Au Contraire
Is everyone else going the wrong way on the road? Joe strikes a contrarian pose and goes deep into two of the most acclaimed records this year.
List season has begun. Numerous outlets have posted their best of 2024 lists in the hopes of packing in those precious clicks. That feels premature. I prefer to wait until the end of the year to publish my list, both due to the occasional end of November record- Dwight Yoakim- or early December project- Cody Jinks' Lefty Frizzell cover album- that might be worthy of consideration. Or at least they are sufficiently important components in telling the story of 2024 in country music.
Before launching into the flurry of year end material, there are two albums that require conversation. These albums are critically acclaimed. They have already appeared high up on the already published lists and I fully anticipate that they will appear on many others. However, I don't see them making the cut for Today I Heard. The reasons are informative. Let's discuss. This may be the most controversial thing I've ever written on this blog.
The first album is The Red Clay Strays’ Made By These Moments. Without a doubt, the breakout band of 2024. Such an explosion is demonstrative of a deep connection with an audience. Upon a listen, even a cursory one, the roots of the appeal are clear.
Before diving into the meat, some brief remarks on the sound and tone. The album is produced by Dave Cobb. Characteristically for Cobb, the result is a raw and stripped down take on the already sparse stylings of Southern Rock. This production choice aims to shift listener focus onto the vocal and lyrical showcases. That works great if the material is there. Thankfully for RCS, the lead singer is blessed with a voice that is simultaneously grizzled and rangy. A raw passionate delivery ably showcases the extreme emotion implied in the lyrics. This is all the gravy.
The meat is found, without a doubt, in the band’s willingness to present and reflect deeply personal, masculine coded tales of mental health. To stretch this to a more broad theme, frank discussions of distinctly male emotion are resonating with the Red Clay Strays audiences.
Generally speaking, internalizing and processing emotion is not an area men excel at. This is especially so in adolescence and young adulthood. Yes, a gross stereotype, but it is self-evidently true. At least to some degree. To these youth, the processing of emotion is often outsourced to music. Music is a powerful emotive force. It can hold a hand through turbulent times and can be a clarifying companion as one careens through life. There is no underestimating the relief and connection built when a younger dude hears someone in a similar space and life stage clearly analyze, diagnose, and discuss the internal workings of emotion, self-regulation, self-confidence and other crucial internal mechanisms that we all hopefully come to an understanding of at a later point in our lives. It isn’t just relatable, it is a revelation. Perhaps this is one of the many reasons why music from the turbulent years of our adolescence sticks with us in a way that other music moments fail to achieve.
The praise this record receives is entirely due to this dynamic. Truly, it is a unique entry in our year in music. However, that isn't enough for my list. Lest you think that seems unfair, let the case be made. My issues with the record lie in all but for the key thematic moments. See, the record is not particularly long, and only half of the songs on the record touch on these deeply personal, emotional, and weighty topics.
But there is a whole ‘nother half of the album. Both technically, as in there are songs that do not touch these topics, but the crucial mass work that is foundational to any album. Arranging, mixing, mastering, producing, sequencing, etc…. We'll group all this under the “production” label.
It is perfectly fair to attribute a great deal of importance to production. After all, if lyrical content was all that mattered, then Made By These Moments might as well be a collection of spoken word poetry. But if so, it wouldn't have touched so many people. Clearly, there is something magical about the combination of instruments, melodies, and vocal utterings in combination with thematic and lyrical content that provides an elevated experience.
Production can amplify. It can bring depth into an arena that was stripped of feeling. It can wriggle its way into your brain by the use of rhythm. It is what creates earworms. It can bring the emotional punch to a hard hitting verse and the sense of playful abandon that characterizes the youthful vibes of your favorite teen anthem.
Dave Cobb was the one entrusted with the delicate task of putting these raw and painfully personal ideas to tape. It's certainly controversial to say, people really love Dave Cobb's style, but it didn't work out particularly well. There is a monotony in the guitar work. The tone sounds relatively benign, like most southern rock you've heard, perhaps a little bit of edge, but also a lot of basic. At the best moments, the drum rhythms pull from an array of gospel, rockabilly, and outlaw rhythms that add much color to the presentation (On My Knees), but often they just end up being basic 4/4 drum rhythms (Disaster). Much of the personality of the record is offloaded to the lead vocals of Brandon Coleman.
