Ani Difranco @ The Calvin Theater, November 15th, 2009

About half a dozen songs into Ani Difranco's recent Calvin Theater show, I had as emotional an experience as I've had at an Ani show for many years. The singer-songwriter-bandleader had already knocked my socks off by opening with "Anticipate" and following it up with "Swan Dive." And she made me want to revisit To The Teeth (1999) by following that with "Providence." And then there was one of her new ones, "Promiscuity." But the truest, realest, awesomest moment came next. After thanking her friend Animal for the inspiration, and with Todd Sickafoose playing a keyboard part, she began singing "She Says."

My reaction had less to do with the greatness of the song and more with my own personal history. I cannot really identify with what goes on in the song. But from the opening line, I was transported back to my lonely college dorm in the fall of 1995. The previous summer, my friends and I had seen Ani play the Newport Folk Festival, and it seemed that everyone I knew had to buy a copy of Not a Pretty Girl after that. Me, I was pretty uptight about saving my pennies at the time. But, a couple of months into college life, I shelled out the big bucks to buy the only Ani album I could find at the local CD store: Like I Said (1993). I listened to it constantly for the rest of the academic year. Hearing the opening to that tune, "She said forget what you have to do / pretend there is nothing outside this room" actually made my chest clench up a bit and brought tears to my eyes. When I was a college freshman, I didn't think nearly enough about the world outside my room, outside my own head, and I was a scared little pup.

So, this isn't about Ani's greatness. It's about the fact that I came of age with her, as I've written in previous entries.

The greatness was on display elsewhere, namely in the the depth of her catalog (which is, by now, astonishing, prompting her to say, early on, that she's had to learn new old songs, "to the keep the old new, as it were") and in her freakishly intense guitar playing and singing. But let's dwell for a moment on her back catalog, shall we? That's where "Swan Dive" and "Providence" and "She Said" came from, and it's also where "Garden of Simple" came from. Other old ones were "old" old ones: "Fuel" and, for the first encore, "Both Hands." She whipped the crowd into a frenzy toward the end with "Alla This" from Red Letter Year (2008), and she also did "Present/Infant," one of the best from that album. She played new songs, like "Promiscuity," "Albacore," a cute ode to anarchism, played on the ukulele, and, for the second encore, "If You're Not." She closed the regular set with her take on the old union song, "Which Side Are Your On." I winced a bit when she talked about, when she changed some of the words, she did so in the folk music tradition of "fucking with the past." That's not exactly what they do, Ani, although I know what you mean. Made me think about Patti Smith's declaration: "I don't fuck much with the past / but I fuck plenty with the future" or something like that.

Ani was charming, as usual. After the opening song, she said something that I've often thought: "Northhampton, Massachusetts--well, well, well!" with emphasis on the last "well." After "Albacore," she stared incredulously out into the crowd and repeated what a fan had just screamed: "You just got your swine flu vaccination?! Good for you! You clearly understood the subtext of that last song." And, after taking up the ukulele for a new song, said something like, "Well, "Dilate" would sound kinda funny on the uke, so...." She laughed, she stuttered, she semi-sermonized, she joked. That is, she was herself.

Oh, and she led a reformed band. Todd Sickafoose remains on bass, but Mike Dillon is gone, and the new drummer is a guy named Andy something-or-other. He's good. At first, I thought he was a real rock drummer, kinda like Allison Miller, but as the show wore on, I realized that he bears a stronger resemblance to Andy Stochansky, a drummer who *can* rock out, but is every bit as interested in swinging and adding quiet, subtle touches to the songs that require it. I had grown to really like the Dillon-Miller-Sickafoose band, but I sense that I'll grow to like this one even faster. His playing on the opener, "Anticipate," was especially great, starting off by slapping a wooden box positioned in front of the drum kit for a couple of verses before moving to the kit to hammer out the rest of the song. He made "Alla This" sound like the raging storm that it is. Verdict: this guy is good.

Kudos to Gabby Moreno for opening the concert with 30 minutes worth of music. She has a big strong voice, and the high point was a medley of Spanish-language songs. She is from Guatemala and speaks English with a slight but very charming accent. Her embarrassed stage patter was comparably charming, not cloying in the way that a lot of Difranco openers have been over the years. Thank goodness.

