Tag: Songwriting

BGS 5+5: Erik Koskinen

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Artist: Erik Koskinen
Hometown: St. Peter, Minnesota
Latest album: Burning the Deal

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

Playing with Tom Rush was great, because he was a big influence when I was young. I’ve played with a lot of others as well. Also, the first time I looked up and saw a good-size audience singing along to one of my songs.

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc. — inform your music?

Literature and poetry. When it’s good it has flow and rhythm like music does. Good writing makes you think, it doesn’t tell you what to think, and songwriting should be like that as well.

What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?

I was in a play on stage acting with no music and I got a standing ovation from 700 people at age 11 and I was hooked on the stage. Rock ‘n’ roll came a few years after that and connecting with an audience deeply is what we strive for. Otherwise we’d stay home and play to ourselves.

Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?

That has changed over the years, but now I live on an old farm and I have a garden that is big enough to feed my family and the neighbors. I am not great at it but I do it a lot, so something is bound to grow.

How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?

All the time, or never at all. The thing about songwriting is that you can lie, tell the truth, scam, fool, be humble, and exaggerate. And we might never tell the secrets beyond that. That is our right as songwriters. We need to leave it up to the listener to decide for themselves what is and what isn’t.

Photo Credit: Darin Kamnetz

Artist of the Month: Buddy & Julie Miller

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Buddy & Julie Miller have assembled one of Nashville’s most satisfying songwriting catalogs — and although their songs have been covered by a multitude of artists, there is something undeniably ethereal about hearing them sing together. As our Artist of the Month in July, Buddy and Julie continue to prove they’ve still got it. Don’t miss “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me” and “Secret” from their latest album, Breakdown on 20th Avenue South, in the playlist below. And check back later this month for much more content, including our in-depth BGS interview.

Illustration: Zachary Johnson

Ian Noe Finds Carnage and Compassion in ‘Between the Country’

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Folk rocker Ian Noe captures both beauty and ugliness on his debut album, Between the Country, populating his isolated Eastern Kentucky home with vivid portraits of human carnage.

Heavily influenced by John Prine, the 29-year-old writes with insight and deep compassion for what some might describe as the dregs of society. Meth-addled junkies, alcoholic drifters, and the gangs that prey on them dominate his songs, but he says shock and awe has never been his real goal. Instead, it’s to write songs reflecting the hardscrabble truth of his hometown. It’s a great place to grow up, he explains, but there’s no denying the dark reality which lurks down almost every holler.

“I guess it’s just the environment and the stuff you see growing up in Eastern Kentucky,” Noe says of his inspiration. “There’s a vibe to it. I hate to be so vague, but there’s a definite vibe.”

Noe has articulated that vibe so well he was invited to serenade Prine during a pre-Grammy Awards tribute at Los Angeles’ iconic Troubadour in February, and this summer he’ll open a series of shows for the legend in Europe. But for now he’s touring the U.S. with a batch of tunes that make traditional murder ballads sound like lullabies.

Noe spoke with The Bluegrass Situation about his admiration for Prine’s work and how it led to Between the Country, as well as his connection to the doomed souls of his songs and producer Dave Cobb’s help in creating a full-band sound.

BGS: Your vocal and the literary quality of the lyrics remind me of John Prine, which I’m sure you get a lot. How big of an influence was he on you?

Noe: Oh, he was huge. I would have to say he’s definitely the biggest influence for me. I started out wanting to be Chuck Berry on guitar, but it didn’t take me long to realize I wasn’t Chuck Berry. [Laughs] Then I heard John Prine through my dad, who would play his songs all the time in between Merle Haggard and Neil Young. But when he went to Prine songs, they would stick out … and I was just obsessed ever since.

What was it that stuck out about Prine?

He can just take simple things and make them profound. He’s the best at that. He can look at a sidewalk and write a song about it, make you laugh and think at the same time.

You’ve done something similar with Between the Country, but there’s a lot of dark themes – songs about substance abuse and self-destructive behavior. Why are those topics given so much prominence in your own writing?

I imagine it would have to be all the stories and people I know, as well as people I didn’t know but heard stories about. Just stuff that you hear happening in a town of six or seven thousand. Lee County is not that big, and it’s a cliché, but you hear everything that goes on in a small town.

Were you exposed to that stuff personally?

Not really, to be honest. I never did go to a meth house or anything like that, or even see anybody using it. But it’s one of those not-really secrets. Everybody knows it’s around.

I think that’s interesting because you seem so good at getting into these characters’ skin. How do you make that happen without first-hand knowledge?

I just think about them. Just think about it and picture in my head how it might be to live that way. It starts with a melody. I like to get the melody going in my head and if it’s a good one, try to see what’s going on with it.

I guess what I’m getting at is even though there’s bad stuff going on, it never seems like you’re judging anyone, or the area, for it.

Yeah, I tried to be real careful not to do that or come off as holier than thou. “Meth Head” is harsh, but I just wanted to be as extreme as I could be because it’s such an extreme drug, you know?

Tell me about coming up with that song. It’s really specific, I mean the imagery of this guy hunting for scrap metal and the woman covered in sores is chilling.

That song used to be about a war hero who was coming home, or at least the melody did anyway. I thought I was wasting the melody because I had already written some songs about battlefields and stuff like that, so I scrapped all of that and started again with the melody. I came up with that first verse pretty quick and just kept going.

How did you get so vivid with it?

It just comes with there being an actual junkyard in Lee County and thinking about the sound of the junkyard, thinking about the rest area that’s down the road and all the smells and sounds, things like that, just trying to get as descriptive as I could be.

Tell me about the title track. What does that phrase, “Between the Country,” mean to you?

Just being in the country, and everything that’s going on in between it. In between this hill or mountain, or what’s going on up in this holler, that’s what it means.

Why did you decide on that for the title track?

My grandmother used to say stuff like “If you treat your parents well, your days will be long on this earth,” which I’m not saying right but it’s from the Bible. She used to say stuff like that all the time, and I got to thinking about it, like “On down between the country, where deer lay along the road / On down between the country, where a long life’s a blessed one, I’m told.” It was like some people don’t make it past 40, you know? And that’s everywhere, it’s not just in a small town. But I didn’t grow up everywhere. I grew up in Lee County.

“Irene (Raving Bomb)” is about an alcoholic who’s not hiding it so well, even though she seems to think she is. How hard is it for you to find compassion for a character like that?

Not hard at all. We’ve all had our issues with this or that or the other, and I grew up seeing a lot of things like that. It wasn’t hard to have compassion for somebody whose disposition turns them to something like that.

