Tag: Song of the Week

Parker Millsap, ‘She’

Posted on by Editor

Last week, country superstar Keith Urban released his new album, which includes a song called “Gemini.” Supposedly written for his wife, Nicole Kidman, it boasts a line that is the definition of cringe inducing: “She’s a maniac in the bed, but a brainiac in her head,” it goes. Aside from the fact that it’s redundant (you can’t be a brainiac in your leg or your elbow, last time we checked) it’s one of many examples in modern Music Row writing that belittles a woman’s worth while trying to be a tribute to her greatness. It shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that a woman can be both smart and sexy. But writing about a partner, regardless of gender, shouldn’t be off-limits, either. Romance is a cornerstone of music, and that’s a fine thing indeed — and artists should be able to write tributes to their lovers or loved ones without shades of sexism.

Parker Millsap’s “She,” from his new record, Other Arrangements, is a fine example of how to write and sing about a partner without ceding to demeaning language that praises a certain female while still keeping her safely in her place. In “She,” Millsap, to a noodling and bluesy guitar, credits the woman in his life with keeping him in line, offering him strength, and putting the pressure on to be a better man. “She’s no question; she’s the answer,” Millsap sings, bouncing lightly through the lyrics and in a near-duet with the guitar itself. The she in “She” is a brainiac, too, it seems — in her head (or elsewhere). But in Millsap’s hands, her greatness isn’t in spite of anything at all. It just is.

Donovan Woods, ‘Good Lover’

Posted on by Editor

Nashville is a songwriter’s town. We know this well. And, sometimes, the people behind some of the most treasured, or most successful, tunes can go years — or even forever — without their own voice or face being known to the world. Often, this is by choice; but other times, it’s because their subtleties can get swallowed by the celebrity around them, hiding the jewels within their own signature style. Lately, though, there’s been a string of breakouts in the artist/songwriter world — from Natalie Hemby and excellent solo debut to, most recently, Donovan Woods, one of the creative forces behind Tim McGraw, Charlie Worsham, and Charles Kelley cuts. Woods — who actually lives in Canada — has been releasing solo LPs for years, but his newest, Both Ways, is a stunning, textural triumph of lush folk songs with gorgeous, evocative lyricism laced throughout.

“Good Lover,” the album’s opener, begins with solemn words to a soft voice and delicate acoustic plucks: It’s about regrets and mistakes and the wishes we have for ourselves to be better or different than we are, while simultaneously accepting our fate. Through vivid imagery, Woods describes that packing up and moving out that comes with the dissolution of a relationship, with full boxes but empty, aching hearts. “But it’s over now,” Woods sings, looking back on the past, “I had a good run but I lucked it out. The neighbors clocked it, then we’ve been cleaning out that tiny house where we could settle for each other.” Woods delivers “Good Lover” like he’s singing into a confessional, with the window open for us all to hear — and remind us that, thankfully, his point of view isn’t just confined to the album credits of others.

The Tallest Man on Earth, ‘Somewhere in the Mountains, Somewhere in New York’

Posted on by Editor

When English isn’t the first language of a particular songwriter, the way they play with its intricacies can often breed work just as — if not more — exciting than someone born and raised in London or Los Angeles. There’s a poetic appreciation that comes from studying the words anew, and a kind of flexibility that results from mastering a fresh lexicon. They are falling in love with these words in a different light than those who have always taken them for granted and, when it’s done well, it can translate perfectly into the ear of the listener.

That’s always been the gift of Kristian Matsson, otherwise known as the Tallest Man on Earth, a Swedish songwriter with an uncanny take on the English language. For Matsson, it’s a palette with which to paint. And what results are lyrics that are half-poetry, half-storytelling, bending the words themselves in evocative, yet simple, ways. “Some nights will haunt me ’till the daylight comes around,” sings Matsson on his new song “Somewhere in the Mountains, Somewhere in New York.” It’s a gentle sweep of evocative language, mirrored in the soft, sonic textures he creates. Growing up with Bob Dylan, Matsson was never short on English-language inspiration, and he’s developed a delicacy with its syllables over the years. On “Somewhere in the Mountains, Somewhere in New York,” he creates a world that teeters just on the edge of that daylight, in that space before the sun cracks open above the mountains and brightens up the sky. There’s nothing quite as beautiful as a sunrise, but there’s nothing like a song to make it seem like we’re seeing it, and hearing it, for the first time.