Something with the weighty themes of this record deserves production with the ability to take the aspirations and squarely hammer them home. This is where things falter. The work done on this project to the vocals is not great. The voice sounds a bit thin, and could use some studio microphone warmth on the low end, especially on the intimate moments. Conversely, the belted larger life moments could use real accompaniment to flesh them out, maybe even some light strings to both balance out and deepen the sense of the moment. Sure, on a song like Drowning the belting thematically fits with the lonesomeness at the heart of the song. But other times the belting feels lacking and reveals cracks in Coleman's generally sound and pliable vocal technique. This is especially apparent on Wanna Be Loved. In lieu of instrumental diversity, Coleman adopts an odd staccato delivery on the verse and stretches his vocals beyond their limits on the chorus. That's the thing with the raw style. Most of the time, all that could be is sacrificed for the rawness and bare bones presentation that is.
I understand this raw authenticity is in vogue. Maybe this critique makes me sound like Chet Atkins or Billy Sherrill just missing the boat when Willie Nelson came out and started putting out music that sounded like unfinished demo tracks. Could be. But, to my ears, in the attempt to replicate the raw authenticity that lies at the roots of the appeal for Zach Bryan and similar artists, much has been left on the table.
Granting this controversial opinion, it raises my respect for the band and songwriting team. Because the half of the record that works; the remarkable, personal, relatable content that manages to balance the independent sensibilities of this artist with the relatability and connection to a large audience succeeds remarkably, in spite of the presentation.
And that is the first record of highly acclaimed, but in my estimation deeply flawed records. It's still great and gets my general recommendation. It just won't make the top of my charts. It may work for you better than it does for me.
And this brings us to Sturgill Simpson. Or his nom de guerre "Johnny Blue Skies” on Passage Du Desir. For the sake of full transparency, I will say that I respect and admire Sturgill Simpson's music far more than I enjoy it. I prefer his countrier early music over his high concept stuff, but certainly from an objective perspective there is an incredible amount of musicianship taking place. Herein lies the disconnect. The music sounds incredible. Simpson's voice honestly sounds better than it's ever been. His raspy, warm inflections on this record fit well with the overall arrangements, unlike the odd fit of his bluegrass material and whatever Sound & Fury was. As a somewhat experimental vision of a hazy cosmic country/Americana, it is a tour de force in presentation.
If The Red Clay Strays’ strengths were the thematic roots, and the struggles pinned primarily on spare production choices that did not entirely enhance the presentation of the material, Sturgill Simpson is the polar opposite. Every clink of the piano, strum of the guitar, and even the odd vocal effects fuse together effortlessly to create a wonderful picture surrounding Simpson's messaging.
However, it is specifically the internal monologue messaging that causes the problems to arise. First off is the nihilistic undertones, which right off the bat increases the friction between the generic normal listener and the avant garde introspection of Simpson. The clincher is the dense foliage one has to pierce to grasp the very ideas and stories being told. Bar none (nearly), they are obsessively self-focused and overly self-indulgent.
Now, conceptually, a song like Scooter Blues or Jupiter's Faerie is not hard to enjoy. There's some nice storytelling being told. And the personal touches are, as always, the mode that an artist attempts to reach his audience with. But on this record, things are so intensely personal. The concept of the record surrounds this six-month sojourn to Paris that Simpson embarked in to "find himself". Every line is intended to be a reflection of some intricate detail in his life. Honestly, the album should really be called The Lore of Sturgill Simpson.
This isn't a problem per se. The man is an artist. Let him do what he wants. The issue arises with us listeners. Frequently, we turn to music to reflect on our own lives via the mirror the artist holds up to himself and/or society. The intensely personal and specific ramblings that occur on this project firmly dissuade that connection from happening.