How about “Letter to Madeline”? It’s about this guy who’s on the run and he’s carrying a letter he never mailed. What’s his backstory?

I was and still am a big fan of [the FX series] Justified, and I think it’s season two or three where there’s a story arc about the Detroit Mafia. I wanted to make it sound as if it was older. “A Detroit general” just meant a Detroit Mafia boss, and then his company just refers to his gang. It just came from that and people like D.B. Cooper — thinking about somebody robbing this guy and him trying to make it back to Kentucky.

Tell me a little about the sound here. It’s got this mix of folk rock and even a touch of ‘70s psychedelia at times. I know you’ve mostly worked solo in the past but teamed up with Dave Cobb for the album. Did he have a big impact?

It was pretty natural and easy. We were going back and putting in some of the electric lead you hear on “Dead on the River,” and he had bought a specific amp from Carter Vintage [Guitars in Nashville] the day we were mixing and overdubbing, and I believe he said he’d been listening to The Byrds that week. It was off the cuff, but the tone fit the themes, if that makes sense. … I like that there’s not a whole lot of crazy guitar solos, but every one of them suits the song. We don’t have congas or whatever, and it just has enough to breathe. Anything we overdubbed didn’t get in the way of any of the stories.

What do you hope people will take away from this first record?

Like everybody always says, when you make an album you just want people to appreciate it as much as you appreciate it. You want them to listen from track one all the way to the last track, and not everybody does that, which is all right. But the subject matter is all a common theme through the whole thing, and the cohesiveness is important. That’s what I love about all my favorite albums.

Photo credit: Kyler Clark

BGS 5+5: Gillian Nicola

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Artist: Gillian Nicola
Hometown: Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Latest album: Dried Flowers
Personal nicknames (or rejected band names): Ginny, Giggy, Giggz

Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?

This is a really tough question for me to pin down, because I am influenced by so many people. Kathleen Edwards is probably my most influential songwriter. I love her storytelling and how easily she can float between fragility and strength. She was one of the first Americana/Canadiana artists I started listening to and I think her music very much shaped the way I think about songwriting. I am also very influenced by genre-fusing artists like Joni Mitchell and Kacey Musgraves.

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

Last year, I performed a small house concert in cottage country in Ontario. We performed the concert on a dock and it was a very beautiful, intimate concert — with a nice summer breeze as the sun was setting. That on its own was magical enough. What I didn’t know at first was that while we were playing, boats were pulling up to watch from the lake. It was such a perfect Canadian scene and I will remember that one forever.

What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?

I don’t remember this one too clearly, but I’m often told this story by my family. When I was about 4, I was at a family friend’s birthday. In a party mostly full of boys who were playing sports and racing around the room, I took out a chair, sat down, and insisted that everybody stop what they were doing, because I was “going to sing for them now.” Music has always been a part of me — it’s not a firm memory, but rather, an inseparable part of who I am.

Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?

I think open space and the atmosphere of nighttime is a strong part of my work. I sing about the night a fair bit on my new album (“Night Comes to Call” and “Moonshine”) and write the most during the night. There’s also been a lot of influence from water, mostly in terms of writing about space and distance, and how well that’s reflected through bodies of water.

How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?

I have a very strict policy of never revealing who a song is about and whether or not it’s a personal anecdote or about someone else. Many of my closest friends don’t know who or what I am singing about (though I’m sure many could take a stab at it) and I prefer to keep it private that way. The only song that I’ve written where I explicitly talk about who the character is on “Across the Sea” off of Dried Flowers.

I wrote this song about one of my best friends who moved to London, England, a few years ago. He is the first person I send new songs to and despite the distance, we have remained very close. It was really nice to be able to write a love song for a friend, instead of from a romantic angle. Other than that, everyone will just have to make their own assumptions, which they probably would do anyways even if I confirmed or denied anything.

Photo credit: Jen Squires

Molly Tuttle: Confident and ‘Ready’

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Even before releasing her first full-length album, Molly Tuttle made history. She became the first woman to be named IBMA Guitar Player of the Year, a title she’s won twice, in addition to winning Americana Music Association’s Instrumentalist of the Year, all on the strength of her 2017 EP, RISE. But to focus exclusively on Tuttle as a guitarist would be a mistake. She isn’t interpreting others’ songs. She’s writing and singing her own, and as her debut record When You’re Ready proves, she’s doing it not only with classically trained musicianship, but with an exciting willingness to explore and trust her own wide-ranging artistic instincts.

Tuttle talked with BGS about When You’re Ready, feeling optimistic about women in music, and why California’s Bay Area has her heart.

BGS: When You’re Ready is such a confident debut. Were you feeling confident from the jump, or did your confidence grow as you recorded?

Tuttle: I think it grew. As I was writing the songs, I got more and more confident just saying what I felt and what I was thinking in the songs. I remember feeling really confident in the studio in what I was saying and in the parts I was playing. Ryan Hewitt, who produced it, helped me feel confident. He wanted everything to sound really strong – it was a good experience.

A lot of these songs seem to explore relationships and how we interact with each other. Do you feel like there are some currents that run through thematically and connect all of these songs?

I think there’s kind of a theme of longing on the album, and also a theme of just being confident in who you are and what you’re feeling. When I was writing it, it was, “I’m just going to say where I’m at.” The theme on the album for me would be accepting your feelings and embracing them.

You’re from California, then you went to college in Boston, and now you’re living in Nashville. Do you feel like all of that geographic diversity changed the trajectory of your music?

I think so. I got exposed to lots of different kinds of music in California, and then especially when I was at Berklee, there were all sorts of different kinds of music going on all the time at school. Then, obviously, Nashville is one of the most amazing music cities in the world. I think living in California was influential, growing up there. I really relate to the Bay Area and a lot of my songs are still inspired by California. It’s where my soul is, still.

What is it about the Bay Area you love so much?

I really love the ocean. I love the nature there, the scenery. I think people are really open there. Everyone — well, not everyone, but a lot of people in the Bay — are just trying to be good people and trying to be accepting of other people. That was something I was taught in school a lot as a kid: that you should accept everyone as they are. Of course, nobody is perfect at that. But I think people are trying to do that there, and that’s a feeling I’ve tried to carry with me.

When you write, are you focusing on the guitar part first and then the lyrics, or does it vary?

There are times when I do the guitar part first, but for this album, I was really focusing on the lyrics and melodies. The guitar parts were the last parts that came with these songs — and I really wanted to have interesting guitar parts on this album. I thought it’d make it more interesting to have a singer/songwriter record with guitar lines that could weave it all together, so I worked on that after I finished writing the songs.