Chris Smither @ The Iron Horse, November 7th, 2009

As promised, I attended the Chris Smither show this past weekend. He was performing with the band that he recorded his latest album with: the guitarist "Goody" Goodrich and the drummer, Zak Trojano. I'm still not 100% sold on his non-solo performances. Something about the foot-tapping gets lost with a drummer accenting the beat. Nevertheless, I could hardly have been disappointed, and I wasn't.

I arrived at the Iron Horse at around 6:20, accompanied by the beautiful and talented Dani Carriveau, and we had a dinner of burgers and fries. The Iron Horse does fries pretty well, but I'll pass on the burgers from now on.

The opening act was a woman named Caroline Herring, who records for Signature Sounds. She performed a series of covers, including "Long Black Veil," "C C Rider," and Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors," along with an original song that, Dani and I agreed at the time, was the best thing she played. An enjoyable performance, if nothing special.

After a 20 minute break, the man himself came onstage. For the first time in all the Iron Horse shows I've seen, there was someone on stage to do the introduction: Jim Olsen, from Signature Sounds. He announced that this was now a hometown gig for Chris; he's moved to the Valley. What great news!

The show began the same way that his shows have been beginning for years now: "Open Up," from Leave the Light On. It's a song that hits the spot, every time I hear it. From there, he moved back in time a bit for "Link of Chain" and then to a more recent one, "Lola," which is a favorite. And from there, he took us through more than half of his new album, along with older tunes like "Drive You Home Again" and "Help Me Now" and stuff from his most recent couple of albums, including "Train Home," "Never Needed It More," "Origin of Species," and, to close his set, "Leave the Light On." He didn't do any of the Bob Dylan material that he's been fond of lately, but he did do Dave Carter's "Crocodile Man." I hope that, one day, he'll tap his back catalog of songs from the early 1970s. Every once in a while, he'll play the song that kept food on his table for years, "Love You Like a Man," but I crave "Homunculus," "Don't It Drag On," and "Every Mother's Son." Maybe next time.

The audience was consistently appreciative. Certain lines in songs yielded applause: "I'm not evil / I'm just bad," "If I drive you to distraction / I will drive you home again," and about half the verses of "Origin of Species" and of "Surprise, Surprise" from the new album, a song that looks like it'll be an audience favorite before long. Goody Goodrich's guitar accompaniment was simple and tasteful, and the audience let him know it. And Smither was a gracious host, telling variations on stories I'd heard him tell before--about how his mother disliked "Lola," about his wanting to write songs for and about his father, about his adopted daughter--and some new stories--about his wife wanting him to write a "bad boy" song for her, about the inspiration for a song from the new album ("Call Yourself" was a reaction to watching Sunday morning religiously themed self-help programs), and about the dilemmas of writing and performing topical material, like "Surprise, Surprise." Smither's speaking voice is warm and comforting, and I don't think he gets the credit he deserves for being able to match a warm, deep baritone with lyrics that are cold-eyed and shot through with experience. I've always loved hearing him perform "Drive You Home Again," a song that is, in a sense, about warmth without actually being warm. The same goes for one of his greatest covers, which he did not perform the other night: Rolly Salley's "Killing the Blues." Listen to a recording of either of them, and tell me if you know what I mean.

Much to my surprise, one of the high points was the encore. He did a song which I haven't heard him perform live in years, "Statesboro Blues," and he really used his voice on that one, roaring the words like he'd been made to do so. Beyond that, some of the new material sounded great, especially "Surprise, Surprise" and "Don't Call Me Stranger" and "I Don't Know." There really weren't any dull moments for me. Every time I see this guy, I am amazed anew, and I've seen him perform live maybe 10 times or so. He is one of the grandmasters, and I'm sure I'll return for more.

Dar Williams @ The Iron Horse, October 16th, 2009

After a brief, but rather disconcerting episode of "lost my keys," Annie and I left for the Iron Horse at around 6:00 last night, arriving to a packed house. As she and I discussed on the way there, we hadn't been listening to Dar much over the past few years. Me, I hadn't seen her since Falcon Ridge '08 and, the more I think about it, the more I realize that I associate Dar with outdoor performances. I'm not sure when the last time was that I saw Dar play indoors; maybe never. But she pops up at most of the folk festivals I've attended. It was a bit odd seeing her at the Iron Horse, cozy and warm though the environment is. I kept wanting to hear her make remarks about the mountains and how beautiful we all looked on our blankets.

