Review Under Two: Constancy by The Roseline

Review Under Two is a segment of The Marinade with Jason Earle podcast where host Jason Earle reviews a work he finds inspiring in under two minutes.

Our Review Under Two for Episode 100 with singer-songwriter Ryan Anderson focuses on the excellent new record Constancy by The Roseline.

The Roseline’s Constancy is a slice of pumpkin pie as imagined by a cutting edge chef. Reminiscent of bands like Whiskeytown and The Flying Burrito Brothers but insistent on tackling familiar themes and exploring comfortable sounds from an original perspective. 

Constancy is a hopeful record. Its characters do the messy work of looking back and examining the changes that need to be made. They acknowledge the messes in their lives and refuse to be defined by them. They decide to persevere instead. 

The backbone of the album is a tune called “Hunker Down.” It is a perfect encapsulation of the record’s prevailing theme. Constancy’s characters are in varying stages of getting to know themselves, with those in “Hunker Down” getting as close to self-actualization as one could dream. 

“All I wanna do is mostly nothing/Hunker down with you and try to tame/All my pecadillos and bad habits/Lay ‘em to waste”

“Hunker Down” is the excavation of life as a work in progress. It digs up the days of “flirting with service industry women” and “spending a shift’s worth of wages or more” in one night- those floundering moments of foolish youth that feel like they are necessary rites of passage. Maybe they are. Maybe the big takeaway should be that our bad habits and mistakes are necessary to develop constancy as a skill. 

The narrator in “Hunker Down,” has overcome the false urgency of a night wasted to experience the beauty in doing “mostly nothing” with people you love. 

We could all use a healthy dose of constancy, and The Roseline is an able ambassador for fortitude in the face of a precarious global landscape.

Review Under Two: Where the Devil Don't Stay by Stephen Deusner

Review Under Two is a segment of The Marinade with Jason Earle podcast where host Jason Earle reviews a work he finds inspiring in under two minutes.

Our Review Under Two for Episode 99 with singer-songwriter Jeremie Albino focuses on Stephen Deusner’s excellent book about the band Drive-by Truckers.

The Drive-by Truckers are one of the great American rock bands. Not a household name like Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers or Bruce Springsteen and the E Street band, but every bit as important and influential. To tell the story of such a band is to tackle a powerful and fascinating story. The Truckers might not be the most famous band in the world but few collectives have kept at it this long and engendered such a passionate following.

Stephen Deusner’s Where the Devil Don’t Stay is a book that sits back and waits for the off-speed pitch to come its way then, with incredible alacrity, drives the challenge over the right centerfield fence. But, describing the book as a home run may be selling it short. Where the Devil Don’t Stay is a masterwork in the musical biography genre. 

Deusner unfolds the story of one of America’s greatest rock bands by taking the reader on a tour of the places that shaped their legacy. Along the way we meet faces both familiar and lesser-known. And get to know places any Southerner thought they knew as intimates. The Athens of the Drive-by Truckers is not that of the average Georgian. Nor is their Birmingham like that of most Alabamans; or Memphis as to residents of the Volunteer State. 

The story of The Truckers is one of perseverance and survival, which is why Deusner’s decision to examine the story by taking a tour of The South is such an important one. To a couple generations of Americans, DBT provided a true education of one of the worlds’ most complicated regions. In less capable hands, the nuance of the band’s significance could be buried in drama and excess. Deusner takes the reins of a bucking hot potato and wrestles the beast into submission. 

The reader does not have to be as obsessive as this author to understand and appreciate the stories told in Where the Devil Don’t Stay. Deusner’s exhaustive research and passion for the work will win over anyone who cares about the history and culture of The South, or even just damn fine storytelling. 

For the diehards, this book will feel like the first time you heard Decoration Day or Southern Rock Opera. For anyone who loves a good yarn and good music, Where the Devil Don’t Stay is an essential read.

Review Under Two: Van Plating's The Way Down

Photo by Bethany Blanton

Review Under Two is a segment of The Marinade with Jason Earle podcast where host Jason Earle reviews a work he finds inspiring in under two minutes.

Our Review Under Two for Episode 98 with singer-songwriter Jeremie Albino focuses on Van Plating’s record The Way Down.

Van Plating’s forthcoming record The Way Down is a top self bourbon served neat on the back deck at twilight. Its complexities are immediately apparent but still best enjoyed with slow, rapt attention and an awareness of their context.

Plating spent her 20s playing and singing in indie rock bands. When her band Pemberley broke up she decided to take some time off from touring and making records. Then life happened and a little time off turned into years.

Once the need to create, the pang that pushes one to make beautiful things, enters the system it never leaves. Like a blood flute quietly doing its work, the need to make art will rear its head even decades after the bug first arrives. 

Photo by Bethany Blanton

Plating’s 2019 self-titled record was the first manifestation of the creative bug pushing itself from the cocoon. The Way Down (set for release on 11/19/21) is where the butterfly takes flight. A decade of reflection and growth baked into a collection of songs that celebrates the person Plating has become and is becoming. 

So often we think of creative change in terms of rebound or redemption. An artist who overcame addiction or was left for dead by the industry. In the case of Van Plating’s The Way Down, the change is not a return from oblivion. It is a leap back into a life that was always there percolating just below the surface of a “normal” existence.

The spiritual centerpoint of the record is the final track “Oxygen.” It is a song about the loss and recovery of love. Its imagery is stark and powerful, with the ocean setting the stage for an examination of what it means to lose something essential and recover it through perseverance. 

“Whose side are you on? My wings are made to soar.”

“Oxygen” is the second song on the record to mention wings- the appearance of which nods both to Van Plating’s complicated relationship with the church and her determination to rise above the noise. Who should make art? How and when should it be made? Throughout The Way Down Plating decides the answers to those questions on her terms. 

“Oxygen” is a fitting closer to the record. With little more than three chords and an acoustic guitar, Plating makes apparent that while she may have had a hard time breathing at points in her life, on this record the creative airways are clear.