Jupiter's Faerie is the generally accepted highlight of the record. I don't disagree. However, this critique leveled at the album still applies even to the best song contained in the grooves of the record. If Sturgill had shifted from the singular personal angle of the verses (I) to a universal perspective for the hook (We), a bridge could have been built between the hyper-specific personal details of the verses and led to a relatable takeaway that sketched a connective tissue to audiences. Instead, the story stays tightly tucked away into Simpson's personal arena.
It's this inability to stretch beyond the bounds of the personal that lead to Passage Du Desir appearing so self-indulgent. It is so wrapped up in the "I" that it struggles to connect to the "We".
Let us take a step back and look with a broader gaze. Why do different forms of art exist? Why do you have painting on one hand, sculptures on the other, books on one hand, and film and TV on the other? The answer is straightforward. Some artistic concepts fit one medium better than alternatives.
If an expressive demonstration of physicality is needed, a sculpture is eminently more capable than a painting. And if the goal is to demonstrate the tangible beauty of a sunset, a writer can wax poetic, but a painter can show it viscerally. If you wish for a detailed analysis of one's psyche, a book is far more capable than a film, but film contains far more kinetic energy to build a heart-pounding action scene.
This leads us to music as an artform. Music is unique. It is short, but capable of fine brushed detail. It can paint like a picture, but wax eloquent like a writer of literature. It can summon the heart-pounding adrenaline of film, and connect like a one-on-one conversation.
In spite of this exceptional flexibility, limitations still exist. It is bound to the medium, three to four minutes at most for a popular track. Even when lumped together as an album to convey a broader message, music still suffers from the inherent limitations imposed upon it, both as an artistic form and by the pressures of commercial viability. It is specifically when music is called upon to lug the largest burden that it falters.
Passage Du Desir is an attempt to artistically paint a vision of the midlife crisis and the confused existence of Simpson's current reality. It occasionally touches on answers, but far more often settles for asking questions. Thematically and practically, limitations are found and forcefully bumped up against.
An always confounding artist, the inability to fully convey via music is a defining characteristic and the limiting principle of Sturgill's career. It is why Sound & Fury had an accompanying anime film, in an ill-fated attempt to broaden the sketch of the project. Seemingly, it is also why he constantly zigs and zags his way flush to the edges of genre conventions. Nothing will stop Simpson in his attempt to broaden the scope of his music to fit his messaging.
Regarding this current iteration, frankly it should have been a book. The philosophical musings combine with personal experiences into a tangled mess of yarn. Arguably, from an esoteric modern art perspective, that is a more realistic way to reflect on life then the typically straightforward and organized musings of music. But the medium is ill suited for such stylized thoughts. Even stretching songs well past ordinary lengths is insufficient to fully open the door. See the closing track for more.
I think he should have written something like a memoir. A memoir isn't limited by length. A memoir doesn't require a back and forth connection to ignite the readership. For the average reader of a celebrity memoir, the audience appeal is a voyeuristic one way connection to the individual's story. Especially someone as deeply private and hard to pin down like Simpson.
The medium mismatch is a real shame. Simpson is a first class musician. Clearly, when desiring to share his first impulse is to put things to song, but he will always feel hampered in that field. Maybe that's the tragedy implicit in the story of Sturgill Simpson, a man too artistic for the very medium that he excels at.
The critical response to PDD has been overwhelmingly positive. That's understandable. I decline to join in with the chorus because I feel the essential questions are not being asked. All the glowing reviews focus on the cohesive sound and image of the record. They extol the deep look into Simpson's psyche that has been granted. Star worship plays some role here I imagine (I mean, didja see that GQ article? Good grief!). But nothing really talks about actually connecting to the music. And at least for this critic, the mismatched album-plus-artist combination just is too dense and self-indulgent to nurture connection. My standards for best of year categorization are high. This just ain't it. Hope y’all get it.
Fin
Thanks for reading!
-Joe
Well, I finally got around to discussing Sturgill. Told ya it was gonna be a tough one. Red Clay Strays is another one I struggled with. This is the result of me talking things through with a couple peers. You know who you are. Thanks for putting up with me and helping with my attempt to smash your idols 😂
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