I like The everybodyfields, I really do, but if I’m honest I have to admit that I’ve struggled a bit. They come from Tennessee and they play a very pretty brand of country music, with echoes of the “grievous angel” tradition of Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris or, more recently, of Gillian Welch and David Rawlings. Actually the male lead singer, a demented looking feller with bushy side-whiskers named Sam Quinn, has a voice that sometimes resembles Rawlings’ quite strikingly. At other times, alas, his voice sounds more like Lindsey Buckingham’s, and if there’s one thing I will not tolerate it’s people walking around sounding like Lindsey fucking Buckingham. Don’t get me wrong. I respect the Right Honorable Mr. Buckingham and I have no doubt he was a tiger in his youth, but when I hear his voice today — after so many years of exposure on MOR “Classic Rock” radio – I can’t help but think of erectile dysfunction. If this is a weakness peculiar to myself, then feel free to take it with a grain of salt.

At any rate, The everybodyfields have several important things going for them. They are signed to the superb Ramseur Records for one thing, making them labelmates of The Avett Brothers and the brilliant newcomer Samantha Crain. They also play beautifully, and Sam Quinn and female singer/guitarist Jill Andrews sometimes concoct truly spine-tingling vocal harmonies.  Jill Andrews in particular has a top notch voice that reminds me of Sally Ellyson’s from Hem.  She does most of the singing on “Lonely Anywhere,” which I’ve posted below and for which I have nothing but praise. “Tuesday” is primarily a Sam Quinn vehicle and it has some really excellent moments as well, especially when the fiddle and pedal steel hit the fan at about the 1:30 point.

What has troubled me a bit about this music is its very prettiness. I’ve largely gotten over it, but at first I really couldn’t detect much of an “edge” to their sound that differentiated it in my mind from the hosts of other competent, but not necessarily stirring, musicians out there.  For example, when I listen to Gillian Welch I immediately discern a tension and spontaneity that I don’t hear to the same extent in The everybodyfields’ studio output.  It’s sometimes almost too lovely, if you get my drift, or too clean.  Actually, they’ve posted a few live tracks on their myspace, and to my ear these tunes have a greater immediacy than most of the songs on “Nothing Is Okay,” so perhaps it’s just a matter of the band being more of a live experience.  Matthew and Mrs. Toad will be able to judge this better than I because The everybodyfields are scheduled to perform at pickathon in Portland at the beginning of August, and I understand that our friendly neighborhood amphibian will be in attendance. If he can hear any music over the sound of his own booze-fueled retching (Portland is known not just for its music, but also for its numerous excellent local brews) I’ll be interested to get his thoughts.

Anyhow, you can judge for yourselves.

The everybodyfields – Lonely Anywhere
The everybodyfields – Tuesday

Website | More mp3s | Buy the Album

Andrew Taylor is a lovely fellow from Norwich. I discovered his music on myspace some time ago through his connection to another group called The Challenge of Feral Green, who toured with Catherine Feeny and Jacob Golden a year or so ago. I think they even came to Edinburgh. Anyhow, the pure grace of Andrew’s voice just floored me as soon as I heard it. It reminded me of someone then, and it still does, but I’ve thought and thought and I can’t put my finger on it. There’s a sweetness and reserve to the singing that calls to mind Iain Matthews and Plainsong in their more bucolic moments, or perhaps Red House Painters or Espers.

I don’t suggest that this music is re-writing the rules because it’s not. Nor do I think it was meant to. I suppose the songs fit into the English pastoral folk tradition, at least in terms of the melodies and song structure if not the lyrical content. But then again, what the hell do I know about the English pastoral folk tradition?  Fuck all, that’s what.  But I know what I like.  Let’s just say that this is pretty much just Andrew and a guitar, with some keyboard washes and effects thrown in for emphasis now and again, and it’s gorgeous. Plenty enough to be getting on with if you ask me.

