemporary alt-country, and with the exception of her outstanding contributions to Carl Newman’s ongoing band/project New Pornographers this is the post where her musical growth has remained at least somewhat hitched. She’s yet to release a record that’s less than very good, and her last one, 2009’s MIDDLE CYCLONE, just might be her best thus far. CYCLONE possesses solid continuity that’s remindful of the artist friendly atmosphere fostered by big labels like Elektra and Reprise back in the late ‘60s/early ‘70s, and a big part of this aura relates to its appealingly slippery approach to genre: country yes, but also folky and poppy with hints of soul and rock. This might create problems for those who arrange their record collections by style, but that’s a fine problem to have. Filing it right beside Cat Power’s THE GREATEST would be a shrewd move though, for the two records bookend incredibly well: both are grand late night listens, both sound like they could’ve been produced by Lenny Waronker, and both are saturated with stellar musical support that’s in total synch with the musical objectives of their estimable leaders. On CYCLONE Case has one foot in the coffee-house without stepping totally out of the honky-tonk and she blends in sly hints of soul diva confidence with ease. The album’s third track “People Got a Lotta Nerve” provides ample evidence of the above and more, for musically it’s a superb hunk of ‘80s chime pop brilliance that flirts with lyrical disaster. Keeping in mind that the personal resonance of lyrics are a largely subjective thing, something I come to understand more and more as I continue to engage with vocal music in languages I don’t understand, I still can’t get around the tightrope walk of “People…”’s lyrical chutzpah. When Case sings in the chorus that she’s a maneater it seems clearly descended from the brassy smack-talking frankness of pop country gals Loretta Lynn or Tammy Wynette or even the post-rockabilly of Wanda Jackson, but then it’s combined with a steady stream of animal imagery (elephants, killer whales) that feels ripped straight from the notebook pages of an intense teen girl in the grips of an attitudinal head of steam. It has the makings of an epic fail, but Case pulls it off with panache, partially due to the songs wise brevity. And its success points to Case’s growth, her maturity as an artist, flaunting the ability to really go there and make it work instead of playing it safe. This sort of chance taking attitude is represented by the over-the-top kookiness of the record’s cover art. I’ve stared at the album jacket numerous times, musing that I don’t know what she was thinking, but I’m glad she thought it. And her maturity/growth is what essentially sets her apart from Cat Power. Chan Marshall began by releasing “out” music on the fringes of the indie scene, delivering simmering documents of gripping alienation and difficulty. Play DEAR SIR or MYRA LEE for someone familiar only with THE GREATEST and it’s very possible they will get quite fidgety right quick. Along the way, Marshall’s music didn’t so much mature as it took a severe left turn, as if she looked in the metaphorical mirror one day and said “I’m not that person anymore”. And that’s cool. But the development of Case is cool too. THE VIRGINIAN is just soggy with alt-country’s trick of being beholden to the influence of idols whilst simultaneously frustrating purist expectations: chock full of twang but it ain’t a museum piece, dig? MIDDLE CYCLONE is the latest in her steady movement away from alt-country bonafides toward what’s probably best described as Contemporary Singer-Songwriter, her stuff becoming more resistant to that aforementioned hitching post of genre by the album. Again, very much in the Elektra/Reprise ballpark, but again this is no severe left turn. CYCLONE’s excellent covers of Sparks and Harry Nilsson might appear to be a newish development, but it’s important to recall that THE VIRGINIAN in addition to the more predictable treatments of greats like The Everly Brothers and Ernest Tubb also included a cover of cult Brit Scott Walker’s “Duchess”. MIDDLE CYCLONE is fine evidence of a very talented woman in total control of her musical abilities and the direction she wants to take them. Anybody curious to the state of smart modern pop should give it a hearing.