The guitar playing on “Take the Journey” jumps out: the percussion, the lead, the bass, the counter-melodies — that’s all you on acoustic guitar. How’d you come up with this song?

I wrote that with Sarah Siskind. We wrote it pretty quickly in a couple of hours, which for me is quick for writing a song. We had a song that was in that modal-key feel — you don’t really know if it’s major or minor. When we were writing it, I went into this different tuning: it’s an open G tuning, but you get rid of the third and tune the B up to C, which makes it like a Gsus4.

I like that style of guitar playing. When I was a teenager, I learned clawhammer banjo because I really liked old-time music. Someone showed me that you could move the clawhammer style onto the guitar and play a really percussive-sounding style. I went with that and created different rhythms that I like to use — more syncopated — and really worked on getting the bass notes to pop out, letting my hand hit the guitar so it’s percussive sounding.

Your vocals on “Don’t Let Go” move between smooth and comfortable verses to more of a staccato and breathy chorus. How’d you decide to approach the vocals this way?

Where the melody is in my range, I naturally had to go up to a breathy head voice, so we thought that could be a really cool thing, to make it sound really emotional. And on this one, when I was singing the chorus, I did get really emotional in the studio. That helped me get the quivers in my voice. I think you can hear it in the track. There are little things that came out in my singing that I hadn’t really done before recording this. I had to go to an emotional place to get the take that worked.

Do you have a favorite song on here or is that impossible?

I think my favorite is “Sleepwalking.”

All of that imagery on “Sleepwalking” – and on some other songs too – blurry screens, white noise, and even sleepwalking itself: it’s such a direct contrast to the specific, refined sounds you’re making. What is it about the hazy imagery that you’re drawn to?

Yeah, I think a lot of my songs have themes of trying to make a connection with a person or a place or a feeling. There are a few songs that talk about white noise or static or anything that’s kind of blurring the connection. That’s something I feel — like with technology, sometimes it makes me feel like I’m not actually connected to anything and not connected to myself.

I think that comes through in my songs. “Sleepwalking” is a song I wrote about that specific feeling of being disconnected from the world around you. Maybe you’re relying on one person or one place or feeling to be your connection. It’s kind of a love song, but it’s kind of a cry for help in a way. [Laughs]

Of the women who are widely known first as guitar players – a number that’s still too low – most aren’t acoustic, steel-string players. It’s also a physically demanding instrument, especially the way you play. Why were you drawn to it? Why do you think you’ve succeeded?

I’ve never really seen limitations on guitar for me as a woman. I remember, I was first drawn to it in a really natural way when I was a kid. I just liked the mellow sound of it. So I don’t remember specifically what drew me to it, but I remember seeing guitars around, and I told my parents I wanted a guitar. That was after I’d tried like three different instruments and failed at all of them. [Laughs] I tried to play fiddle, and I think I got tired of just not sounding good on it. Guitar is a lot less abrasive when you’re first starting out. I had a tiny guitar when I started, and my dad showed me some stuff on it.

I really liked that you could play it while you were singing. I never thought about it being a physically demanding instrument, even when I first played and my fingers got really sore. It felt pretty natural to me. Then, when I went to Berklee, I was 19 and all of a sudden there were no other women in any of my guitar classes. [Laughs] That was weird. It was definitely an uncomfortable experience at times.

But it was good because I’d walk into class and be the only one, and because all this attention was instantly on me, I thought, “Oh, I better practice and be good or they’re just going to write me off as some girl trying to play guitar.” It felt like there was some added pressure there, which is not really fair, but at least it made me practice more.

You’re not the “best woman guitar player.” You’re the best guitar player. Do you feel like the industry and culture in general are beginning to consider contributions of women more fairly – that you’re weighed equally?

I think it’s definitely changing at a rapid pace right now, especially with the #MeToo movement. Now that’s starting to affect the music world. I’m seeing so many women coming up and their careers are just exploding in new ways – like at the Grammys. There were so many women winning awards and playing.

I think women are feeling really empowered to just say, “No. I’m not a female musician. I’m just a musician.” Women are fully embracing feminism more and just feeling like we can say what’s on our minds. We don’t have to tiptoe around these issues anymore. I think that’s helping everything change. We are not accepting any crap anymore — like “you’re a female guitar player.” [Laughs] I certainly don’t want to be pegged as a female guitar player. My gender doesn’t have anything to do with my guitar playing. We’re talking about the issues more and that’s helping everything to change.

Photo credit: Alysse Gafkjen

Hayes Carll Finds His Fun Side Again on ‘What It Is’

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With his new album What It Is, Hayes Carll is feeling more like his old self. … Scratch that. The Texas-bred singer-songwriter is feeling better than ever.

“I’m still trying to figure my life out and what I want to say creatively,” Carll explains, “but I got back to having fun.”

Hayes Carll admits he was working through a personal funk on his last album, the sparse and serious post-divorce project Lovers and Leavers. But calling What It Is the “culmination of everything I’ve done in the past,” he’s delighting in the surreal nature of everyday life once more – just like he has since 2002’s Flowers & Liquor – but doing so now with an element of hard-won wisdom. Co-produced by Carll with fiancée/fellow roots poet Allison Moorer and Brad Jones, the set features 12 free-spirited tracks that find him happy to be getting on with the business of living. He’s also leaning back into his sardonic wit and letting the full-band energy flow, as he explores the beautiful quirks of his own relationship, a society in upheaval, and most of all, what it means to really be present in the moment.

Your previous album, Lovers and Leavers, was quiet and contemplative, and you were thinking very seriously about your role as a singer/songwriter. What It Is feels more fun and irreverent, like it’s less concerned with being something specific. Why is that?

Well, Lovers and Leavers was a really specific moment in my life when I was trying to make sense of things personally and trying to find my voice creatively – I felt like I had sort of lost it and I wasn’t sure what I was doing anymore. … Since that record was recorded, a lot of life has been lived and I’m not quite in the same spot. I felt a little like a turtle stuck in my shell at that time, and now it’s like I’m starting to come out a little bit again and just relax.

Feeling lost creatively must be terrifying as an artist.

I think I was just not tuned into my life, and one of the themes on [What It Is] was finding that connection. The idea of life passing me by. I just turned 43 last week, and by all measurable metrics I have an incredible life. I knew that, but I wasn’t happy – I was disconnected and feeling dissatisfied. With this record, I feel like I’ve come out on the other side. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m in a much better place.