After hearing his songs for a few days on myspace I decided to get in touch and make arrangements to buy his record, called “The Inside of a Mirror.” As it turns out, I am a wise wise man. And fortunately for the “listening public,” this record–which was actually recorded back in 2005 or thereabouts–has now become a bit easier to acquire because Andrew is selling them on his myspace for £10. The first two tracks posted here are from that record, and if after listening to them you can wipe away the tears and pull yourselves together long enough to type in your credit card number I strongly encourage you to do so.  Also, Andrew’s posted a splendid new song for download on his myspace–from an as yet unnamed “forthcoming album”–and I’ve taken the liberty of posting it here as well.  For those who want to dig deeper yet, I’ll just mention that Andrew is a prolific and versatile fellow, and that he’s recorded some very interesting acoustic electronica, both as a solo artist and as member of band called the24thofjune. Check them out.

Now go forth and do good.

Andrew Taylor – It’s Hot Enough
Andrew Taylor – Love Is Pain
Andrew Taylor – What We Were Looking For

MySpace (Buy the Album Here)

C&B here.  And so here we go again.  Hello all.

“Local” music scenes aren’t strictly local anymore, are they?  I live near Washington, D.C., but because of stuff I’ve heard hereabouts I’m now the proud owner of records by such Edinburgh luminaries as Meursault, Withered Hand, Cancel The Astronauts and The Savings & Loan, I’ve extracted a promise from Eagleowl to send me a copy of their EP once it sees the light of day, and I’ve even garnered a sarcastic myspace comment from Euan of the Kays Lavelle who, despite a popular misconception, are not shit at all but actually rather grand. My life is thereby enriched. And therefore it is time to return the favor a bit and introduce y’all to a guy that I consider to be one of the really elite musicians from the place where I live.

His name is John Bustine and he’s got a magnificent record out called “Waltzes and Pleas” from Gypsy Eyes Records, a newish label in D.C. that boasts a pretty phenomenal stable of musicians. Bustine’s profile page on the Gypsy Eyes website describes his songs as “fairytales written for malevolent youth,” and that just about captures it I think.  His voice is top notch, aggressive but fragile. His tunes are hook-laden and rooted in alt-country or anti-folk or whatever, but he’s not afraid to shred with the ol’ gee-tar now and again, and his lyrics are acerbic, libidinous, blasphemous, and riddled with delicious profanity. There is a definite air of menace lurking just below the surface. Can you say “Grammy”?

When I first bought this record back in February, I loaded it onto my rig and just went about my business, not thinking too much about it. Then a few weeks later I’d be on the train to work and a glorious unfamiliar tune would shuffle its way into my ears, bringing a smile to my lips and a tap to my toe. Every time this happened I would light up the screen to discover that it was another John Bustine tune. Now I’m a fan, flat out, and my greatest difficulty has been to choose the right tunes to proselytize, because they’re all just superb.  John Bustine is living proof that the dissolute life is well worth living.  I hereby give a piece of him to you, because I’m all about love.

John Bustine – Graceless Birds of Death
John Bustine – Where Has Your Husband Gone Donna

MySpace | More mp3s | Buy the Album From Gypsy Eyes Records

Goodness gracious me, talk about a peculiar sense of place. Samamidon (spelled Sam Amidon in the phone book) wanted to create an utterly new, completely engrossing record of old Appalachian folksongs, and so he obviously wanted to record it . . . where? Well where else? Reykjavik. And then he called it All Is Well, and it was well. Actually, this record–which succeeds in just about every conceivable way–was a collaborative effort of the Bedroom Community collective, composed in this case of Amidon, producer Valgeir Sigurdsson and arranger Nico Muhly — whose own new record of chamber music compositions, entitled Speaks Volumes, was created with Sigurdsson at about the same time and released by the self-same Bedroom Community.

Amidon’s singing voice is a bit tremulous and reserved, but in a decidedly good way. To my ear his voice compares favorably with those of fellow old souls Will Oldham and Matthew Houck, and its delicacy is beautifully well-suited to these songs. Nico Muhly’s orchestrations are likewise perfectly adapted to the material, sweeping but intimate, and he seems to have taken a few of the best pages from Sufjan Stevens’ songbook, particularly in his horn arrangements. There is something deeply unsettling about this record, and I like it more every time I listen to it.