Review Under Two: Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby

Review Under Two is a segment of The Marinade with Jason Earle podcast where host Jason Earle reviews a work he finds inspiring in under two minutes.

Our Review Under Two for Episode 97 with singer-songwriter AHI focuses on the novel Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby.

So many of life’s important conversations are now reduced to shouting at the opposition. If only we all had S.A. Cosby filters to pass through our complicated thoughts, this might cease to be true. Put through the prism of Cosby’s able pen, the nuance of situations can exist and the big issues face reckoning. 

The characters in S.A. Cosby’s novel Razorblade Tears come to a place of understanding, but not by shouting about how they are right and others are wrong. They get to a place of compassion, remorse, and recognition by rolling up their sleeves and getting dirty. 

Ike , Buddy Lee, and the rest of the ensemble come to life through Cosby’s command of dialogue. The two fathers - Ike and Buddy Lee - are the stars of the show and they have a lot to say to each other. They are ostensible opposites who have a lot more in common that they realize at the outset of the story. Ike is a black man. Buddy Lee is white. Ike runs a successful business. Buddy Lee is barely holding whatever he has left together.

We get to know them through trips to bars and flower shops. Through long drives and mornings at the breakfast table- none of which are particularly conventional given the circumstances of these otherwise pleasant settings. They get to know each other by talking about the gravity of the situation in which they find themselves and the consequences of their actions.

Despite their differences, the two men share a quest for vengeance stemming from the brutal murder of their sons, who were a married couple. Neither father was very good at their jobs while the boys were alive - which is both a function of their own prejudice and the fact that each man found himself in trouble with the law for violent reasons. They are united by a desire to do right this time- to find out who killed their boys and why.

While the fathers dominate the story, every character is treated as a crucial piece of the puzzle. We learn about their insecurities, their strengths. We get to understand their motivations. 

Ike and Buddy Lee develop into heroes but the line between hero and villain in this crime thriller remains thin until the end.

The demarcation happens as a result of the choices each character makes. Cosby’s villains are evil not only because they are bigots, but because they are bigots who are unwilling to change. 

Ike and Buddy Lee harbored some hate of their own. What sets them apart from the truly nefarious characters in this book is their willingness - albeit a stubborn one - to self-examine. These are guys who could be dismissed as total ass holes on the surface. A pair of ex cons, both homophobes when we meet them. But, forced into action by a system that has left them behind, the two men become friends who help transform each other. It is in these moments that their humanity shines, even as they are committing unspeakable acts.

In Razorblade Tears, there is a hope that people can change. There is an opportunity for redemption, even for middle aged folks who have had life knock them down with its best combinations. S.A. Cosby delivers a knockout punch like one of his protagonists with this novel.

Review Under Two: Tennessee Jet's South Dakota

Tennessee Jet spent a lot quarantine consuming records. While he enjoyed many of those releases, none of them were capturing what he was feeling in this moment. So he set out to make such an album. The result is a stripped down performance meant to capture the moment- imperfect but powerful and poignant. TJ, a guitar, and sometimes his harmonica are the instruments that lay his characters bare. 

South Dakota is a record that examines the present through the lens of its rich characters. Among his greatest strengths as a songwriter perhaps the strongest is the richness of his 

characters. In just a few short minutes he gives us enough backstory to understand why we should care, opens the door to empathy and understanding, then leaves us wanting to know more about these people and their stories.Characters and the layers of their lives are a bright spot of any TJ record. On South Dakota they are ambassadors of self-reflection and examination. 

The album ends with a song called “The Good.”

“I will kill your hatred/Your conscience I’ll make clear/my love has no conditions/I will see this mission through/Till like me you see the good in you”

On its face the song is about a loved one, a reminder that while flawed they are beautiful and full of potential. The subject seems to be going through a struggle of some sort. It is a gorgeous reminder to look for the good in all of us. But if you listen to Tennessee jet with any regularity, you know he is rarely content to leave things at surface level. These ears hear a call to action for Americans. An invitation to acknowledge the messes that have been made while also looking for - or reminding ourselves of - the good in US.

Review Under Two: Bendigo Fletcher's Fits of Laughter

Louisville, KY, is the Istanbul of The South. A town at the crossroads of East and (Mid)West. A place suited to spawn My Morning Jacket, Muhammad Ali, Hot Browns, and Louisville Sluggers. A city proud of its heroes and icons. 

Louisville is a Southern town and a Midwestern town. It is country and cosmopolitan. Edgy with an insistence on being refined. Above all, Louisville is one of the jewels of Kentucky- a state whose pride in its creative contributions to American culture could never be over-inflated.

While those icons endure, a new generation carries on the legacy while forging their own trace. In furtherance of that lofty tradition stands Bendigo Fletcher. A band whose music is the feeling of first acceptance after a tough breakup, of the promise that a jarring and unexpected decision brings. Bendigo Fletcher’s Fits of Laughter is an album drunk with familiar sounds melding in the mind to create the buzz of a Sunny Sunday afternoon in the fall. 

As they take the stage at Americanafest’s 2021 Commonwealth of Kentucky showcase a group of twenty-somethings makes their way to the front of the crowd. For the next all-too-short thirty minutes they are all of us who have fallen for this band. Ryan Anderson’s lyrics spanning from party anthem worthy to ruminations on existence and communing with nature. The sounds from Bendigo Fletcher’s tight group of players running through myriad soundscapes to create a sound that is both mature and fresh. 

Ken Coomer, who played drums with Uncle Tupelo and early Wilco, produced Fits of Laughter. His influence on the record is clear. Anderson described their partnership as natural. They began working together by talking about music they loved. To hear him talk about the process sounds like a joy. Joy is the emotion Bendigo Fletcher’s Fits of Laughter evokes. 

From the twenty-something folks dancing and singing every lyric right up front to the music journalist twice their age sporting a grin wide as the Cumberland Gap, Bendigo Fletcher’s record Fits of Laughter and their performance at Americanafest 2021 ignites joy in all who listen. 