Joshua Hedley, ‘I Never (Shed a Tear)’

Posted on by Editor

We all know the world wide web is a wild, weird, and scary place, but who could have predicted that one morning we’d wake up and the country would be enraptured with clips of the “Yodeling Wal-Mart Boy” — an 11-year-old kid howling out Hank Williams in the middle of a budget superstore? It happened last week, in fact, as America grew captivated by the little man’s vocal flips, sending Williams’ version of “Lovesick Blues” soaring up the download chart. Some genre purists claimed that this meant that we’re hungry for classic country. More likely, it just means we love seeing very young people doing very old things.

But classic country music isn’t an “old thing” — and it shouldn’t be treated as such. You just have to listen to Joshua Hedley and his song, “I Never (Shed a Tear),” to see why. In Hedley’s hands, this weep-and-waltz ballad is the exact opposite of the kitsch throwaway of the Yodeling Wal-Mart Boy. In other words, classic twang is not a meme or a funny viral clip, but a thriving, vital musical force. The magic of Hedley is how universal he makes familiar, gorgeous snaps of ’60s Nashville feel vital and current, not through modernization of the sound itself, but lyrics that stay relevant. “I Never (Shed a Tear)” isn’t a throwback, nor is it futuristic. With lines about love lost and let go — and a bit of romantic denial, too — it’s timeless. Try to find that in the aisles of Wal-Mart.

Will Stewart, ‘Sipsey’

Posted on by Editor

When we’re children, we just want to run. Through the forest, through the grass, through the days as they tick by. We can’t get where we’re going fast enough, be it to the playground or the school dance or the simple embrace of a best friend, who can run alongside us as we skip rocks and think about the future. We count down days on Advent calendars. We are endlessly impatient. We don’t quite understand nostalgia, because we’re not interested in looking back. We want to get there, and now.

“I’d do anything to find that feeling again,” sings Will Stewart on “Sipsey,” the opening track off his new LP, County Seat. If childhood is running forward, then adulthood is, as Joni Mitchell sang, all about dragging our feet to slow the circles down. “Sipsey” — a lush, locomotive song from the Alabama-based Stewart — encapsulates not only the desire to slow time, but to reclaim it … though he’s smart enough to realize that no matter how many times we retrace the steps we once walked, the path will never feel the same again. “Sipsey” manages to be beautiful yet uneasy, a document of longing not for a place, or a person, but a feeling — a feeling of freedom, of nature, of agelessness before we were wise enough and old enough to know better. We can’t go back. But songs like this can help, a little.

Ashley Monroe, ‘Hands on You’

Posted on by Editor

There’s a prevailing thought in our culture that, once women become mothers, they lose their right to become sexual beings. The irony of how babies are created aside, we’re not particularly comfortable with the dichotomy of parenthood and personal passion living side by side. It’s easier for us to digest a mother as a mother and a woman as a woman, and they can’t often cross paths. Country music, however, is not only uncomfortable with this crossover, the genre is simply uncomfortable with women expressing their sexuality — period. Single, married, parent, or not, the second female desire is expressed on the radio it’s, well, it never really makes it there in the first place. Miranda Lambert tried it with “Vice,” but Nashville never warmed to her sensuality.

Lambert’s friend and collaborator, Ashley Monroe, is equally unafraid to show her sexual side on her new song “Hands on You.” From her forthcoming LP, Sparrow, produced by Dave Cobb, it was written when Monroe was pregnant and struck with a stomach bug, feeling left out from the festivities and mischief her friends were enjoying. It’s a song about regret set to some soulful, Chris Isaac moodiness, but not the typical kind of regret of a lover lost. Instead, it’s about wishing for some extended ecstasy. “I wish I’d have pushed you against the wall, locked the door in the bathroom stall,” she sings, her twang getting deliciously woozy through every sultry syllable. Maybe that’s not how a woman — and a mother — is supposed to behave on Music Row, but it’s the truth. That may not be Sunday-morning polite, but it’s human.

Joshua Black Wilkins, ‘Cops and Robbers’

Posted on by Editor

In the era of Instagram, everyone fancies themselves as amateur photographers, snapping pictures of their vacations, their coffee cups, or, of course, themselves. But a fancy filter or a string of tweak-able iPhone settings does not a photographer make. It takes a keen eye, a lot of training, and a certain kind of gift to see the world in moments worth capturing, and moments that speak more than words, or even several minutes of moving film, ever could. And a great photo, like a great song, is often more simple than meets the eye: Stripped of its color to black and white, it relies on pure emotion, a visceral connection with a smile, a smirk, a feeling.