What do you think changed?

It’s just life. For me a lot of what comes out creatively has to do with what’s happening in my life, and what’s happening in my life is I’m in a solid relationship with a woman I love, who’s also at times my creative partner. Plus I’m feeling more connected in general with the world around me, and feeling able to observe and comment on it because of that.

That’s clearly the theme of the album’s title track, and I love its chorus hook – “What it is, is right here in front of me / And I’m not letting go.” When did that hit you?

I started to write a song called “What It Is, What It Was, and What It Will Be,” and it was a totally different vibe. I took it to Allison and asked her if she would help me sort it out because I just wasn’t landing it in a meaningful way, and she pointed out what now seems obvious to me – which is what we came up with in the chorus. What happened in the past is gone and you can’t change it. The future is out of your control, and what we have is what you’re experiencing right now. Going back to the dissatisfaction I was feeling, that had a lot to do with that – I think I was not present for a lot of my life and I missed a lot of it. That’s what I’ve been working on changing.

You worked closely with Allison on this – since she was not only a co-writer but also a co-producer. Can listeners hear the contribution she made in the studio?

Yeah, she co-wrote six or seven of the songs and she sings on four or five of them, so she’s all over the record in that way. But just having written these songs with Allison and having conversations all the time about where I wanted to go creatively, I thought nobody would be a better translator for that than she could be. That’s never been my comfort zone, and even speaking the language has never been something I excelled at.

It’s challenging for me, but it’s one of her strengths – being able to hone in on something she picked up from hearing me play the stuff, or even hearing me pontificate about what I want to do in a way that sounds like drivel to most people, then take it and turn it into a coherent point and set of instructions. That was one of the big reasons I wanted her to be a co-producer, and the other was I really respect her taste musically.

Has working together with Allison changed your songwriting at all?

We have different styles and strengths. She’s really disciplined and gets her work done on schedule, and is in the chair every day and gets to the point. I can take years to finish a sentence and can be all over the place, vaguely searching for some mythical feeling. She’s certainly poetic but can be really practical in getting down to the craft of the song. So I love that. When we work together I think the whole ends up being greater than the sum of the parts.

“Jesus and Elvis” has that classic Hayes Carll feel to me – it’s clever and vivid and conversational, but also built on a really poignant story. Where did you hear that story to begin with?

I wrote that with Allison and Matraca Berg, and Matraca had the title. She goes “I’ve been thinking about this title ‘Jesus and Elvis,’” and it immediately reminded me of a bar I hung out in in Austin. I’ve since found out this story is not actually the real story, but at the time I had convinced myself it was. [Laughs] This bar has Christmas lights up year-round and a jukebox in the corner with nothing on it past 1968, and I had heard it was because the bar owner’s son went off to fight in Vietnam at Christmas time. She promised she wouldn’t take the lights down until he came home, but he never did, so that’s why they’re still up all these years later.

The album starts with “None’Ya,” which is your first #1 single on Americana radio, and it seems to be very much about your relationship with Allison. It’s a tender song, but in a flirty, teasing way. Is that how you guys really are together?

[Laughs] Well, somewhat. Everything in there is pretty accurate with the exception of the first verse – I can’t remember what I asked Allison, but it wasn’t “Where have you been?” Anyway she just said “none’ya,” and that was the first time I had heard that. She’s from South Alabama and has her own language that leaves me scratching my head sometimes, and “none’ya, tend’ya, mind’ya” is one of her things, like “none of your business, tend your business, mind your business.” I thought “Man, I’ve gotta get that in to a song somehow,” but I didn’t even really think of it being about her at first.

So I spent a lot of time with it, and I had a guitar lick and verse but didn’t know where to go with it. I was sitting there at the table and she walked by and asked me what I was doing, and I said “Trying to finish this song, I think it’s about you and me.” And she just said, “Why don’t you tell them I painted the porch ceiling turquoise to keep out the spirits, and about how we pretend we don’t know each other on airplanes?” She didn’t even sit down, she just walked by and went, “You big dummy, why don’t you just tell them what we actually do?” So of course I went and did that.

You’re also doing some social commentary with tracks like “Fragile Men,” “Wild Pointy Finger” and “Times Like These,” and it’s not like you’ve never done that before, but does it feel different getting political in these hyper-polarized times?

It’s a strange place to be to question whether it’s OK to share your beliefs as an artist, because on one hand that’s your job. But on the other hand there’s a significant chance you’ll lose a portion of your audience should they not agree with you. I hate to have to think about that, but having said it, I don’t really care anymore. [Laughs]

We wrote a song called “Fragile Men” which originally was just about patriarchy, but a week after we started writing it, Charlottesville happened, so I got back together with my co-writer, Lolo, and we finished it with that in mind. Rather than shout about how angry and horrified we were about what happened with these white nationalists and Neo-Nazis and Klansmen, we figured the best way to get out what we were feeling was to make fun of them – to have this faux sympathy for how hard it must be to be a white male in America and how unfair it is that they have to NOT burn crosses.

Anyway, Lolo recorded a demo version and made a quick YouTube video, and I got I-don’t-know how many thousand comments about it, but a lot of them were attacking ME for attacking Nazis [Laughs]. It blew me away! Like, “At what point did we become a country where it’s divisive to make fun of Klansmen?”

We’re closing in on 20 years since your debut album came out. What do you think you’ve learned in that time about life, your work and just being happy? It seems like that’s what the album is getting at.

Exactly. For me this record is a culmination of the 17 years of recorded work and the 20-years plus of playing music for a living. It’s about not living in the past and not trying to control the future, but just trying to experience what’s happening. What I’ve learned is you get one pass, and I’m never gonna be younger than I am at this moment. There’s never gonna be a day where everything falls into place, it is what it is at that moment. That’s been my takeaway over all this time. … That, and too much bourbon and not enough sleep is a bad combo.

Photo credit: David McClister

BGS Top Songs of 2018

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Here at the Bluegrass Situation, we’re always eager to hear a new song. This year it’s likely that thousands of them drifted by, each with their own charms. Yet, rather than ranking our favorites, we decided simply to pick 10 tunes that grabbed our attention — listed here in alphabetical order. Take a look.

