Tag: Song of the Week

Ross Cooper, ‘Living’s Hard, Loving Is Easy’

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Our music is filled to the brim with songs about the hardship of love — how difficult it can be to fight for a true partnership, to triumph over heartbreak, to pine away for some unrequited romance. Love, and its never-ending complications, will likely feed songs until eternity, and lyrics will forever serve as a scrawling board to work out the road bumps along the way. Songwriters have been known to resist or even end a steady relationship out of fear that comfort might impact their creative minds: Everyone wants a Blood on the Tracks, and it’s a lot easier to get divorced than it is to be Bob Dylan. A lot.

So it’s refreshing to find a song that deals in the pure security and ease of a relationship — particularly in a world that gets less secure and less easy by the day. Ross Cooper, a former professional bareback bronco rider, is a Nashville-residing songwriter with a background that could lend itself to aggressive, barn-burning honkytonk that those with only cowboy dreams could conjure. Instead, on “Living’s Hard, Loving Is Easy,” he goes sweet and subtle with gorgeous harmonies from Erin Rae. The story isn’t complicated: It’s about making ends meet while pursuing your dreams, always knowing that, back at the kitchen table, you’ll be sitting next to the one you love. Bills are difficult to pay, but, in “Living’s Hard,” love is the free currency. There’s no blood on the tracks … just a train chugging full steam ahead.

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Dan Auerbach, ‘Up on a Mountain of Love’

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It’s February again — i.e. the time of year when we all must grin and bear it as the supermarket aisles fill with heart-shaped candies, pink marshmallows, and cheesy cards. Valentine’s Day can be sweet for a class of third graders, but downright silly for the rest of us, regardless of relationship status. Suddenly, restaurants offer $100 prix fixe menus, and love is supposed to be somehow equal to a box of only mildly tasty chocolates. In truth, the holiday is often as disappointing as a stray orange cream we return to the wrapper, half-eaten.

The true plus of the season, however, is the perk of new love songs. Dan Auerbach, whose delightful 2017 release, Waiting on a Song, was full of lush and trippy melodic tracks inspired by gauzy ’70s rock, certainly has one up his sleeve: “Up on a Mountain Of Love,” a jangly folk ode to infatuation dripping with notes of the Beatles’ Rubber Soul. It’s not complicated, the way good love songs (and, perhaps, good relationships) are, and far from the gritty reverb of his duo, the Black Keys. “With my head in the clouds, I think I’ll stick around,” Auerbach sings sweetly, tempering innocence with a bit of hidden mischief. It may not be enough to convince the doubters that Valentine’s Day is a holiday worthy of its rank in the grocery store aisles, but it’s a much better surprise than a box of stale Russell Stover candies. And one that will be just as palatable after everything else has gone stale.

Caitlin Canty, ‘Take Me For a Ride’

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Onomatopoeia: a word that resembles the sound that it describes. “Boom,” for example. “Pow!” Or the ominous “his-s-s-s-ssing” of a snake. In poetry, it’s a useful tool to give those stanzas a bit of a visceral punch. Perhaps we learn about the term in middle school over a copy of Shakespeare. Maybe we write songs with it, maybe we never think about it again until a snake actually hisses by. Onomatopoeia. It’s a good word, indeed.

“Take Me for a Ride,” the newest release from Caitlin Canty, is a sort of sonic onomatopoeia: Coupling her lush, relaxed delivery with soft arrangements that flash by like images of the dusty Southwest as seen from a car window, it just feels like being taken for a cinematic ride. Canty’s version of folk travels, too — through the complex yet sparse delivery of Elliott Smith, to the singer/songwriters of the 1960s, to the hills of modern Tennessee, building her sound through bits of each but not quite adhering to one thing, in particular, at all. “There are no starts tonight, just a string of lights,” she sings on the track from her upcoming album, Motel Bouquet, out March 30. She hits the notes with a gentle touch, not unlike the flickering of those very lights. You hear what she’s talking about but, somehow, you see it, too; you feel it. Onomatopoeia … it’s a good word. It’s even better when it transforms into a song.

Kellen of Troy, ‘Victim of Apathy’

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It’s never easy to break away from what’s comfortable, especially when that comfort comes in the form of bandmates. Going solo, after being one of a few, is a tricky endeavor, and leaving the pack to pave new or different ground comes with no built-in assurances. It works for some (Sting), and not so well for others (basically anyone in any boy band from the early 2000s except the lead singer).

