Conor Oberst, ‘Gossamer Thin’

When life is at its most beautiful, it is often also at its most frail. Love, happiness, fame … it can all fall apart within seconds, fraying, as Conor Oberst observes on "Gossamer Thin" (from his truly excellent new solo LP, Ruminations), between our very fingers. Because that beauty, like a sheer swath of fabric, tears when it's stretched too far: There's only so much shimmer or silk to go around before it's an unrecognizable fragment of what once was. Oberst, who is so adeptly able to write in a narrative style that is both observant of others and painfully self-aware, paints this through the story of a drug-addicted rock star leaving his wife at home for a pool of groupies; through a pair of adulterers, sneaking off to a nearby motel; and through a narrator quickly losing grip on both his physical and mental health. Oberst has struggled with his own well-being of late, but it doesn't matter whether or not the words are autobiographical: Though many paint him as the poster boy for confessionals, he's incredibly skilled at lyrical empathy, articulating the struggles most are too proud to discuss, often at the expense of his own personal ego.

"I'm worn gossamer thin," he sings to a melancholy waltz of piano, "like a delicate arch, carved by the wind." It's a rare, visceral metaphor drenched in poetry but not so saturated that it becomes foggy and obscure. Without the support of the rest of Bright Eyes, the Mystic Valley band, or Monsters of Folk on any of Ruminations, only Oberst is left to realize his — and our — hopes, struggles, and sorrows. Not pulled in any direction but his own, he's stronger than ever — frayed but not frail, and fully whole.

Hope Sandoval and the Warm Inventions, ‘A Wonderful Seed’

One of music's most transformative powers is to evoke a mood: In just three or four minutes, it can skyrocket us into nostalgia, hope, or misery, often without the lyrics even having to kick in. This is no secret; it's what songs are about — telling stories while also teleporting our consciousness to a different place and time. Often, though, it's done with much too heavy of a hand — synths, strums, or screams that pull by the collar instead of quietly wafting us along in-between blinks. Hope Sandoval was always able to do it in the most artful, authentic of ways. As the lead singer of Mazzy Star, her sensual coo was as powerfully mind-alternating as an edgeless, easy high. Take the iconic "Fade into You," which always manages to do just that with every listen, sliding up to us skin to skin.

Now, on her third album as Hope Sandoval and the Warm Inventions, Sandoval is still pushing those earthy boundaries. On "A Wonderful Seed," off of Until the Hunter, she sing-speaks a tale that lands in a place between the Irish seashore and a psychedelic dreamland. We may not know exactly where it exists, but it feels urgent and true, a snippet from an ethereal place where riddles are rhythm and melodies menace. It doesn't just evoke a mood: It creates one, making us miss this secret corner of the planet we never even knew. It doesn't just transform: It strokes the imagination. And that, indeed, is a most wonderful seed.

Paul Cauthen, ‘Be There Soon’

One of life's biggest curses is its emptiness: the emptiness that comes with being alone or unloved; the emptiness in the bellies of the poor; the inevitable emptiness that follows life itself, when heartbeats and heartbreak are replaced with an eternity of simply ceasing to exist. Perhaps that's one of the reasons that music is so vital — aside from helping us understand the fleeting nature of the world around us, it fills that emptiness with sound and makes mortality seem a more distant thought. Because only when it's quiet can we truly hear the noise of dying which, really, is nothing at all.

Paul Cauthen devotes much of My Gospel to exploring the fine line between life and death, offering up words and music that both fill the void and shorten the distance between breathing heavily and nevermore, going after the one thing that can destroy us before we're even in the ground: fear. Cauthen's a believer, but not devout enough to go blindly into that emptiness: This is his gospel, not anyone else's, and he knows that true salvation can only come with understanding and acceptance … not just from pages in an ancient book. "Be There Soon," a song about acknowledging our eventual fate — in love, maybe, but also that mortal curse — makes use of this soulful scorcher's most vital tools: thunderous vocals, a knack for combining the spirit of country with church-worthy arrangements, and an eye for seeing the horizon past the apocalypse. "I'll be there soon," he howls with the raw gusto of Tom Waits on Closing Time and the emotion of a man who sees the joy and the agony of knowing exactly where we're going, and how soon we all get there. For three-and-a-half minutes, life — and maybe what happens after — might not be so empty at all.

Tim Easton, ‘Before Your Own Eyes’

If a song falls off social media, does it make sound? Once upon a time, there was a world where the one thing that mattered was our own opinions and our own visceral reactions to the way we absorbed art or even basic human interaction — maybe we'd be alone in a car, hearing a new track on the radio, or spinning a just-released LP in the privacy of our bedrooms, the only peanut gallery in sight a sleeping cat on the pillow nearby. It was a freeing environment in which to explore and experience music, and especially to make it. If only we had known how quickly things might change, we may have been able to stop it: But no one warned us how those "likes," those tweets, that steely-white glow might infect us and addict us until it was far too late. Now, a word's worth is far too often only measured in metrics.