Review Under Two: Nathan Bell's Red, White, and American Blues (it can happen here)

Photo by Keith Belcher

The novel It Can’t Happen Here by Sinclair Lewis was published in 1935. It tells the story of Berzelius “Buzz” Windrop, a demagogue who is elected as President of the United States and subsequently seizes authoritarian power. Winthrop is in over his head, an unlikely populist juggernaut, and not smart enough to hold the job. Sound familiar? Almost feels like it can in fact happen here, doesn’t it?

Like its partial namesake, Nathan Bell’s Red, White, and American Blues (it can happen here) is an unfortunately timeless piece of art. Necessary in its import. Heartbreaking in its relevance. 

Written over the course of several years and delayed in its release by the COVID-19 pandemic, Red, White, and American Blues has a transportative quality. The tension of recording in 2019, a stress that is often forgotten due to subsequent events, feels immediately present to the listener. While the record feels like 2019, it also feels like 2015 and 2021 and 1935, because Nathan Bell lives in the present and he has lived.

Lived in the sense of raised a family. Lived in the sense of worked a 9 to 5 job. Lived in the sense of come home from work and put on the ball game. In the sense of read all the books and listened to all the records. He has a poet’s eye with an everyman’s heart. Red, White, and American Blues (it can happen here) is the self-aware expression of a life well-lived. It is what every songwriter seeks- an honest expression of where we have been and where we are now. 

The album is musically sparse which allows Bell’s command of storytelling and imagery to shine. Bell takes on America’s gun obsession (twice), “Buzz”-Windrop-come-to-life Donald Trump, and more that ails this country. He also celebrates everyday folks, pays respect to his late father, and examines mortality with an optimistic eye. 

Red, White, and American Blues (it can happen here) would be a powerhouse of a record if the vocals were Bell’s alone. The contributions of Aubrie Sellers, Regina McCrary, and Patty Griffin take songs that stand on their own two feet and launch them into rarified air. 

The collapse of a free society can, and very well may, happen here. It won’t happen for lack of artists like Nathan Bell turning a critical eye on American society.

Lived in the sense of raised a family. Lived in the sense of worked a 9 to 5 job. Lived in the sense of come home from work and put on the ball game. In the sense of read all the books and listened to all the records. He has a poet’s eye with an everyman’s heart. Red, White, and American Blues (it can happen here) is the self-aware expression of a life well-lived. It is what every songwriter seeks- an honest expression of where we have been and where we are now. 

The album is musically sparse which allows Bell’s command of storytelling and imagery to shine. Bell takes on America’s gun obsession (twice), “Buzz”-Windrop-come-to-life Donald Trump, and more that ails this country. He also celebrates everyday folks, pays respect to his late father, and examines mortality with an optimistic eye. 

Red, White, and American Blues (it can happen here) would be a powerhouse of a record if the vocals were Bell’s alone. The contributions of Aubrie Sellers, Regina McCrary, and Patty Griffin take songs that stand on their own two feet and launch them into rarified air. 

The collapse of a free society can, and very well may, happen here. It won’t happen for lack of artists like Nathan Bell turning a critical eye on American society.

The album is musically sparse which allows Bell’s command of storytelling and imagery to shine. Bell takes on America’s gun obsession (twice), “Buzz”-Windrop-come-to-life Donald Trump, and more that ails this country. He also celebrates everyday folks, pays respect to his late father, and examines mortality with an optimistic eye. 

Red, White, and American Blues (it can happen here) would be a powerhouse of a record if the vocals were Bell’s alone. The contributions of Aubrie Sellers, Regina McCrary, and Patty Griffin take songs that stand on their own two feet and launch them into rarified air. 

The collapse of a free society can, and very well may, happen here. It won’t happen for lack of artists like Nathan Bell turning a critical eye on American society.

A Glacial Pace | Part I of Ten Days in Montana

“If the bear starts to eat you, fight for your life.” -Glacier National Park’s backcountry safety video.

My buddy Dave* and I go hiking in the backcountry of a different western state each summer. We have been close since college. As our lives and attitudes about them have diverged, these summer trips have remained a constant source of connection. 

This year we are in Glacier National Park trying to wing it. Most years we come in over-prepared but this year there has been no time for planning. We know the risks and are experienced backcountry hikers. In over a decade of hiking together, we have never been asked to watch a video dramatizing such risks. 

Glacier is serious about safety. A lot of things can kill you in the backcountry, the video warns. Hypothermia, falling, drowning, ticks, and most important bears. The video makes it seem like bears are sitting around fires together at night, rubbing their paws together and scheming to eat humans.

It appears there are bears hanging from every tree and hiding behind every bush like villains in a video game. As for us, we are 2D Marioesque characters from the original Nintendo. We can go forward or backward, and jump an inch or two, but otherwise are sitting ducks for ravenous monsters. 

Dave does not fear death in the way I do, but we both can’t help erupting in nervous laughter when the announcement about getting eaten enters the video. Dave’s a practicing Christian. He believes in heaven and does not find its existence terrifying. 

To know what is going to happen when you die and not be frightened by the thought is an enviable position. I once thought the same way except it scared me beyond belief. I would lay awake at night having what I now recognize as panic attacks thinking of eternal life on “streets paved with gold.” Dave, who is a genius, still maintains what I see as cognitive dissonance about the nature of existence.

The ranger is a young guy built like a second baseman. His eyes teem with excitement as he relays that we are in luck. It’s almost impossible to get this hike, the most sought after in the park, late on a Saturday afternoon with no reservations. We need to be flexible and willing to put in some extra miles but he can get us on some incredible trails.

Our campsite on night one is in the front country. It’s a luxurious space. Even has showers.

Sleeping is always fitful that first night. The excitement and wonder of what’s ahead. The fact that you are going from sleeping in a bed the night before to crashing on the ground with just an inch or so of inflated plastic as a cushion. And the danger. 

In this writer’s experience, the most honest version of oneself comes out in the backcountry. Death is an ever-present spectre in my life. It is the source of all fear and anxiety. Thus, backcountry hiking is some of the strongest medicine for my mental health. 