Anyhow, Dar hit the stage at around quarter past 7:00, maybe a bit later, wandering through the room and up to the stage with her musical sidekick (whose name I forget), as the lights dimmed and a smattering of applause turned into a warm ovation. The memories that I just described overwhelmed me at that point and, I have to admit, I was only half paying attention during the first song. But then, after talking about her emotionally disturbed past, which coincided with her stay in Northampton, she played "Spring Street," and I found myself getting into things.

A Dar Williams performance feels like kicking back in someone's living room, listening to stories that, in a strange way, blend into the songs themselves. I associated her stage presence with her musical sound in a way that I don't with a lot of other performers. That is all for the best, since I don't know her songs all that well. That said, I recognized more of what I heard than I thought I would. I remembered hearing "The Buzzer" the last time I saw her; she described this song as an effort to write a commercial love song that took a left turn when she got distracted by thinking about the Milgram obedience experiments. She also played "The Easy Way" from her newest album, and she closed her set with "Midnight Radio," written by her old friend Stephen Trask (who co-wrote Hedwig and the Angry Inch). I actually loved that song: a simple, quiet, passionate expression of love for the women rockers of the radio who make you feel less alone. One of the more touching moments of the evening for me.

Dar told lots of stories, about life in NYC, about self-grown food, about her time in NoHo, about her newly adopted daughter, and about children in general (before playing "The One Who Knows," a lovely song about raising children and letting them go out into the world). In between stories, she played songs from every period of her career. No songs from Cry Cry Cry, which was too bad, but her performance of "If I Wrote You" hit the spot. And her accompanyist shone on "As Cool as I Am," playing the opening instrumental passage on the piano, leading into the opening verse, with Dar strumming gently at first before really leaning into the refrain; another great moment.

We were distracted a bit midway through the show, when I realized Annie was in a bit of pain. Turns out she'd leaned back a bit in her seat and touched an exposed pipe, burning herself. During "Calling the Moon," she had to get a glass of ice to apply to her burn. The waitress was horrified; so was the manager, who gave us a free dinner and offered a pair of free tickets for a subsequent show to Annie. I can't believe that the staff at the Iron Horse hadn't known or done anything about a dangerously exposed pipe, but that was their story.

For her encore, she played "The Babysitter's Here," a song that always seems to work when she performs it in concert. When I hear the recording of it, it's just a good song on a good album. Last night, when the narrator tries to understand, I teared up.

Erin McKeown plays the Iron Horse tonight, but I'm skipping out. Next weekend, I'll try to catch The Nields with Lucy Wainwright Roche. And, not long after that, Tracy Grammer is playing with Brooks Williams up in Shutesbury, a pairing that fills me with happiness at the thought of it. Speaking of filling up with happiness, that's what Chris Smither's newest album does. I can't believe I wrote an entire blog entry about Richard Shindell's and Jack Hardy's newest albums when the Smither album was sitting on my desk, unplayed. Like most of Smither's albums, it blows most everything else out of the water. I'm in the midst of writing about it, and it's been a pleasure to do so.

Smitherology as musical preference and life option

How do I love the new Chris Smither album? Let me count the ways. I love it for its songwriting, which has never been sharper, its vocals, which get blurrier and more textured as Smither gets older, its guitar playing, which means Smither plus David Goodrich on electric guitar, its Bob Dylan cover, "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry," and, never forget, the foot stomping. The sound of that foot stomping evokes...stolid fortitude, compassion, spiritual uplift, courage in the face of the void. And it fills out the man's overall sound in a miraculous way. Think about how Johnny Cash sounded with the Tennessee Two (and Three) backing him; that's what I think about when I think about what the foot-tapping does for Smither's sound. It is unutterably simple and, like the simplest of things, profound. Every shade of meaning of each song is somehow, miraculously, deepened by the sound engineer's simple act of putting a separate microphone at the man's feet. The man stomps on a piece of plywood that he carries with him on tour for just this purpose, not just keeping the beat but creating a groove. I once heard him say in an interview that he has had his shoes resoled multiple times to ensure that the tapping is completely toneless. The worst thing, he said, is when you can hear his feet play notes. And the best thing I've heard him say in concert is an instruction to the sound man: "could I have some more feet in the monitors, please?"