Of course the star of the show is the songs themselves. “Little Johnny Brown” is a “game song” or “dance song” with roots in West Africa, and it is typically sung by a group, standing in a circle around a scarf or blanket that has been placed on the ground (“lay your comfort down”). As the song progresses, each member of the circle steps to the center, folds a corner of the scarf/blanket, and performs some improvised repetitive motion in time to the rhythm that is imitated by the rest of the circle. The song was popularized in America in the early 1970s by the children’s music pioneer Ella Jenkins, but her version bears scant resemblance to Samamidon’s treacle-dipped affair. “Saro,” the other track posted here, is apparently an adaptation of a couple of old folksongs, “Pretty Saro” and “In Eighteen-Forty-Nine,” which tell the heartbreaking story of an immigrant’s longing for his lost love back home. Muhly’s horn, woodwind, and string arrangements on this one are just stunning. It’s a very moving record. You need to hear it. ‘Nuff said.

Samamidon – Little Johnny Brown
Samamidon – Saro

website | hype | buy from bedroom community

Well, that’s it. I’m through. No, no, don’t try to dissuade me. I understand your sorrow at this our first parting, but I’m a ramblin’ man, and Matthew and Kate keep insisting that it’s time for me to return the key and stop riffling through the drawers. Fine. I’ll be damned if I pay them for the water damage, though.  Oh, and Matthew?  I’d run the potato peeler through the dishwasher a few times before using it again.  You know the one I mean.  With the oversized handle?  It got, um, dirty.  Adieu.

I’m from New York originally.  Not the City.  The State.  I don’t live there anymore, but I grew up near the Catskill Mountains, which are a sort of junior varsity Adirondacks.  Very bucolic and of human scale, but rarely what you’d call majestic.  Anyway, when I was younger I wanted nothing to do with the place. Boring. Conservative. Cold as the grave in winter.  Profoundly Caucasian.  Now I’m thinking I might want to move back there someday.

The Felice Brothers come from the same place, more or less.  Three of them are in fact brothers surnamed Felice (Ian, Simone, and James), and they make glorious clattering music, bathe rarely, drink freely and by all accounts vomit copiously.  The bass player’s name is Christmas, like that badass from Faulkner’s Light in August.  They’re Italian kids from Palenville, New York, population approximately 1100, nestled in the Catskill foothills, 20 miles or so from Woodstock. But they made their name and honed their skills 100 miles to the south, busking on the New York City subway and cruising from gig to gig in their “short bus.”

When I listen to them, I am Home, whether I like it or not.  Sometimes I am swimming in a deep cold lake or driving at night on one of the pitch-dark backroads of Upstate New York.  All peaceful.  But then I blink and I can see the greasy-haired kids growing up in post-industrial towns, dirtbags with skinny arms protruding from sleeveless Iron Maiden tee-shirts, spray-painting Jim Morrison’s “poetry” on the walls of the National Guard Armory and drinking cheap whiskey mixed with Mountain Dew out of two-litre bottles.

People seem to compare The Felice Brothers to Dylan and The Band, and there’s certainly something to that.  Ian and Simone Felice sing with an honesty and fragility (and humor) that I can hear in Dylan and Danko and Helm, while the playing has a loose, ramshackle quality that wouldn’t sound out of place on The Basement Tapes.  I also hear echoes of Grant Lee Phillips at his very best, especially on “Murder by Mistletoe.”  Can you tell that I like this?  Actually, I fucking love it.  And I’m going to see them play on April 10.  I’m giddy.  They have a new, eponymous record out on Team Love Records and it’s just tremendous.  Buy it or I’ll sue you.