Multi-instrumentalist Kellen Wenrich is known for his role as fiddle player in Apache Relay, but now he’s witnessing a bit of a rebirth as Kellen of Troy — his new nom de plum. And thus it makes the title of his forthcoming LP, Posthumous Release, all the more amusing: It’s death and birth, all at once. And “Victim of Apathy,” the new single from the collection, shows his love of well-crafted folk-rock with a pop-ish sheen and built on the classics, like the Beatles with a surfy gloss. Here, he studies a very modern plague: apathy. In a world with lots of opinions but little substance, it’s easy to be a victim of it — in relationships and simply in life. Or even in a band. Through “Victim of Apathy,” Kellen of Troy discovers, in some infectious melodies, that an existence cut down the middle is a life not worth a damn. Nothing apathetic about that.

John Pedigo, ‘Warning Shot’

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Music has a way of speaking for those who cannot: the thoughts of a secret lover, a disenfranchised worker, a child unborn. That’s why honesty, rather than explicit or factual truth, is one of the most powerful tools a songwriter can have. What can you imagine? What brain can you get inside? Who can you be or who can you sing for, and can that be someone who could never speak themselves?

On “Warning Shot,” from his new record, Magic Pilsner, John Pedigo — one half of the O’s — does this by imagining the thoughts of someone only after they have died, en route to their own funeral. Not watching from above in a religious or spiritual way, but in true quest to uncover what a man who is no longer with us might actually be thinking. In “Warning Shot,” this message comes straight from the casket, but Pedigo treats death as enough of an open-ended concept so a funeral — and our ashes — aren’t only concepts experienced by those no longer breathing. Alternating subtle acoustics with piano and strings, it’s a song that helped Pedigo come to terms with the loss of his own father. But the healing doesn’t end there.

“The record was a mostly solitary adventure, and I was racing against time trying to finish it and still create a definitive sound,” Pedigo says. “It became much more to me than a song; it was the driving force for me to continue.” Rebirth through death: seeing life the way only a songwriter can.

Caleb Caudle, ‘Love That’s Wild’

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It’s a new year and, thus, time for renewal: an action which manifests itself in most of us as a set of empty promises that we’ll make, and then break, as the months progress. Drink less or, at least, just have a glass of red wine instead of those tequilas. Exercise more, at least three times a week. Try for a raise or a new project. Speak up on the job. Stop biting your nails. Do more this, do less that. Resolve to have resolve.

Caleb Caudle’s not making resolutions for just one year on “Love That’s Wild,” from his forthcoming LP, Crushed Coins. Instead, he’s casting a humble promise for eternity — and that’s to love the one you’re with, and do it well. Caudle has a knack for simple melodies as much as he does unusual arrangements, and here he rests his sweet, casual delivery on an understated but infectiously captivating ode to romance. “I was a wreck ’til you came along, stumbling home at the break of dawn,” sings Caudle to a jangly rhythm. “Now we fall asleep with all the lights on.” A wild love doesn’t have to be unpredictable and uncertain; love can be wildly fulfilling when it’s permanent and secure, too. So maybe don’t give up the carbs this new year, and resolve to gamble on a love that’s wild, instead.

Jason Isbell, ‘Hope the High Road’

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As 2017 draws to a close, one thing is pretty clear: This last year was a son of a bitch for nearly everyone we know. Jason Isbell was talking about 2016 when he wrote these words in “Hope the High Road,” but they couldn’t have resonated more in these last 12 months. It hit hard, right out of the gate, and kept going relentlessly, a perpetual run of the bulls through everything that once felt near and dear. American life has never been anywhere near perfect, but, nowadays, we’re only feeling more and more frayed.

But “Hope the High Road” isn’t just about lowering ourselves into that ditch of depression and disaster; it’s also about the simple act of choosing to keep going, to keep being a better person, to helping others, to taking the high road somewhere greater when everything around us is falling. Isbell’s been a steward to us all through this past year with the songs off The Nashville Sound that are all moments to look at our country’s inescapable patterns, our own personal crutches, and the promise that lies around us — even in the darkest places or death, itself.

So there’s hope, too. And there’s been hope this year, even from the beginning … with millions of people marching for women across bridges and streets in January, to Danica Roen making history as the first out transgender elected official in Virginia, to Doug Jones beating a bigoted, pedophile homophobe in Isbell’s blood-red home state of Alabama. It’s easy to look back on 2017 and feel despair and fear as we approach the falling ball of the New Year. Will things get worse? As Isbell tells us, nothing good ever comes from living life that way. So, when you raise your glass of champagne this Christmas or at midnight on December 31, look into the eyes of another — or just your own — and repeat this wise phrase: “I hope the high road leads you home again.” Maybe it just will.

Jim James, ‘The World is Falling Down’

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“The news is really very sad,” so goes a line in Abbey Lincoln’s 1990 song “The World Is Falling Down,” a poetic lament with the contrast of jubilant horns laced through. Singing through the Civil Rights movement and nearly up to her death in 2010, she is one of music history’s most dynamic and under-appreciated figures, particularly in the mainstream: While lovers of jazz would hold her modern influence as tantamount, particularly as a vocalist, she didn’t become the kind of household name to survive the internet generation.