When a person is scared to die. And, we are all so disposed whether we admit it or not. The fear of what comes next can be all-consuming when we are mired in the day-to-day machinations of our existence. 

The backcountry strips away any distraction aside from existing. Moving, eating, finding and creating shelter. In the wilderness, the battle is between your doubts and fears. You are the referee in this fight. There is no promoter or sponsor. You have control over your next move but are powerless against factors well outside your control. 

We are about five miles into what could be a near sixty mile hike and the sole of my right boot has fallen off. These boots were on their last legs but it seemed like they had at least one more trip in them. About a mile ago a young guy and his horrified date on her first overnight camping trip reported a sow with her two cubs bluff charged the pair to within seven feet. 

Nature is wasting no time in reminding us who is boss. Dave has a little duct tape. I have some athletic tape in my first aid kit. One step at a time is the motto. 

Our campsite for night two is in one of the most stunning places I have seen in my life. The sun seems to split out like a neon hula hoop around the horizon as it sets. Everyone here at 50 Mountain knows Glacier like the back of their hand.

Where are we headed? We don’t know. Something lake through something or other pass. Everyone else has their shit in a neat package.

Most of the folks camping here are from West Texas. They know something or other lake. Must be Mokawanis Junction and Elizabeth Lake. The patriarch of the group just turned forty. He charmed sixty friends and family into going back to Glacier for the umpteenth time. The women stayed back with the young kids. 

Day one was some of the hardest hiking Dave and I have done in over a decade hiking together. We could use some trail magic. Day two is not forthcoming. We have been hiking for what feels like twelve days. Dave’s heels are a wreck. He has quarter sized blisters on the back of each. They shine like the sun from last night.

A blister is not just a blister. It changes your gait. Challenges your spirit. Picture walking one way your entire life and then being forced to change that pattern while stepping on and over rocks and roots while gaining thousands of feet in elevation.

We are looking up at a pass between peaks. There seems to be no way out. A group of three is enjoying a late afternoon picnic along the bank of perhaps the most gorgeous lake these eyes have seen.

*Dave is not his real name. He’s one of my best friends but does not have an online presence. I want to respect that.

Part II of this story is on the way in this space.

A Series of Essays on The Marinade's Favorite Albums of 2020 | Fetch the Bolt Cutters by Fiona Apple

Fiona Apple’s Fetch the Bolt Cutters blasted into the world while much of the United States was still in quarantine due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Do you remember when you first listened to it? I was in my living room. My partner and I had just played a game of Scrabble and I succumbed to my Twitter-checking reflex. My feed is full of artists and fans of art so just about every other Tweet referenced the triumph of Apple’s surprise album.

We dialed it up in an instant and listened while dinner was prepared. About once a week for a couple of months we listened together, not to mention the times we each listened alone. Fetch the Bolt Cutters is unlike anything I have heard this year or any other. It is unpredictable, powerful, honest, cathartic, pop, rock, hip hop, soul. Every time I think I have the record figured out another listen sets me straight.

Fetch the Bolt Cutters comes from a place of liberation and this year in so many ways felt like a personal liberation for me. I was forced to confront my anxiety about mortality without the benefit of escape. I was faced with an examination of my commitment to causes I have long made noise about but which require more than just noise. And, I insisted on being paid what I’m worth. 

Apple’s masterpiece was a fitting soundtrack to a tumultuous year of growth. It was messy, complicated, and challenging. There were fits of anger and bursts of hope. At the end, as difficult as it may seem, love won a lot more than hate. Anger was channeled into action. And, the future looks brighter than the past. 

A Series of Essays on The Marinade's Favorite Albums of 2020 | Roll On by Water Liars

This is the second in a series of short essays looking back at the records we loved from 2020. The series focuses on how each album impacted Jason Earle’s life this year.

Few records rise to all occasions. There are songs for dancing. Those for drinking. Music for lounging. Road trip music. Songs for fucking. Sometimes an album overlaps in a couple of those places. Other records remain siloed. 

Then there are albums like Roll On by Water Liars. The rare artistic effort achieving universality of mood. An album for any moment.

You get home from one of those days for which you were unprepared. The kind where dominoes seem to resist gravity.

You just got a promotion, have been feeling good and taking care of yourself- eating right and exercising. You want to rock. Bounce up and down and sing at the top of your lungs. 

It’s Saturday. The rest of the family is out doing family things. They let you sleep in because you are a lucky mother fucker with a bad ass family. You enjoy the luxury of a slow cup of coffee sitting by the window and watching your world awaken.

Roll On does what its title track promises- carrying the listener through whatever life presents. Justin Peter Kinkel-Schuster’s writing spans a lyrical spectrum from epic ruminations on love and perseverance to sparse, abstract nods to anxiety. The imagery is vivid. The mood in each song is set. 

“Down Colorado I followed your shadow/And credit card receipts/The cocaine receding, the western sky bleeding/The mountains in relief/I never deserve you but how could I earn you/When stone ain’t made to bleed?”

On the whole I have been one of the lucky ones in the year 2020. The pandemic slowed me down and made me rethink my day-to-day. I was able to refocus on the relationships that mattered and distance myself from those that were taking more than they were adding. I stood up and advocated for myself. I fought the right battles and let go of the other stuff. 

There were personal and professional challenges, both self-created and as the result of outside forces. It was not a perfect effort but again, relative to most folks I was fortunate. 

July and August was a tough stretch of the year. COVID-19 cases were climbing. Schools weighing whether to re-open despite not having the resources to keep people safe. The 2020 election loomed as the potential final nail in the coffin of our eroded democracy. 

Roll On was delivered right on time. The record was made in 2015 but released in the middle of this year. It may not have reached my ears in 2015. Hell, even if it did I may not have needed it so bad five years ago. Roll On was there for what turned out to be a second half full of hope in 2020. 

I kept coming back to the record, bingeing it and finding new nuggets during each listening session. I also went back into the Water Liars catalog and those of its individual members. I found comfort in the atmosphere of Water Liars. Roll On was a steady friend and a willing partner in the second half of 2020.