Rachel Baiman, “Tent City” 
Written with long, tongue-twisting lines and a laconic melody reminiscent of John Hartford’s “Gentle on My Mind,” “Tent City” replaces the former’s voluntary rambler and train yard denizen with a man down on his luck and reflecting on the ease of his descent into homelessness. It’s a strong song, elevated to greatness through spirited, flawlessly idiomatic performances by Baiman and her specially-assembled posse: Justin Hiltner (banjo), Shelby Means (bass), Tristan Scroggins (mandolin) and Molly Tuttle (guitar). “Tent City” isn’t bluegrass-flavored social commentary, it’s a socially conscious and thoroughly bluegrass song. –Jon Weisberger

Birdtalker, “Be Where You Are”
Nashville’s Birdtalker took flight when husband and wife Zack and Dani Green started writing songs more for enjoyment than with career plans. But they’ve got a career now as a breakout band with an intuitive, joyful flavor of folk rock that brings listeners into a comforting fold. “Be Where You Are” is a lushly arranged meditation on staying in the moment, a rebuke to both brooding nostalgia or anxious speculation, not to mention the great screen hole. From getting the reverb just right on the opening guitar figures to the juicy intervals in the vocal harmonies, this is among the most enchanting and centering tracks of the year. –Craig Havighurst

I’m With Her, “Hannah Hunt”
It’s been a big year for I’m With Her, the supergroup comprised of Sara Watkins, Sara Jarosz, and Aoife O’Donovan. Their album was an expert blend of harmonies and modern roots craftsmanship, but it’s this single (recorded at Spotify Studios) that takes their art to a whole other level. Their cover of “Hannah Hunt” will make you forget that the original Vampire Weekend version ever existed. —Amy Reitnouer Jacobs

Loretta Lynn, “I’m Dying for Someone to Live For”
Loretta Lynn and co-writer Shawn Camp go straight to the heartache on “I’m Dying for Someone to Live For,” a highlight of Lynn’s Grammy-nominated album, Wouldn’t It Be Great. By now, the lonesome whippoorwills and the weeping willows in these lyrics are as entrenched in country music history as the Coal Miner’s Daughter herself. Contributing to the pedigree: Lynn recorded the album in Johnny Cash’s former cabin, with John Carter Cash and Loretta’s daughter, Patsy Lynn Russell, handling production. For those days when nothing but a sad country song will do, you can still count on Loretta Lynn. –Craig Shelburne

John Prine, “Summer’s End”
At 72, John Prine is churning out some of the best work of his already genius-level career. Of all the tracks from The Tree of Forgiveness, however, “Summers End” is Pure Prine Perfection. It’ll make you laugh, then cry, then want to listen to it all over again. –Amy Reitnouer Jacobs

Missy Raines, “Swept Away”
Raines and producer/banjoist Alison Brown brought in the strong-women-of-bluegrass cavalry as the backing band for 2018’s International Bluegrass Music Association Song of the Year, showcasing each woman who was first to win in her respective instrumentalist category at IBMA: Becky Buller, Molly Tuttle, Sierra Hull, and Raines and Brown themselves. Still, the song itself supersedes its virtuosic, socially-important trappings. Written and first recorded by bluegrass legend Laurie Lewis, “Swept Away” is a stunning reminder of Lewis’ artistic ingenuity, constantly creating music that all at once sounds unfathomably brand new and comfortingly timeless. Raines tipping her hat to Lewis, in this context, and then to each of her fellow first-women-to-win, is the cherry-on-top of a song that will always be a testament to the amazing women of bluegrass, in whatever form it may take. –Justin Hiltner

Moira Smiley, “Refugee”
Smiley wasn’t merely inspired by news reports to write “Refugee,” a highlight of her sparkling Unzip the Horizon album. The Vermont native drew on her global interactions with people and cultures shaped by migration and refugee experiences — particularly her experiences in refugee camps in Europe as a volunteer with the Expressive Arts Refuge organization. She even enlisted refugee residents of the so-called Calais Jungle and referenced music of medieval expulsions. “So here we are again, in a different, but related era of diaspora,” she told BGS in March. “What can we learn from the past? How can we be compassionate to each other as these big forces are hurting our brothers and sisters?” –Steve Hochman

Stick in the Wheel, “Follow Them True”
This London band may be one of the unruliest acts in the contemporary English folk scene, finding inspiration in centuries-old work songs that speak to present-day issues of class and marrying acoustic instruments with dance production techniques. Perhaps their boldest move yet is the title track to their second album: “Follow Them True” is a new song that sounds old, with a lilting, quietly majestic melody and a set of lyrics that might serve as the band’s mission statement. But it’s less about what Nicola Kearey sings and more about the way she sings it. She filters her voice through an effects pedal that she manipulates in real time, twisting and bending her voice as though the song is echoing across hundreds of years. The effect is both old and new, conjuring the past to point toward the future. –Stephen Deusner

Aaron Lee Tasjan, “If Not Now When”
I saw ALT perform previews of the songs that ultimately came out on Karma For Cheap at Nashville’s Basement East and didn’t realize how much I needed these weird guitar riffs. Led by “If Not Now When,” the recorded version of this album doesn’t disappoint. Tasjan steps away from his more countrified roots and takes it in a more cosmic, gritty direction and the results are glorious. –Chris Jacobs

Anna Vaus, “The Ground”
The first winner of the Miranda Lambert Creative Fund—which the singer-songwriter created to support women in the arts—Anna Vaus promised to be a formidable songwriter. After all, if she garnered Lady Lambert’s approval, she must have a way with words. Vaus’ debut California Kid showcases her exacting lyrical prowess, leaning into honest moments that aren’t exactly pretty, but she saves her best for last. Closing song “The Ground” opens with ponderous guitar while Vaus’ voice stretches her major moment of self-reflection taut. Laden with grace, she lays bare her penchant for messing up a good thing. “Love sure feels like flying on the way down,” she sings, twisting the final moment with a guitar riff that underscores the weight of her realization. “It ain’t the fall that hurts, it’s the ground.” –Amanda Wicks

Canon Fodder: Bob Dylan, ‘Love And Theft’

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Halfway through the rollicking “Summer Days,” off his 2001 album, Love And Theft, Bob Dylan sets a romantic scene: a chapel, an altar, wedding bells. “She’s looking into my eyes, she’s a-holdin’ my hand,” he sings, the “worn-out star” chagrined by the attention and affection of this woman. Then he sets the song rolling in a new direction by recounting what might be their vows: “She says, ‘You can’t repeat the past.’ I say, ‘You can’t? What do you mean, you can’t? Of course you can!”

It’s a sly, playful jab at Dylan’s betrothed: Jesus considered the church his bride, and Dylan seems to understand his vast array of fans, the so-called Bobophiles who parse every word for meaning, as his doting helpmeet. Throughout the album and especially on “Summer Days,” she is both a conquest and a conquistador, the one who defines him and the one who assures him he’ll never again reach the vaunted heights of “Desolation Row” or “ Tangled Up in Blue.”