Chris Smither, in case you didn't know, is one of my absolute favorites. I get as much pleasure out of listening to his music as I do Neil Young, Mississippi John Hurt, Sue Foley, Marshall Crenshaw, Hot Tuna, and Jefferson Airplane. Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell and Ani Difranco. Not to mention Chopin's nocturnes and etudes, and the second movement of Beethoven's seventh symphony. Gershwin's Concerto in F. Smither will never have the popularity or fame of any of the aforementioned, but I rank him in the same league. Apart from his songs, which I am partial to, he has a distinctive sound, a sound that has changed as he has aged and, if anything, has improved over time. His voice is rich and full and, as he has grown older, it has gained resonance and beauty. He has what the greatest blues singers have had, what Dylan and Mitchell have grown into in their own ways: an undefinable, undeniable presence. You hear these musicians and it is very difficult not to listen.

At least, that's what I think.

His newest album is called Time Stands Still. As usual with him, there are a bunch of news songs and a few songs written by others; in this case, Bob Dylan, Mark Knopfler, and Frank Hutchison. The eight originals deal with his usual lyrical concerns--selfhood, freedom, love, life and death, the process of thought--but puts new twists on them--questions from his new adopted daughter, grief over his father's death, gratified realization of love's persistence. There's even a topical song, "Surprise, Surprise," about the financial crisis which, as you listen, you realize isn't really about the financial crisis at all. The arrangements are typically austere: a drummer who knows how to stay out of the way, and his producer, David "Goody" Goodrich, throwing in some distorted guitar to add menace and gloom. But when those two guys back off during Dylan's "It Takes a Lot to Laugh..." leaving the featured performer to lay in to the song, I get chills. I've listened to this album 3 times so far, and I'll be damned if it isn't this track that stops me short every time I've heard it. It has the feel of his performance of "Killing the Blues," somehow cold and warm at the same time, mysterious and grand. It feels nothing like Dylan's original.

There are careful, subtle musical flourishes throughout the album. Check out the unusally hot groove to "I Told You So," or Goodrich's guitar work on the opening track, "Don't Call Me Stranger."

I contemplated throwing out sample lyrics, but narrowing down favorites is difficult. Let's just say that no song on the album is "ordinary," though some are perhaps ordinary by Smither's standards; that is, the standards of greatness. And many of the songs echo others. "Don't Call Me Stranger," for example, reminds me of "Drive You Home Again," which opens the album of the same name. Similar lyrical idea, similar overall feel. The language is spare. Nothing feels forced. Smither's best songs always have the feeling of being fully formed on delivery, as if the songs had been waiting to be plucked from the air. It's an illusion, of course, but some songs sustain the illusion beyond my point of (dis)belief. Listen to "Slow Surprise" from Small Revelations or "Tell Me Why You Love Me" from Drive You Home Again or "Time Stands Still" from the new album, and maybe you'll see what I mean.

In the Smither cannon, the two greatest are from the late '90s: Small Revelations and Drive You Home Again. After those two, and the two live albums, Another Way to Find You and Live as I'll Ever Be, I'd say that this newest one ranks next. But you'd wouldn't be sorry if you shelled out the money for Leave the Light On or Train Home.

He's playing the Iron Horse next week, and I do believe I'll stop by. You should too.

Loudon Wainwright and Richard Thompson @ The Calvin Theater, Northhampton, MA, October 6th, 2009

I bought tickets for the "Loud and Rich" concert, as it was billed, at the good old Calvin Theater, not long after I heard about the show's existence. I have been a Loudon Wainwright III fan for an awfully long time now and, while I don't know Richard Thompson's music as well, I'm routinely impressed when I hear him. And they've played on each other's albums quite a bit over the years.

The initial plan was to go with my man Anthony. He couldn't make it. Matt Winters' man Sandro didn't return my e-mail. So, I invited a former student to accompany me.

Although their musical styles are a bit different--Thompson is more of a rock and roller and more of a guitar stylist, while LWiii cares more about mood and song form--I sense definite spiritual similarities. They both have a strong sense of fun and a love of life that comes out most clearly in their songs about death. I said "fun," not humor. The latter would be Loudon's area of expertise. The performance of one of his death songs, "Donations," elicited laughter from the audience Tuesday night, while Richard Thompson's "1952 Vincent Black Lighting" was one of the highlights of his set: fun without being at all funny. And the great thing about both of those songs is that they really aren't about death at all; they're about living well and being ready to meet one's maker.