A Series of Essays on The Marinade's Favorite Albums of 2020 | Reunions by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

This is the first in a series of short essays looking back at the records we loved from 2020. The series focuses on how each album impacted Jason Earle’s life this year.

“Be Afraid,” the first single released from Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit’s Reunions came out in February of 2020, the same weekend I ran my first marathon. It was a fitting release date. The great ones have this way of putting out the sentiment we need at the right time. The novel coronavirus arrived in Florida in the same month but life was continuing as normal. Our challenges were of our own creation at the moment.

For the amateur, running a marathon is an encompassing endeavor. Most of your free time is spent training, meal planning, and recovering. Your emotional bank account is on life support for several months. 

To get across the finish line you need your personal support system, which I consider to include my friends and family but also the art I consume. Like art, running is rhythmic. The physical act itself and the process of training for a race both require a consistent commitment to coming back to the things you need to stay in the moment. 

The act of creation is similar in so many ways. When we find ourselves doing the work on a regular basis, treating it with a certain rhythm, breakthroughs happen on a more regular basis. 

What we know about Jason Isbell is that he does the work. Hours of guitar practice every day. Going back to the well again and again. 

Photo by Jason Earle

The result of Isbell’s dedication is a succession of classic albums. Prior to his 2020 release, the last three (or four) of his records are brilliant works. But, it is possible no record has ever hit me as hard as Reunions. 

The year 2020 was one for facing fears. Fears of democracy’s decline and possible end. Fears of mortality. We as a species had to dig deep. Isbell could not have known the depth and breadth of challenges humans would face this year, and that is why a song like “Be Afraid” is so powerful. Its message matters as much now as it will in five or ten years. 

New challenges and fears will follow. The same ones will rear their heads. All the while, great art - works of the magnitude of Reunions - will be there as support. A way to think through and deal with our fears. A “battle cry” as Isbell says on that first single.  

Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit’s Reunions is the record I listened to the most in 2020 because it represents the best of us. Our ability to endure and innovate. Our willingness to keep fighting when the finish line seems to push further and further away. Whether pushing ourselves to run a marathon or just surviving a once in a hundred year shit storm, we can “be very afraid,” but we also must ask ourselves, “What have I done to help”?

Good Medicine: How Trusting the Process Led to the Birth of a Podcast

Brett Bass is being really patient. “Where do you want to do this?” he asks. “Do you have a press pass and does it let you backstage?”

I do not have a press pass. In fact, I have never interviewed an artist face-to-face before. Calling myself press would be a stretch. 

He suggest the VIP. I don’t have that kind of clout either. They barely let me in the park. The gatekeeper is a woman in her fifties. The lines on her face suggest she knows she is clever.

“He’s a journalist. We are gonna do an interview. Can he come back for a few minutes?” 

“Sure. Who do you work for, Rolling Stone?” she asks flashing her wrinkle-maker. 

The VIP sits stage left. The music is loud but this is a bluegrass festival so we can hear each other with just a little more than normal effort. 

I flub a compliment about his Unknown Hinson shirt. “My girlfriend’s band opened for them.” Them?! Yeah, lady, I’m the next Cameron Crowe.

I lead with some Man, what are you doin’ here?! questions. “These are such great songs and you are one of the most incredible guitar pickers I have ever seen. Your tunes should be in heavy rotation on every country station. Why do you think they play Florida Georgia Line and that bullshit instead of music like this?”

My phone is recording the conversation. We had agreed on twenty minutes. It’s been seven according to the screen. Despite seven minutes of me fellating the lead singer’s ego, Grandpa’s Cough Medicine is nowhere near the top of the country charts. Time to switch gears.

“When you sit down to write, are the lyrics coming first or do you build on the melody?”

He casts an imposing figure. Brett Bass is probably 6’4” and built like an offensive lineman in retirement. He leans back. Takes a satisfied breath. Almost as if he had been bottling up the urge to tell me how dumb my questions had been to this point. 

I’m not sure what to expect. Am I doing well or is this a disaster? He rewards my moment of self-awareness by going off about inspiration, process, his love of playing guitar, the difficulty of being a bandleader, and more. Twenty minutes is over in a blink.

My blood is pumping with the high you get from falling in love or besting a long-standing challenge. I’m making wrinkles of my own. My father is there to witness the birth of this new chapter. He leaves me alone on the hill overlooking Spirit of the Suwannee’s meadow so I can listen to the recording and start writing. 

What is this piece? Will it be a straight transcript? Maybe part of a larger review of the festival? Listening to my conversation with a stranger whose music I love is disorienting. It sounds much as I remember from ten minutes ago but as an outside observer I notice some things that were not evident during the chat.

As I remembered, Brett is polite and professional. But the Grandpa’s Cough Medicine frontman does not want to talk about why his band is not a household name. While I kind of picked up on that in the moment, it is so clear on tape. My line of questioning is like asking a teacher who has been busting their ass for years why they aren’t making six figures.

His tone shifts at the seven minute mark. Voice almost skips into the conversation about process. He sounds loose, at home. I wish my readers could hear this! How am I gonna explain it in print? Maybe these interviews should be a podcast. How does one make a podcast? Gonna have to do some research but how hard can it be? Thirty minute conversations about the creative process. Short intro. Make up a theme song. 

Now, what are we gonna call it? The...

Keep Your Foot on the Gas | Can America Learn From NASCAR?

U.S. Air Force photo by Master Sgt. Chance Babin

Explaining NASCAR to the uninitiated is a difficult task. The name conjures images of mulleted rednecks drinking beers, fighting, and making out with their cousins. The hater will say NASCAR is too conservative, too white, too male, too simple, too boring.

Some of that sentiment can be understood by examining our own prejudices while also acknowledging some facts. NASCAR has its roots in the South, having emerged from moonshiners running from the fuzz. Its drivers and fans are largely white males. Many drivers speak with an accent and say things like “we run good.”

To assume a Southern sport is backwards is its own kind of bias. Bias NASCAR is actively trying to combat.