Joshua Black Wilkins, a photographer and songwriter, is deeply in tune with the power of eerie simplicity. His portraits rest less on pretty and more on the idiosyncrasy, discomfort, and true beauty that lies beneath than traditional glamor. His songs, from his newest record, Valentine Sessions, do the same. With his gravely voice layered atop fingerpicking guitar, he keeps things paired down but no less evocative. “Cops and Robbers” is a prime example of the allure of this recipe — a stripped-down folk ode to the lure of a lover, that plays with child-like colloquialisms in a very adult way. “Sticks and stones, but the words won’t come,” Wilkins sings. Like his pictures, “Cops and Robbers” leaves an impression that lasts much longer than its two short minutes on your speakers.

Cicada Rhythm, ‘Do I Deserve It Yet’

Posted on by Editor

When Trump was elected president, we all wanted to know: Who was going to lead the revolution in music? Since then, it’s become clear. In many ways, women fighting for their right to equal pay (Margo Price), as well as the right to stand up and triumph against abuse and assault (Kesha), have dominated the public space and led the charge for a better tomorrow. And, as we enter Women’s History Month, there’s no better time to scream from the rooftops about the struggles that women all over the world have had to surmount just to pave their way each day.

“Do I Deserve It Yet,” from duo Cicada Rhythm, is the newest contribution to this evolving conversation. From their new LP, Everywhere I Go, produced by Kenneth Pattengale (Milk Carton Kids) and Oliver Wood, it’s a bluesy call to women — or anyone else — who feels less than the world around them. With a sly snap to her vocals and the gusto of a little punk-dripped roots, singer Andrea DeMarcus counts her value to a cascade of drums and instrumentals helmed by partner Dave Kirslis. “Won’t you tell me when I am enough? ‘Cause I can never tell,” she sings, posing the question both sarcastically to a climate that endlessly discounts women and to herself, because we are all our own harshest critics. Truth is, we’re all enough, and music is doing its job to convince anyone else who might simply think otherwise.

Old Crow Medicine Show, ‘Flicker and Shine’

Posted on by Editor

As fiddles and banjos have become increasingly commonplace in mainstream music, the spirit of a string band — one that’s predicated on a kind of pure, punk-rock joy — has often taken a back seat to a more earnest, precious treatment. But in Appalachia, that traditionalism was about skill, about a kinetic energy, about falling and rising together through the sounds of a washtub bass or some wailing vocals that are no more or less important than the instruments, themselves. It wasn’t always so morose. Life was hard enough as it is.

Old Crow Medicine Show, however, has always been connected to this raucous side; and their new song, “Flicker and Shine,” from their forthcoming LP, Volunteer, is no exception. It’s even about falling and rising, together. Though not a political song, per se, it slides perfectly into the zeitgeist of the moment and the need to rise as one to beat on as we’re intended. That’s what every life does naturally, anyway, as Old Crow sings: “All together. We fall together. We ride together. We wild together. Yes, all together. We fall together. Every little light will flicker and shine.” No one gets out of this world alive, and no one knows exactly how long our flames might burn. But Old Crow is right: We all burn together and, if we ride together, we might just shine a bit brighter. And we might have more fun along the way, too.

Hannah Wicklund & the Steppin Stones, ‘Shadowboxes and Porcelain Faces’

Posted on by Editor

Any given day of the week, one person or another will try to convince us all that rock ‘n’ roll is dead — that synths have replaced guitars for good and children are growing up more interested in clicking “like” on Facebook than they are clicking a set of distortion pedals. Believe what you want, but there are still generations of kids coming of age fascinated with rock ‘n’ roll and the power of a good riff, and Hannah Wicklund was one of them. There’s no real way to describe her music other than pure, unabashed rock, informed by blues and soul but screamingly ready for dark clubs, ready to get sweaty and solo the night away. Produced by Sadler Vaden, singer/songwriter and guitarist in Jason Isbell’s 400 Unit, Wicklund captures a restless spirit that no computer-generated sound could ever replicate on her self-titled LP.

Here’s the thing, though: This isn’t a rock ‘n’ roll publication. We’re in the business of roots, but our best rock stars have always had a golden touch when it comes to slower, folksier moments — think Led Zeppelin’s masterful “Going to California.” Wicklund, being the ambassador of the genre that she is, has her own similar moment, the gorgeous “Shadowboxes and Porcelain Faces.” To some solemn, thoughtful guitar, Wicklund ponders a world where beauty is only skin deep and connectivity between one another is quickly fading, despite being more technologically connected than ever. “These highlight reels ain’t real life; they’re just for show,” she sings. She’s right: It’s hard to know what’s real and what’s fake. But when it comes to rock ‘n’ roll, Wicklund’s the truth incarnate.