Both of them also have woman problems. Not relationship problems; woman problems. I have heard people accuse both of these guys of being misogynistic, which I think is an overstatement. Their efforts at exploring their dysfunctional romantic lives are more engaging, thoughtful, and courageous than those of most of the younger singer-songwriters who fill their professional careers with such efforts. The liveliness of their songs, and the performances of those songs, doesn't suggest woman-hate to me, so much as confusion and desperation. I sense that their fans understand, at least subliminally, the tension between the skillfulness of these guys' arrangements (even on solo guitar), the cunning but emotive singing, and the songs themselves, whose lyrics are an often uncomfortable fit with the style of the playing. Sometimes, they don't get it at all: during Loudon's "Motel Blues," an audience member shouted "Roman Polanski!" audibly enough to be shushed by folks clear on the other side of the Calvin. On one new song, about how a poor housing market might yet save a marriage, there were titters of nervous amusement from the crowd. Loudon, whose inner life as revealed through song and performance seems a lot more interesting than Richard's, was conjuring up the tension that his best songs always do, between idealism and cold reality. And his performance, with all those facial ticks and leg lifts and tongue wagging, generates lots of different emotional effects: desperation, confusion, humor, sometimes all three simultaneously. Richard, meanwhile, appears to find his salvation through guitar solos. That's fine, too, especially when he goes through his lover's bureau drawers in "Cold Kisses."

I'll recap the show for the sake of readers interested in specifics. Loudon walked onto the stage at a few minutes past 8:00 and began with "Donations," from his fabulous 2001 album, Last Man On Earth, asking a friend if he or she would mind being the one to deal with his remains upon his death. Makes a generous offer too: "as for my corneas / I don't care who gets 'em / but all other organs and parts are for you." From there, he focused on newer material, both from his collection of Charlie Poole songs, High Wide and Handsome (2009), his rediscovery of his early catalogue, Recovery (2008), one song that he wrote for the play Lucky You, and some as yet unrecorded songs which he is calling "Songs for the New Depression." One of those new ones yielded one of the funniest moments of the night, "Paul Krugman Blues," while another yielded a particularly poignant moment, the aforementioned song about a couple possibly selling their house. And, much to my delight, he played two other songs from Last Man on Earth, "Surviving Twin" and "White Winos," both of which yielded great applause. From Recovery, there was "Motel Blues" and "Muse Blues" and "New Paint." And, in the middle of the set, Thompson came out to play on a couple of songs, including "Animal Song," which they recorded together for I'm Alright (1985).

Richard Thompson began with "Cooksferry Queen" and "Cold Kisses." I don't really know his songs as well as Loudon, so there were a few he played after that that I'd didn't recognize. In fact, my mind was actually starting to wander a bit, particularly during a modern sea shanty that he tried to get everyone to sing along with. But then, after explaining the idea of an LP to an audience old enough to enough, he infused the show with a jolt of energy that carried over to the end of the show. He nailed "I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight," which led into the quiet, lovely "Sunset Song" from Sweet Warrior (2007), and then into "1952 Vincent Black Lightning." He may have better songs, but the audience's cheer of recognition when Richard got that one going was priceless, the highlight of the night. And the man's roar when the angels in leather and chrome "come down from heaven to carry me home" I won't soon forget. As if that weren't enough, he followed up with one of best quieter songs, "Persuasion." Then came a song about some departed friends that I didn't know. Somewhere in there was a song about the worst tour he'd ever had, a song that I sense he hasn't recorded. He finished up with "Dad's Gonna Kill Me."

For the encore, Loud and Rich did one song each from each other's catalogue: "Down Where the Drunkard's Roll" and "Smokey Joe's Cafe."

Odds and ends

October looks to be a good month for concert attendance. First off, there's the "Loud n' Rich" shows at the Calvin on the 6th. Then, there's back to back shows on the 16th and 17th: first, Dar Williams; second, Erin McKeown. Finally, there's the Nields with Lucy Wainwright Roche on the 23rd. And there will be plenty more in November: Ani Difranco, Hot Tuna, Robert Cray, Chris Smither, and more.

I bought the new Chris Smither smither album as soon as it became available, a couple of weeks ago, but I've been holding off on listening to it. Trying to savor its existence a bit before plunging it. Robert Christgau gave it an "honorable mention" in his October Consumer Guide column...but I'm sure I'll rave about its awesomeness some other time.

I have, however, been listening to the new live Crooked Still album. It's great, the one that, from now on, I'll instinctively grab when I decide I want to hear some 'Still.