Released on September 11, 2001, Love And Theft is an album about aging, about outliving your usefulness, about the horrors of obsolescence: physical, intellectual, sexual, artistic. In that regard, it’s a fine sequel to and commentary on 1997’s Time Out of Mind, the darker, bluesier, more worried meditation on aging. Time Out of Mind was Dylan’s celebrated comeback, an album as good as anything he’d done before and therefore an album that nobody saw coming. Dylan had spent the previous twenty-plus years as purely a legacy act, an artist chasing a very particular muse throughout the ‘80s and well into the ‘90s, whose albums remain hotly debated by his fans but largely ignored or, worse, derided by everyone else. A return to commercial and creative form by the man who made Saved and Down in the Groove was an intriguing idea, but nothing you’d bet your house on.

Time Out of Mind truly deserves its reputation as one of his finest albums, but Love And Theft is even better. If the former solemnly ponders the grave, if it scrolls through decades of popular music to find the right words and the right melodies with which to evoke that fear and contentment, the latter chortles at all that. It’s perhaps Dylan’s funniest album, full of jokes both highbrow and low, literary and vaudevillian. He makes bad puns (“I’m sitting on my watch so I can be on time”) and invokes John Donne (“For whom does the bell toll for, love? It tolls for you and me”). He’s elbowing his previous self in the ribs; he’s poking a little fun at the idea of death, or at least at our fear of it, or at least our urge to make art of that particular dread. That makes him sound even wilier and wiser, chuckling as he plays checkers with the Grim Reaper. On Love And Theft he knows he’s attained a rarified perspective regarding these universal concerns, so why would you ever want to repeat the past? It’s just another way to ignore the inevitable.

There’s more, of course, to that remembered conversation between Dylan and whoever thinks you can’t repeat the past. Consider that it is paraphrased from that great American novel The Great Gatsby. Gatsby reminisces to his friend and the book’s narrator Nick Carraway: “‘Can’t repeat the past?’ he cried incredulously. ‘Why of course you can!’” It’s a sly allusion, a barb stuck in Dylan’s brain, and even though the novel suggests that Gatsby is deluded — suggests, in fact, that such a deceptive pursuit accompanies great wealth and power — Dylan understands it to be perhaps the essential American compulsion. Or, at least the essential compulsion of pop music, which asks its artists to constantly top themselves or risk obscurity.

Love And Theft is dense with such allusions, an album embedded deeply in the American memory. Every song demands to be annotated and researched; every song gains added depth and meaning when those connections are mapped out. The title itself is lovingly thieved from the book Love & Theft: Blackface Minstrelsy and the American Working Class, by Eric Lott, a professor of English at the University of Virginia.

Beyond that there are references, subtle and obvious alike, to Robert Johnson, Charley Patton, Blind Willie McTell, the Mississippi Sheiks, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, probably but not definitively Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, some guy named Robert Zimmerman, and so many anonymous Americans who shaped the culture Dylan loves but whose names have been lost to history.

Dylan shuffles through them with no regard for geography or chronology. “It could be 1927 or 1840 or biblical times in a Bob Dylan song, and it is always right now too,” Sean Wilentz writes in his 2010 book Bob Dylan in America, which obsessively and insightfully maps out many of these allusions. “Dylan’s genius rests not simply on his knowledge of all those eras and their sounds and images but also on his ability to write and sing in more than one era at once… But every artist is, to some extent, a thief; the trick is to get away with it by making of it something new. Dylan at his best has the singular ability not only to do this superbly but also to make the present and the past feel like each other.”

Love And Theft often plays like the culmination of Dylan’s fraught relationship to history, one that started as early as his 1962 self-titled, debut album. To listen to Dylan — whether it’s protest Dylan or born-again Dylan or gone-electric Dylan or Rolling Thunder Revue-era Dylan or even 40-years-in-the-wilderness Dylan of the 1980s — is to hear an artist reckoning with his own past and with America’s past. He’s repeating the past almost literally: a quoted phrase here, a stolen riff there. It’s loving, knowing plagiarism, a crazy quilt of sources and codes, a refutation of contemporary recording techniques and music biz practices, all the more subversive (at least in Dylan’s hands) for being outmoded.

Roots as a genre is a fairly new invention, one that can be traced back only a little further than Love And Theft. I place it at the turn of the century, with the shocking popularity of O Brother Where Art Thou? Whether intentional or not — most likely not —Dylan contests much of the music and many of the assumptions on T Bone Burnett’s soundtrack: namely, that the artists of the early twentieth century were somehow more authentic for being acoustic and earnest. Dylan knows they’re racketeers and raconteurs, crafting clever masks and intricate personae, both sophisticated and crude. All artists are liars who tell the truth, seems to be Dylan’s point.

It’s such a heady concept for such a fun album. Besides the rambunctious playing of Dylan’s band—which includes Larry Campbell, Augie Meyers, and Charlie Sexton—the most appealing aspect of Love And Theft is the obvious and often contagious glee with which the notoriously reclusive artist undertakes the project. He has a high old time navigating the jumbled syllables of “Tweedledum & Tweedledee” and bemoaning the Magnolia State on “Mississippi.” He sounds immensely comfortable crooning “Bye and Bye” and “Sugar Baby,” which portend his detour into mid-century pop on Shadows in the Night and Triplicate. He makes a meal of the folksily apocalyptic imagery of “High Water (For Charley Patton).”

Working with so much pop-cultural raw material, Dylan foregrounds the process almost to the point of overshadowing the product. But the small miracle of Love And Theft is that these songs sound like they are forever being written in real time, created and re-created every time he sings them and every time you press play. It is an ongoing collaboration between artist and audience, between Dylan and his ready bride.

Rosanne Cash Reveals Herself on ‘She Remembers Everything’ (Part 1 of 2)

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“This is an album for adults,” Rosanne Cash says of She Remembers Everything. “It’s not a kids’ record.”

The word kid of course is a subjective term. “I don’t think it would mean anything for someone who is 25,” she says. Maybe or maybe not, but by “adult” Cash is referring to the album’s perspective: the set of eyes through which she sees the world and writes her songs. It is the perspective of a woman in her early ’60s, with forty years in the music industry, as well an enviable catalog of critically acclaimed albums and mainstream country hits.