Despite considerable progress, the sport’s warts have entered our national consciousness of late. First with the public banning of the Confederate battle jack necessitated by the flag’s ubiquitous presence at events. Then with an ugly, as-yet-unresolved racist act against its lone black driver Bubba Wallace .

Much of NASCAR’s reputation is based on stereotypes of the South. Its history is intertwined with that of the region. Other sports have worse contemporary problems yet NASCAR as a league bears the brunt of popular criticism when it comes to race.

Shed no tears for Dixie during this zeitgeist but it is worth noting the discrepancy in standards as we look for ways to understand systemic racism. Wherever prejudice is possible it needs to be illuminated.

The NFL blackballed a high-level player because he dared protest police brutality against people of color. Several of its coaches, owners, and players have and continue to take openly racist stands.

Atlanta Motor Speedway Circa 2011

Photo by Jason Earle

There is less of a conversation around the racism of the NFL, NBA, and MLB. NASCAR is an easier target. To have the broader discussion, we must acknowledge race as an enormous challenge all over the world, not just the American South. Thankfully, America is beginning to reckon with that reality in a more meaningful way.

NASCAR should not be let off the hook. A noose was found in a black competitor’s garage. Driver Kyle Larson was recently fired for using the n-word during a virtual competition. The league has a long way to go before it can be seen as a model for progress.

NASCAR can be viewed as an example of how change is a slow and messy process. There will be a breaking point. Perhaps this is it. Maybe now we wrestle with the heavy questions and work toward answers with sustained vigilance. Answers beginning with an examination of the institutions we hold dear.

Sports provide both a reflection of and escape from the real world. We are projected as fractured microcosms of society on game day. United in defense of people we have never met playing a game most of us never play. Fortified against another group of people on the other side of the arena.

America, ain’t it? Opposite sides of the arena. Each group feels like they are on the righteous side of history. Neither wants to hear a single fact from the other. If only the problem were so simple to distill.

The sticking point in this contest is the Trumpian side of the arena has no interest in facts. Sports teams led by cowards and fools stumble their way to mediocrity. Their fans will keep showing up for the hope that this year things may be different. The same is true of politics.

A noose in Bubba Wallace’s garage is the powerful tip of a terrifying iceberg. A violent obstruction lying below the view of many citizens. Its response to what happened with Bubba or what Larson did contains lessons. The fight for a more just world begins with chipping away by addressing specific incidents, but change will not stick unless the system is changed.

NASCAR represents a snapshot of America. An organization slow to reckon with its past, uncertain of its present, and anxious for its future. Hopefully we learn lessons from the sport’s slow shift. Unlike a NASCAR event, there is no finish line for equality. We must keep our foot on the gas like a driver on the back straightaway of an endless race.

The Consequence of Genius: Some Words About Jason Isbell's Reunions

Photo by Jason Earle

An odd consequence of genius is we come to expect it. When Bob Dylan puts out a mediocre or even slightly sub-par by his standards collection of songs, the effort is met with vitriolic critical rebuke. Such is the price of creating art that inspires across cultures and generations. Songs by Dylan and his ilk are not to be casually enjoyed. They are events requiring time to marinate and then parse.

The difference between Dylan and modern standard-bearers is the former is going to have an audience even after each perceived misstep. Everyone watches his mulligans because the competition in his heyday was minimal compared to geniuses in an internet-connected, streaming world.

Today we have instant access to truckloads of great songwriters. If one stumbles, our collective attention wanes, and in that lapse a writer may not recover for two or three albums- if at all. Jason Isbell has admitted to feeling a bit of this pressure. In a very candid New York Times piece, he confessed his new record Reunions was a different beast.

Long an Americana darling, Isbell’s notoriety and prestige stepped into a different gear with the Dave Cobb-produced trio of records Southeastern, Something More Than Free, and The Nashville Sound. Ask an Isbell obsessive about their favorite record and you will likely get a different answer depending on the day. This is because Jason Isbell is the best songwriter in popular American roots music. With the mantle of greatest comes a more critical and less forgiving eye.

Reunions will not settle the score. Art is not an objective competition so we cannot discharge the debate. Frankly, Isbell does not owe any further proof of greatness, yet further proof is exactly what this collection delivers.

With every song, he challenges us to think about our place in the world. By turning a mirror on himself, in this case a far-sighted mirror reaching to less proud moments of the past, he challenges the stories of internal valor we tell ourselves and roots out questions about how we are actually going to confront our issues.

If you just looked at Jason Isbell, maybe caught a tiny snippet of him saying something seemingly inconsequential, you would be forgiven for thinking he was just like us. He has a way of remaining authentically down-to-earth while orbiting the creative sphere in rare air.

The truth is in short supply even as access to information increases exponentially. We still get romanticized, sometimes sterilized versions of artists and ideas. Merchants of misinformation point fingers rather than offer honest appraisals of the way things are. Thankfully, Isbell is hyper-committed to the truth to the point of expecting it from himself and the listener.

Like a dog’s peanut butter coated pill, facts are better consumed on a full stomach with an appetizing presentation. All great songwriters have this ability. Isbell does it better than anyone.

On “Dreamsicle” — one of the biggest triumphs in his storied career — the narrator reminisces about a mother trying to make the most of a dysfunctional situation. Despite multiple narratives throughout the album, there are common threads to which we have grown accustomed with Jason Isbell records. Namely, everyone is doing their best, and if they are not then it’s time to start. His characters are broken and battered but each tale is delivered with empathy for the realities that lead to less than ideal situations.

Photo by Jason Earle

Even if you can’t directly relate to growing up in a dysfunctional family, the humanity in each story offers something universally unifying. Isbell never misses. There are polarizing songs on the other records. One person finds “Anxiety” speaks directly to them. Another thinks it a bit too much. A diehard fan names “24 Frames” as their favorite while someone else thinks it falls short of his best. Reunions does not have those tunes. It offers not a moment to check out or allow the songs shelter as background noise.