The Felice Brothers – Frankie’s Gun
The Felice Brothers – Murder by Mistletoe

website | hype | buy from team love

Well, so much for joy.  Now it’s time for doom and misery, Nick Cave style.  Murder by Death are a four-piece from Bloomington, Indiana, but this ain’t no little ditty ‘bout Jack & Diane, and it ain’t no Jacobs School of Music post-graduate seminar either.  No.   This is a 1972 Dodge Polara making for the Ohio Line at half-past the Apocalypse with a bloody duffel bag in the trunk.  This is the Soundtrack to a David Lynch sitcom about the kidnaping of Little Johnny Cougar, canceled after the pilot when viewers complained.  With a left-handed singer/guitarist, a drummer named Dagan Thogerson and a hot dame playing the Cello.  Oh, and a bass player called Matt. (Sorry Matt, I couldn’t think of anything snappy).

Baby,
It’s been so long,
That even the roses’ hips
Are turning me on.

Amen, brother.  Murder by Death have actually been around since 2000 or thereabouts, and they’ve always been about homicide and Old Testament vengeance, but their latest release on Vagrant Records, called “Red of Tooth and Claw,” is a leap forward sonically, and the songs are just top notch.  It was recorded at Dark Horse Studios in Nashville with Trina Shoemaker, who has worked in the past with such luminaries as Kristin Hersh, Whiskeytown, Emmylou Harris, Giant Sand and, erm, Sheryl Crow. . . Cough.  Anyhoo, Shoemaker’s steady hand at the boards has shown real results here, and singer/guitarist Adam Turla–who has some prodigious pipes by the way–describes the finished product as a “Homer’s Odyssey of revenge, only without the honorable character at the center.”  Aww.  Sweet.

Rock on, as it were.

Murder by Death – Comin’ Home
Murder by Death – Fuego

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Erm, hiya. C&B here. I’m one of Matthew’s multiple personalities, and he and the lovely Mrs. Toad have left me to guard the valuables while they traipse off on one of their debauched “swinger” weekends to some Sandals resort in the Caribbean, where they’re undoubtedly lounging half-naked by the floating bar and sipping flourescent blue cocktails as we speak. Bon voyage, you little dickenses!  If anyone believes that whole Homegame story, well, you have my pity.

Lest you suspect that the Toad has left the fox in charge of the henhouse, I can assure you that I am far too inept at matters technical to do any lasting damage to this budding media empire.  In fact, I myself am a grotesquely nerdy fan of Song, by Toad, and so it turns out that Matthew has unwittingly left the family jewels in trustworthy hands after all.  You know what I mean (filthy bastards).

Anyhow, I can say without a trace of irony that it’s all about joy hereabouts.  To me, anyway.  JOY!  If you’re like me then many of the songs you’ve heard on this blog will have left you exhilarated and puffed up about music, with the Broken Records’ performance on the first-ever Toad Session being just the most recent example.  And since this is ‘da house of mirt’, I want to say a few words about a Brooklyn band I’ve recently discovered called Salt & Samovar.  They have a newish self-produced record out aptly titled “Old Joy, New Joy,” and I suppose if pressed we could agree to call it a study in gospel-revival psych-garage honky-tonk swing.  Yes, that’ll do.  Lots of hand clapping, foot stomping, piano tinkling, lovely full-throated boy-girl vocal harmonies and even some face-melting axework from lead singer/guitarist D.S. Moltz.

But the extra ingredient is love.  Each copy of the record is handcrafted by the band and contains a 16-page “hymnal” containing sheet music and lyrics.  On album opener “Swallowed A Pill,” Moltz sings without inhibition of the melodies that ensnared him and that have inhabited his dreams from the cradle.

It’s A Sorrow To See
How It’s Entrapped Me
Such A Beautiful
Misery

Perhaps I’m a gross sentimentalist, but this inspires me.  I want to be IN this band.  Oh!  And for what it’s worth, my wife may be an even bigger fan than I.  So you see, Salt & Samovar literally brings families closer together.  Is there anything they can’t do?

O! Be joyful!

Salt & Samovar – Swallowed a Pill
Salt & Samovar – What Can You Expect

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