When she started writing and recording in the late 1970s, she was unmistakably recognized as the daughter of one of the most popular country artists in history, but what she inherited from him, aside from that iconic surname, is an appreciation for the well-crafted and sturdy pop song, for the wisdom such a thing might convey. During the 1980s she thrived in an industry that made room for left-of-center artists like Lyle Lovett and k.d. lang. Her 1981 smash “Seven Year Ache” remains a classic-country radio staple even today, and King’s Record Shop from 1987 is not only one of the finest country albums of that decade but a pivotal release that sent Cash hurtling into a second career in what we now call the Americana market.

Rather than try to maintain her mainstream success, Cash foregrounded her literary ambitions in the 1990s and in the mid-2000s launched a series of albums that addressed her origins — her career, her family, her South. Black Cadillac, from 2006, blazed rocky trails out of the grief of losing her mother (Vivian Liberto Cash Distin), her father (Johnny Cash), and her stepmother (June Carter Cash) — all too much tragedy to bear in such a short period of time. She put some of those lessons into play on 2009’s The List, featuring her own unique readings of songs made famous by her father. And 2014’s The River & the Thread, one of the best works of her career, is a travelogue through the South and into her own past.

She Remembers Everything sounds like a culmination of those dark, deeply personal ruminations. The songs are full of strong language, poetic and direct, but nothing that would demand a parental advisory sticker. There are intimations of sexual desire both fulfilled and unfulfilled, but nothing that would incur an R rating. There is no violence, but with a specificity that becomes harrowing, she depicts the horrific aftermath of violence, in particular a fatal shooting in “8 Gods of Harlem.” The story behind that long-dormant song begins the first of our two-part interview with Rosanne Cash.

I wanted to start by asking about “8 Gods of Harlem,” which seems like an outlier on the album. Not only does it feature Elvis Costello and Kris Kristofferson, but it’s also written explicitly from someone else’s point of view.

I wrote that with Kris and Elvis in 2008. It’s the oldest song on the record. I just had this idea to write a song with them, so I asked if they would be interested. And they both said yes. We’ve been friends for decades, and we figured out the only day we would all be in New York together was in April, so I wanted to get a lot done before they got here. I remember I had been going into the subway, and this Hispanic woman was coming out, and she seemed really distracted and sad. She was talking to herself, and I thought I heard her say “ocho dios.” She was coming off a train from Harlem, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why did she say that? Did she say that? I don’t really think so, but the phrase stuck with me.

I’ve worked in the anti-gun-violence movement for twenty years, and I just started writing that verse, about a child who was the victim of a shooting and how it shattered a lot more than just his life and his family, how it rippled out into the community. I sent that to Elvis and Kris, and when we got to the studio, I said, What if I was the mother? What if Kris was the father and Elvis was the brother? They finished writing their verses in the studio and we recorded it that day.

How did it end up on your album instead of one of theirs?

It was in the vaults, and periodically we would touch base. How are we going to get this song out into the world? Is it on your record this time? It didn’t fit on The River and the Thread. When I was working on this record, I asked them if they minded me including it, and they were both happy to have that happen. And it’s still relevant. It’s sadly a familiar scene. I was a bit worried that it would stick out from the other songs. It’s very different, this trio song. The subject matter on the other songs is really deeply personal, and this is the only one that is playing in character about a subject outside myself. But I think it works.

“She Remembers Everything” seems to be about trauma and its aftermath as well, albeit in a very different vein.

I wrote it with Sam Phillips. I sent her the lyrics, and she sent back this amazing melody. I wanted to write about how early trauma affects us, how some people spend the rest of our lives trying to repair it or ignore it or just squeeze your eyes shut against it. Who would you be if it hadn’t happened? How much more would your spirit have expanded out into the world if it hadn’t been truncated by this blow? That’s what that first line is about: “Who knows who she used to be before it all went dark.” You have to find things you can steal from the world, but in a good way: bouts of joy, moments of peace, a good relationship.

But I also feel like a lot of the time you’re getting the third degree from the world. This song comes out right after the Kavanaugh hearings, when a woman’s memory is questioned and discarded. Watching those hearings was very painful to me and to a lot of women I know. It was crushing, in fact. And I started thinking more about “She Remembers Everything.” A memory is like a library, and you can pull things off the shelf. Those memories are safe there, but they can cause a lot of turbulence. But women’s memories aren’t trusted. They never have been. You’re made to feel like you can’t be trusted with yourself, to make decisions about your body or your life or your memory. It just infuriates me.

That shows up again in “The Undiscovered Country,” when I say she went down for me. She knew she would be scorned and mocked, but she took that risk. So many women take that risk—the women in the #MeToo movement, the journalists who keep writing even though they’re threatened on a daily basis. All of these women go down for all of us, so the next generation doesn’t have to live with it.

I want to be hopeful, but there’s thirty years between Anita Hill and Christine Blasey Ford.

Me too. I thought progress went in one direction. Turns out it doesn’t.

How old are some of the other songs on the album?

“Particle and Wave” is several years old. But those are the only two that really go back further than the last two or three years of writing. I wrote “She Remembers Everything” with Sam Phillips leading up to this record. “Not Many Miles to Go” I wrote shortly before I started recording. “Crossing to Jerusalem” John and I wrote while we were recording. So the songs cover a little bit of a time span, but I’d say most of them are immediate.

This album title, She Remembers Everything, seems to tie everything together. Even those older songs, it’s all remembered.

Absolutely. I think I’ve been working up to these songs. They were the next logical step. They were what was behind the wall up till now.

How do you mean?

I don’t think I could have accessed these songs before now. I couldn’t have gone as deeply into the subject matter. It’s not a record a kid could have written. I couldn’t have written it ten years ago. The songs are all very autobiographical, and I’m not afraid to say that at this point. When I was younger, I would hedge my bets on that: Well, they’re universal. Whatever. No. This is all me.

(Editor’s Note: Read the she second part of Rosanne Cash’s interview.)

Illustration: Zachary Johnson
Photo of Rosanne Cash: Michael Lavine

‘More Blood, More Tracks’ Shows Unguarded Dylan

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It’s just a little mmmmmmm-mmmm. The kind of sound you might make when you’ve tasted something really pleasant. Or when your kid says something cute. Or when your partner sidles up cozily against you under a warm blanket on a cold night. Satisfied. Secure. Certain. Dare we say… sexy. And completely in the moment.

It may be the most unguarded moment ever in a Bob Dylan recording. But also the most complex, complicated, deep and emotional, even as it seemingly belies the words of the lines it comes between: And I’m back in the rain / And you are on dry land.