Honest introspection is typically tough by nature. Baring your scars for a discerning audience to examine and apply their own whims is an even bigger display of honesty. The characters of Reunions leave nothing on the field, including the role of a man supporting his grieving partner and trying to suppress his own jealousy or the performer exhorting their cohort to “be afraid but do it anyway.”

Each song is a masterpiece worthy of marination, and even after just a couple of weeks in the world they already feel all-consuming. It is the right kind of possession, one where the possessed grows stronger with each listen.

Artists on the level of Jason Isbell are lucky to get mulligans these days. Fortunately for Isbell, he has not needed one. If that day ever comes, let’s remember Reunions- a record that raised a bar already set so high only one writer could have cleared it.

Jason Isbell's Thirty Best Songs (an Answer to Steven Hyden and Brian Koppelman)

Photo by Jason Earle

Cultural critic Steven Hyden (@steven_hyden on Twitter) recently ranked the thirty best Jason Isbell songs for a piece in Uproxx. Brian Koppelman (@briankoppelman on Twitter) responded with his own list. Naturally, I got to thinking about what songs I would include if anyone asked. 

The number sounded daunting. Just thirty songs? Isbell has almost never missed during his career. Even as a kid in his early twenties he was writing some of the finest songs in American roots history. 

If you want to be the best, you gotta imitate the best. So, I decided to take on the challenge of meeting two heavyweight cultural thinkers at their game. 

The process of deciding my list of the thirty best Isbell songs looked like this. First, I listed the songs that immediately came to mind. That was good for about eighteen tunes in a two-minute span. 

Then, I walked away and let the list marinate. Next came an examination of each album and some rearranging (How did I forget Live Oak at first?). Finally, the list was made. 

It was not until after my group was finalized that I took the time to read Hyden and Koppelman’s lists. Of course, you will get little argument from me no matter what your list looks like. I just did not want to be swayed by either because I have so much respect for their work.

Photo by Jason Earle

What surprised me but shouldn’t have about my list is how heavy it is on the most recent three records. Isbell was my favorite writer of the three geniuses in Drive-by Truckers. I saw him play at a barbecue restaurant in Jacksonville Beach (twice) right after he went out on his own. I preordered the Southeastern vinyl. 

I remember the record arriving at my apartment in Jacksonville and spending the day listening over and over again. Crying and wanting to immediately go out and write. Those early songs had lived with me for years. I consider myself really fortunate to be about Isbell’s age. I’ve grown into adulthood with his songs as the soundtrack- each one hitting me at the right time, exactly when I was ready for it. 

Therein lies the power of a creative honing their craft. Isbell keeps getting better. Each successive release is stronger than the last. Only one of the three as yet released singles from the forthcoming Reunions made my list, but that decision was based purely on the fact that I have not had time to digest the other two. Early indications are this may be his best record yet.

With great respect to Hyden and Koppelman, I offer my list of Jason Isbell’s thirty best songs.

Photo by Jason Earle

1. Cover Me Up

2. Decoration Day

3. If We Were Vampires

4. Elephant

5. Speed Trap Town

6. Danko/Manuel

7. White Man’s World

8. Live Oak

9. Goddamn Lonely Love

10. Traveling Alone

11. Be Afraid

12. Outfit

13. Children of Children

14. Hope the High Road

15. Something More Than Free

16. Codeine

17. Alabama Pines

18. Chaos and Clothes

Other than “Goddamn Lonely Love,” Those first eighteen flew out of my sleepy brain this morning before coffee, morning pages, or a walk. A couple of them moved around, and “Goddamn Lonely Love” steadily worked its way up the list. The more I look at it, the more I think this is exactly right. Consider how good each one of those tunes is and how much they have impacted your thinking.  

19. Stockholm
20. Tupelo
21. Relatively Easy
22. Dress Blues
23. Yvette
24. Tour of Duty
25. Flying Over Water
26. Hudson Commodore
27. If It Takes a Lifetime
28. Flagship
29. Palmetto Rose
30. Last of My Kind

The last few are always the hardest. “Yvette” went in and out, up and down this list. After looking at Koppelman and Hyden’s lists, I wonder whether I should have included “Songs She Sang in the Shower” and “Cumberland Gap,” both of which were on my list at some point. 

Anyone reading this is asking about “Super 8” or “24 Frames” or “Different Days.” The purists may wonder where “Chicago Promenade” fits. You are right, but I’m not wrong. Debate and discussion are encouraged in the comments or over on Twitter. 

Album Review | American Aquarium's Lamentations

It feels like yesterday American Aquarium released Things Change, a record begging the listener to live in its characters. A man consoling his partner who devastatingly recognizes the “world is on fire.” Someone coming to the hard realization they are better off confronting their addictions. Characters wrestling with the unconscionable and somehow making sense of it. 

Things Change was strong enough that new realizations continue to bubble to the surface. My initial reaction to the news that American Aquarium was headed into the studio with Shooter Fucking Jennings was, “I get you have a lot to say BJ, but we ain’t done processing the last one.”

Things Change was released in 2018. Since then, the pace of the real world has accelerated to warp speed while the power of American Aquarium’s Things Change has kept pace. When BJ Barham removed the governor from his songwriting motor several years ago, the result was an ascendancy to the upper echelon of his generation of tunesmiths. 

Lamentations, American Aquarium’s latest release straddles the raucous honky tonk rock of early American Aquarium and the more socially conscious nature of Barham’s last collection of songs. The themes are familiar - hard work, substance abuse and sobriety, the South, sad stories. With Lamentations, Barham has taken another huge step forward in songcraft. 

As we have come to expect, the album opens with a kick-in-the-teeth tune that comes to a soaring, anthemic coda. These things usually need time to marinate before we declare superlatives. Nonetheless, the title track is Barham’s finest songwriting. “Me + Mine (Lamentations)” sets the tone for an album full of scorching hot songs that feel like they were recorded at an American Aquarium show somewhere in Texas, the band’s home away from home. 