"Look at everybody in this room," sings Tim Easton on "Before Your Own Eyes," a seminal track off his new LP, American Fork. "No one's really talking to each other. They’re all consumed with what to love, who to hate, and what to ignore." In a soulful, solemn shake that evokes Bob Dylan's Love and Theft, Easton speaks to a world so captivated by the little device that they hold in their hand that it's hard to find space for anything in their heads or hearts. Easton's not preaching for us all to return to some impossible, tech-free utopia ("I’m not saying you should smother the fire, step on the spark, or unplug the wire," he sings), but he is weary about just how much is being missed — or not even created at all — when we become enslaved to the screen. It's a reminder to let your own emotions simmer and stew after you listen to a particularly poignant song, not a version condensed into 140 characters written for everyone but yourself. Because, in the Internet age, it's our own character at risk of being liked, shared, and clicked away before our own eyes. All we have to do is look up long enough from the glow to realize it.

Devendra Banhart, ‘Middle Names’

Devendra Banhart has given fans three years of anticipation for new music since 2013's well-received Mala, but his return this week with Ape in Pink Marble blends hushed, lo-fi tracks with looser, lyrically outlandish numbers to make his return to the studio an exciting one for listeners with a wide range of expectations. He also stuck with collaborators Noah Georgeson and Josiah Steinbrick once again, lending a certain level of familiarity to the release from the very beginning.

"Middle Names" was the first taste fans received of Ape In Pink Marble when the album was announced this summer, and you'd be forgiven for letting yourself be lulled into a hazy, sleepy state of consciousness by the gentle strum of its opening notes. Banhart's voice has a slight echo as windy ambients craft a peaceful landscape for the listener. It's a pleasant, ambling track that showcases Banhart in a more subdued light than you might find on other tracks on the record, and it's a reminder that the experimental folkie doesn't need frills or heavy production to make an impression. The song clocks in at more than three minutes, but somehow the end still feels abrupt — like you've been sung into a hazy oblivion you're not quite ready to leave.

"My love belongs to no one," he sings mid-song, and by the tone of the music, it's difficult to tell if that sentiment is bred of disappointment or quiet triumph. Does it matter? "Middle Names" views multiple phases of love with the same level of reverence, making it a moving soundtrack regardless of the listener's state of mind. 

Dawes, ‘We’re All Gonna Die’

 

If you've always considered Dawes' folk-drenched rock to be easily identifiable, prepare for a double-take. The band's latest full-length, We're All Gonna Die, opens with a synthy sound and a singable, almost robotic chorus. But before die-hard fans decry the Dawes of the future, they'd be smart to listen on: As We're All Gonna Die soldiers through, the album contains the same understated contemplation in the lyrics and threads of country influence that drew fans in, but with the kinds of thoughtful advances that signify a continued growth.

The title track exemplifies the band's evolution. The song has a heavy, orchestral feel that's subtle enough to lay the framework for Taylor Goldsmith's sullen, laid-back vocals. It calls upon a concert-goer whose enthusiasm seems to outshine that of the singer: "I need to know your secret. I'm asking you for help. How do I fall in love with anything like you seem to do so well?" It's familiar territory for Goldsmith, who has always had a knack for delivering glossy-eyed nostalgia or relatable bummer jams in a format that still feels fit for the good time. "How can it be that bad, if we're all gonna die?"

At one point, Goldsmith wonders aloud whether he's "still the victim of [his] fears," but as the band takes strides on "We're All Gonna Die," the answer to that musing seems to be a resounding "no." By the time the final refrain floats away, the title phrase has successfully morphed from frantic paranoia to calming mantra — a metamorphosis that can only do the mind good.

St. Paul and the Broken Bones, ‘Flow with It (You Got Me Feeling Like)’

St. Paul and the Broken Bones' first full-length, Greetings from St. Paul and the Broken Bones, was filled with the kinds of croons that felt familiar on their first listen, like something you know you must've heard in your grandparents' living room or in mom's old station wagon and just can't put your finger on. Having toured with the Rolling Stones and shared stages with their idols, the sophomore effort would naturally be up against maximum expectations, but lead singer Paul Janeway and the band have met those expectations effortlessly in the new Sea of Noise.