There are eight takes of the song that contains that, “You’re a Big Girl Now,” on More Blood, More Tracks: The Bootleg Series Vol. 14, the sprawling new collection of the complete takes from Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks sessions. It culminates with the “final” version heard on the 1975 album. In each one he goes mmmmmmm-mmmm (or an uhhh or ohhh variation thereof) several times, each with a different spin, different nuance, different feeling in ways that are hard to pinpoint, but still quite clear on hearing.

There are two per verse and five verses in the song — accounting for a couple of the takes being fragments, there’s a total of 67 mmmmmmm-mmmms here. But it’s the very first one, in the very first verse of the first take of the song, just the third performance in a marathon four-day run in a New York studio, that will buckle your knees, make you swoon, make the rest of the world go away.

You have to wonder if on the day he made that recording – September 16, 1974 – if making the world go away was exactly his intent.

Six months earlier, on Valentine’s Day, 1974, Dylan stood alone singing “even the President of the United States sometimes must have to stand naked” on stage at the Forum in Inglewood, California. The crowd erupted in wild cheers, as had happened every night of his reunion tour with the Band, which closed that night. But on September 16, five weeks after Richard Nixon had resigned that Presidency, Dylan stood alone with just a guitar and harmonica in a New York recording studio, at his most emotionally naked, starting what would become Blood on the Tracks. This was and perhaps remains the first, the definitive post-Watergate album.

Many saw it as a new beginning when Dylan had reemerged from a several-year hermitage with the ’74 album Planet Waves and the tour with the Band, the latter documented on the Before the Flood album, which includes that Forum performance of “It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding).” This was a fresh start, the return of the Voice of a Generation to right all the wrongs of a world in chaos. Of course it was anything but. That was all housecleaning, doing away with the past, putting it to rest. Well, at least the past as seen from the outside. Now he had a blank slate and a tormented inner world to explore as he looked back over his relationship with wife Sara as it was coming to a close.

No wonder he struggled with how to present these songs, a fascinating process played out over the 87 tracks on More Blood. Sure, he’d done multiple takes of many songs in the past, as collected on some previous Bootleg Series sets, including the massive Cutting Edge account of every single studio recording he made in his watershed ’65 to ’66 run.

This is different. It’s not just the arrangements (adding and subtracting musicians to the mix), or his delivery, or even the words, with which he fiddles considerably more than in the past. It’s a whole sense that varies from take to take with each of the songs here, transforming the very nature of the song and how it might be received. There are 11 attempts at “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go” before he gets what he considered a keeper, for example. And that’s true from mmmmmm-mmmm to mmmmmmm-mmmm, each given a different spin, a different tone, a different meaning. But, hearing these recordings now, the first take of each of the songs is as much a revelation of his personal struggles.

Back then we all were struggling with how to be, how to behave, how to approach the future. With Nixon gone, with the Vietnam War coming to a close, we’d lost our focus, we’d lost our purpose, we’d lost our sense of the future.

As he stepped into the studio, the No. 1 slot on the Billboard singles charts just whiplashed from Paul Anka’s smarmy “You’re Having My Baby” to Eric Clapton’s version of Bob Marley’s Jamaican/Western outlaw fantasy “I Shot the Sheriff.” The No. 1 album was a towering masterpiece, and perhaps a challenge to any artist now making a record: Stevie Wonder’s Fulfillingness’ First Finale.

Overall, the year was full of looking back and looking for diversion: Barbra Streisand topped the 1974 year-end singles chart with the hazy nostalgia of “The Way We Were,” with Terry Jacks’ syrupy “Seasons in the Sun” right behind, and not far down the list John Denver’s similar climate assessment “Sunshine on my Shoulder.” Grand Funk re-did “The Loco-Motion” and Ringo Starr hit with a remake of “You’re 16” while James Taylor and Carly Simon mined the golden oldies vein with “Mockingbird” for a big hit. The Beach Boys were back in fashion, via their Endless Summer collection. Blue Swede was “Hooked on a Feeling” (oooga-chucka, oooga-chucka).  By the end of the year, everybody was “Kung Fu Fighting.” Everybody.

And when Dylan released the album on January 20, 1975, the No. 1 spot was held by Barry Manilow with “Mandy.”

For many of us, Dylan’s pain provided our relief. Even for this writer, just 18 years old at the time and less-than-inexperienced in love, let alone heartbreak, Blood was a beacon, a blueprint, a map to the buried treasures of a hoped-for life to come. Yes, even with the pain, as it couldn’t exist without the pleasures that gave way to it.

Never mind Dylan’s protestations that this was not autobiographical — in his 2004 book Chronicles, Vol. 1 he maintained that it was based on Anton Chekhov short stories — apart from the lashing “Idiot Wind” (“Positively 4th Street” part two) and the rambling-gambling adventure “Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts,” this is his version of Ingmar Bergman’s miniseries/movie, Scenes From a Marriage, seen as the marriage crumbles. It’s in turns — sometimes very quick turns — rueful, playful, bitter, dreamy, recriminating (self- and otherwise), wistful, wishful, despairing, desolate, sensual, confessional, impenetrable, regretful.

At the root of it, particularly in the songs that arguably make up the emotional core of the album — “Tangled Up in Blue,” “Simple Twist of Fate,” and “Shelter From the Storm” — what emerges most strikingly, now more than then, is a deep tenderness. And then there’s the raw “If You See Her, Say Hello,” with the line “sundown, yellow moon, I replay the past / I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast.” But also striking are the key things missing: acceptance and closure. “Everything about you is bringing me misery,” he sings in the finale, “Buckets of Rain.” It’s open-ended and an open wound.

Even as we projected our own cultural uncertainties onto it, Blood was and remains the intensely private work of an intensely private person. More Blood even more so. Of course he had trouble shaping what would become the public view of it. Of course he got cold feet at the last minute, just four weeks before the album’s release, flying to Minneapolis for hastily set-up sessions to re-record the songs with local folk musicians, five new versions then displacing the original New York sessions, including “Big Girl.”

What’s most striking, perhaps, is that he released it at all. Almost as soon as the album came out, after he had revealed himself so starkly, he embarked on his Rolling Thunder Revue tour, a traveling circus in which he could get lost, get away, could hide, shielded and masked. As had so often been the case in his public past, he returned to his default setting of obfuscation.

It’s accepted fact that Dylan released the “right” version of the album. It fit the times, fit his mood(s) — and ours. But it’s wondrous to revel in the possibility of an alternate in which he might have stopped after the first takes, with just the first versions recorded that day, September 16, 1974, when he stood alone and sang mmmmmmm-mmmm.