If you have seen them there, you know what I mean. American Aquarium always brings it regardless of venue. BJ and the boys (this lineup and those past) are professionals who take their craft seriously. But, the band is fueled by the fervor of its fans and folks in Texas take it up a notch.

More than any other studio release, Lamentations captures the spirit of American Aquarium’s greatest live shows- a testament to the touch of producer Shooter Jennings. Shooter seems to be the bridge between early, raw American Aquarium and the renaissance that began with Burn. Flicker. Die.

Most importantly, Barham has taken another stride in his examination of the South. We are living in a time where a generation of southern writers are taking on the South with a warm demanding hand. Folks like the Bitter Southerner, Jason Isbell, Drive-by Truckers, Lee Bains III- the list is long and growing. A group of people who are not content to make excuses for the way things are and the way things were. 

“I believe in a better south,” Barham sings on the album’s eighth track. It is a tune showcasing his acute ability to use critical observation as a source of hope. Hope for a better South, a better nation, a more honest examination of the ills that plague us collectively and individually. Lamentations is more than a new American Aquarium record. It’s a manifesto of the power of our best instincts.

The Last Time I Saw John

John Prine played Orlando on December 6, 2019. Kelsey Waldon - John’s label mate, friend, and protege - graciously agreed to record an episode of my podcast before she and her band opened the show. We laughed and got serious and talked about beauty and art. We gushed about John Anderson, Lucinda Williams, and John Prine. The latter came up just as the sound of the man himself began to bleed into the dressing room in which we were recording.

It was my birthday and I couldn’t stop grinning. We opened the door to better hear Prine’s voice, maybe even get a little of it on the recording. Kelsey, who has heard John sing dozens of times, was nearly as excited as me at that moment.

On my way out I walked by the main stage. John was up there getting the lay of the land in a black t-shirt and jeans. I stopped and allowed myself a brief voyeur. It is probably tautological to say John Prine is an otherworldly, generational writer. Yet, he seemed remarkably human on that stage.

Here is a cancer survivor. A Grammy winner. A person who has inspired an uplifted some of the best talents we have in contemporary roots music.

John and I never met but all accounts are he straddled that rare air between being an authentic, down-to-earth guy and one who belongs in the pantheon of American writers. A normal person who was anything but.

Prine later put on one of the best shows I have seen in a really long time. A true master class in performance. I don’t remember which song it was, but at some point I started thinking about my grandmother. Inspiration struck while he was painting a picture of home and the comfort of simple pleasures in the way John Prine was able to do better than just about anyone.

John and my grandmother grew up in a similar time and place. The scene he set sent my hands to scribbling. Somehow it felt like John was giving me a gift, a mystical cowrite of sorts. By the end of his set, I had an all-but-finished song of my own. A poor imitation of John Prine to be sure, but one that means a ton to me.

A magical cowrite with John Prine probably sounds hokey to a lot of readers, but it’s the truth of how I felt then and now. If there is one thing I feel confident saying about John Prine, it’s that he put a premium on telling the truth through art.

Thank you for the years of inspiration, John. I hope your wristwatch is off and you are enjoying that vodka and ginger ale. We miss you like crazy.

Album Review | Kingdom in My Mind by The Wood Brothers

“The idea for this group has always been to marry our backgrounds, to imagine what might happen if Robert Johnson and Charles Mingus had started a band,” says Chris Wood of The Wood Brothers. Chris, his brother Oliver, and Jano Rix have melded genres while remaining anchored in American roots for nearly fifteen years. On their upcoming release Kingdom in My Mind, the ship takes flight tethered by the world’s longest rode.

Kingdom in My Mind does not ostensibly flow from previous Wood Brothers albums, yet from the first listen it feels like a logical next step. 2018’s One Drop of Truth was a departure from their normal recording process. It came together over a year period with multiple engineers at the helm. The result was an amalgamation of tunes that showcased the band as a unit. Each of their influences came through as an individual voice while blending into a gorgeous statement of an album. 

One Drop of Truth was nominated for a Grammy. Following that kind of reception would be daunting for most bands. The Wood Brothers are seemingly untroubled by such expectations. The band did not set out to make Kingdom in My Mind per se. The album began as an exploration of their new studio space in Nashville. 

They were jamming and getting oriented with the rooms of the studio. A group of musicians who know each other intimately, loosening their ties completely and exploring together. What happened was the inexplicable magic of music. Without meaning to, they had the bones of an album's worth of songs, which were later carved into their best work to date. 

Kingdom in My Mind kicks off with the funky, jazzy “Alabaster”- a song that captures the essence of The Wood Brothers and sets the tone for this record. It is a hopeful tune serving to open the listener’s imagination to the introspective places we so often live. 

“Little Bit Sweet” follows and lays the foundation for its sister song “Little Bit Broken” which comes later in the record. The tune starts almost like a jangly country blues number featuring Oliver Wood’s voice and guitar. Then Chris Wood’s bass and Jano’s special brand of percussion (complete with what sounds like a gong) come in to flip expectations on their heads. The song is a sonic divergence from the first track yet its place in the sequence of Kingdom of My Mind fits like a tailored suit. 

Midway through the record, the Brothers plant a flag cementing its theme. 

“Everyone has these little kingdoms in their minds,” says Chris Wood, “and the songs on this album all explore the ways we find peace in them. They look at how we deal with our dreams and our regrets and our fears and our loves. They look at the stories we tell ourselves and the ways we balance the darkness and the light.”

“When I’m lovin’ you I don’t think about my death” goes the chorus of the album’s main artery. The universality of our existential dread runs throughout this album. For some of us it’s a fear of not knowing what lies on the other side of our earthly demise. For others it’s the fear of leaving people behind. Death looms omnipresently and we all reckon differently with that reality. Only when we are truly present in the moment, when focused on a pure expression of love, can we escape the uneasiness that accompanies life and death.

Kingdom in My Mind explores tough questions with equanimity- uniting a multitude of sounds to create the most powerful expression in the storied catalog of The Wood Brothers. 

Kingdom in My Mind will be available everywhere you consume music on January 24, 2020.

The Wood Brothers- “Alabaster”