Jim James, of My Morning Jacket, tried to change that in his version of “The World Is Falling Down,” off of his new LP, Tribute To 2. It’s a follow up to his first record of covers, 2009’s Tribute 2, devoted to George Harrison. This time, James picks songs that could easily have come straight from current times — and, looking back on 2017, it has often felt as if the world was indeed falling down. And fast. Beneath the news and the Twitter feeds and the noise, it’s hard not to panic, and even more difficult to find beauty beneath it all. James takes Lincoln’s version and slows things down into a gorgeous, acoustic folk song, gently singing in the softer side of his range through lyrics that so closely mirror our daily struggle. But he makes sure to reinforce the most important point: When times are tough, reach out. Find a hand to hold, and walk together through turmoil. And don’t let go. “The world is falling down, hold my hand.” Don’t let go.

Jill Andrews, ‘Safe’

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It was part of just another mundane drive home in October, trying in vain to get my grumpy toddler to share whatever he could from his day at pre-K, in between bites of snack and the Trolls soundtrack on the radio. My son was eating some sort of weird chocolate granola — a sugary public school thing — and I remember it because I remember the crunch. I remember the crunch, because I remember the silence.

“We did lockdown today,” he said. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. We were at the light, and I didn’t notice it turn green until a row of cars started honking at me. “Go. Mom. Go. Go!”

My four-year-old, about a week after the horrific events at the Route 91 Harvest Festival in Las Vegas, then told me that they had been running drills at school — to him, they were in case of a “robber,” but I later realized “robber” was kid code for “active shooter.” He spent his days at pre-K discovering the alphabet, wrestling with his buddies for control of the good Legos, and learning how to act if someone walks into the building with an AK-47. You know. Normal kid stuff.

I pulled over on the side of the road and sobbed, outside of a liquor store in East Nashville. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. “Mom. GO!” We made it home, eventually, after I picked up my baby daughter at her daycare a few blocks down, and soon, my anger and upset turned to relief. Congress wasn’t passing any gun control. None of this was going to stop any time soon. I was glad, at least, that the teachers were instructing my son in what to do in the event of the absolute worst-case scenario, an idea that makes me nauseated to simply think about but has been the reality for so many people across our country. I just want him to be safe. We all want to be safe.

Jill Andrews felt the same the day after the Vegas shooting and was inspired to write “Safe,” a song dedicated to the victims of gun violence and the feeling of unrest we all carry in our inability to guarantee the security of the ones we love most.

“There is an ever-present feeling of fear inside of me these days,” she says. “A fear that I cannot protect my family, my neighbors, my children, myself. I’m so tired of having the nagging urge to find the exits in a crowded room before I can settle in and enjoy myself. I’m tired of worrying about my children when I drop them off at school. I’m tired of wondering when the next senseless attack will take place. And I’m tired of the perpetrators getting exactly what they want: their name in all the headlines. We won’t always be able to stop every disturbing action of other people, but we can surely stop putting semi-automatic weapons into their hands. I’d like to dedicate this song to the families and friends of victims affected by gun violence. I’m sorry we haven’t done better. I’m sorry that this is still happening.”

On “Safe,” Andrews’ voice — a blend of sweet and guttural, raw — pines for protection in a completely uncertain world. “Wish I could say that it’s over, that something’s gonna change,” she sings. “Take you to school tomorrow and not be afraid.” I know that feeling, too. “Safe” is a reminder that we aren’t alone, and it’s a musical plea for hope that, one day, our kids can spend their afternoons practicing soccer kicks, not lockdown protocol. Until then? Stop at any light you need to. Listen to that crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Our loved ones, safe and sound, that’s beautiful music, too.

Anderson East, ‘King for a Day’

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Writing alone and working in artistic isolation can breed a particular kind of creative output — one often praised above all else. But collaboration has been at the heart of so much of music’s inherent culture, even as we try to elevate and honor the solo songwriter and take down what feels like Music Row’s cult of committee. Short of “super groups,” we don’t often stop to recognize moments of harmony where two (or more) great minds come together and breed something even better. We should. There’s magic in that meld.

Anderson East, one of Nashville’s most soulful voices, is a believer in the art of the partnership — in both his personal life and his creative one. And “King for a Day,” the newest offering from his forthcoming sophomore LP, Encore, is that synergy at its best. Written with country legend-in-the-making Chris Stapleton and Chris’s wife and powerhouse vocalist in her own right, Morgane, it’s an ode to vulnerability and the payoff that comes from letting your heart beat alongside another, even if it ends up broken. With East’s signature rasp and some booming horns, it’s a fine taste of Motown-in-the-South that feels even sweeter with that Stapleton swagger. “I’d rather be king for a day than a fool forever,” East sings. However that romance ends up, the partnership that made this music come to life will always have been a wise choice.