On the 13-song collection, Janeway goes deeper with his lyrics, touching on issues of race and violence and reconciling today's world with his own faith and values. But it's not all heavy, lyrically, and the album, as a whole, is as buoyant and danceable as fans have come to expect from the Southern soul outfit. The second track, "Flow with It (You Got Me Feeling Like)," combines the best of the band's brazen beginnings with a refined producion. This number showcases the subtler soul sounds that characterize Sea of Noise — a scaled-back, nuanced approach that feels like a natural next step from the band's retro debut. From the opening strains to Janeway's last funky high note, the Broken Bones' new tunes prove that this sharp group of noisemakers aren't recreating the past … they're fusing it with the future.

Angel Olsen, ‘Sister’

Angel Olsen's latest release, My Woman, finds her exploring new territory, fitting the same levels of emotional intensity listeners fell hard for on Burn Your Fire for No Witness into an uncategorizable array of sounds that range from pop synths to retro guitar. Her vocals are brought to the forefront on My Woman, and her lyrics echo like memories — at times shadowy and dim and, in other instances, vibrant and unshakeable.

"Sister," a standout track from the album's B-side, opens with a gentle strum set to a low-key rhythm as Olsen's hazy vocals come over the speakers. The song rings out for almost eight minutes, as the melancholy introduction gives way to a fuller sound and more rock-tinged instrumentals through the course of the recording, allowing time to pass in a dreamy, evolving state.

"You learn to take it as it comes. You fall together, fall apart," she sings. For most of the number, "Sister" seems like a steady burn rather than a slow build, but the last third of the song holds a shivering crescendo as Olsen repeats with varying degrees of emotion, "All my life, I thought I'd change." It's a song that feels as nostalgic as it does revelatory, a hazy glimmer of a ballad that shows off Olsen's eclectic capabilities, particularly when consumed alongside other singles like "Shut Up Kiss Me" or "Intern." For someone singing longingly about the times she thought she'd changed, Olsen sure hasn't stayed the same — and her listeners are lucky for it.

Cass McCombs, ‘Low Flyin’ Bird’

Cass McCombs has mastered the art of hypnotic tunes that pack punches lyrically, and his Anti- debut, Mangy Love, is no exception. Produced by Rob Schnapf and Dan Horne, Mangy Love also features contributions from guitar virtuoso Blake Mills and singer/songwriter Angel Olsen. In the midst of a climate ripe for political criticism, McCombs sounds off on issues like misogyny and mental illness, lightening up for selective tracks like "Laughter Is the Best Medicine" without steering his more pointed commentary off-course. Album opener "Bum Bum Bum" may take hold of listeners right off the bat for its overt political themes, but it's the latter half of the record's "Low Flyin' Bird" that sticks out as McCombs' best balancing act between hazy, understated vocals and catchy guitar measures.

Full-sounding strums open the track and give way to vocals that echo throughout the verses, musically emulating the kind of ups and downs you might imagine a hovering bird making in the air. McCombs varies between that reverberating staccato on the verses and long, glowing notes on the chorus, making for a combination with cool instrumentals that goes down easy and makes for laid-back, ambient listening. The chorus, itself, is a rare push toward the inspirational: "Low flyin' bird, don't scrape your beak / Low flyin' bird, don't sink / Let me ride over the canyon wide / Let me ride / Low flyin' bird, don't dive." Sometimes the urge to keep going is less of an anthemic roar and more of a gentle, constant hum.

Dolly Parton, ‘Forever Love’

More than half of a century has elapsed since Dolly Parton debuted as an artist but, at 70 years old, the country legend may be busier now than she ever has been. She's in the middle of a North American tour, performing stripped-down numbers from her extensive catalog for fans across the country, even as she's been working with television producers on an upcoming Christmas special about her life (A Christmas of Many Colors) and maintaining ongoing involvement in her own charity organizations and business holdings in East Tennessee. And, oh, by the way, she's releasing a full-length collection of new material today, too.

Pure and Simple delivers on its title, scaling back the production on most songs to showcase Parton's lyricism and distinctive voice in a minimal format. Over the course of 10 original tracks, Parton floats from one love song to the next without overdoing the lovey-dovey: Album track "Can't Be That Wrong" is a glimpse into the vulnerable side of a cheater, while "Outside Your Door" tends more toward can't-keep-your-hands-to-yourself lust. But closer "Forever Love" best encapsulates the album's strengths, as Parton's vocals drift between hushed whispers and soaring high notes in a vivid, tender love letter. "You wrote the book, each page and each chapter; you are my poetry, and song," she sings. "Each moment I try to capture all of the magic that you bring along." One could easily take the message and apply it to the object of their own awe: a higher power, a loving relationship, or maybe an enduring star whose positivity and talent continues to inspire after all this time.

Need more Dolly? Read our review of her 2015 Ryman Auditorium show.