Getting Hardy on my Shindell

Over the past month or so, I have been trying to digest the most recent albums by Richard Shindell and Jack Hardy, entitled Not Far Now and Rye Grass, respectively (and NFN and RG hereafter). They didn't go down as easily as I thought that they would. Initially, the glossiness of NFN stuck in my craw as irritably as RG's rhythmic woodenness and occasionally overwrought verbiage did. But after multiple listens of several songs at a time and, over the past couple days, listening to each in its entirety, I think I'm ready to reflect more positively...much more positively in the case of Jack's newest.

Let's start with NFN. I haven't gone back to the recent Shindell albums in some time now so, in a way, I feel like more of a stranger to his music than I did, say, when his live album, Courier (2002), came out. NFN feels familiar, like I've heard it before, but that's because it doesn't sound too substantially different from Vuelta (2004) or Somewhere Near Patterson (2000) or Reunion Hill (1997). As with those albums, the sound is folk-rock, with an emphasis on the folk. No distorted guitar, nothing especially uptempo. The hooks lie in the melodies, sometimes in the refrains, and, on one song, "Gethsemane Goodbye," in both.

Thematically, nothing more holds this album together than anything on his previous albums. Over his past few albums, Shindell has specialized in open-ended character portraits and unusual and provocative settings. The opening song, "Parasol Ants" features "a well-known local hood," busted, lying flat on the ground, as a line of ants marches past. "Mariana's Table" is the subtlest song on the album, with "trucks hauling wheat grain" roaring through Buenos Aires, interrupting a quiet scene about a woman, Mariana, selling her empanadas and beer. There is the hint of conflict, of political frustration just beneath the surface. He reports on his website that "Get Up Clara" is about a mule, but when I first listened to it, it seemed to be addressed to the singer's lover. Silly me, I had thought that he was working the old blues tradition of referring to his lover as a beast of burden. Since he once laid down a great version of "Sitting on Top of the World," I didn't put it past him. Anyway, "Get Up Clara" and "Gethsemani Goodbye" and "Balloon Man" are the best tracks on the album, along with Dave Carter's "The Mountain." I would rank it slightly below recent efforts, but I imagine that the real Richard Shindell fans will eat it up. I'll stick with his live album and, maybe, Patterson, or maybe his album of covers, South of Delia (2007), when I need a Shindell fix. "I still maintain that he's a bum," who's at his best at his most objectionable ("Are You Happy Now?" which reminds me of Loudon Wainwright III) and his most mysterious ("Transit" which reminds me of Flannery O'Connor).

So, what does it all add up to? A skilled craftsman working his craft. Nothing more. As usual with Richard Shindell, his newest album offers solid songwriting, smooth singing, and glossy production and arrangements. I never really get the feeling that there is any larger message to this guy's music, and that's not a criticism. Or, at least, it wouldn't be if the songs featured anything particularly uplifting or life-affirming. But so much of this guy's music in full of the soft fatalism that so many singer-songwriters indulge in. It's especially clear on the couple of examples of lyrics that reach out a bit; there's simply no reflection in the music of the emotions suggested by the words. This proves Stephin Merritt's comment that there isn't enough information contained in songs to signal the meaning of a performance to a listener. Artists like Richard Shindell verify the truth of that claim. In "State of the Union," for example, there is a quiet anger in the lyrics that simply isn't reflected in the music or arrangements or singing. To me, that's a sign of someone so middle-class (not to mention resigned to the capitalist world order) that he doesn't even realize how weak his politics really seem. On one recent listening to NFN, I had hoped that the Lilliputian story of "Parasol Ants" might reveal a broader, more originally expressed political message hidden in the album. But I don't think so. Interesting to note that he recorded this thing in Buenos Aires at a place called Amalgamated Balladry.

Still, there is such a thing as craftsmanship, and Richard Shindell has got it. Listen to NFN if you want to hear well-constructed contemporary folk songs, marked by carefully controlled singing and staid arrangements. Since I have a taste for this sort of thing, I'm sure I'll return to it from time to time, despite my more intellectual misgivings.

Jack's RG also feels familiar. It feels like part two of a saga of country music albums begun with Bandolier (2002). The arrangements are similar: guitars, dobro, bass, fiddle, a little piano, no drums. And, like Bandolier, RG improves with repeat listenings. The melodies and words and arrangements blur comfortably within each other, and Jack's weathered voice is appropriately cradled by his harmony singers who, on this record, happen to be his daughters. Jack's technical vocal proficiency isn't at Richard Shindell's level, but he's got more soul and a better understanding of his gifts than I bet Richard will ever develop. Really, his voice hit me the first time I ever heard him, at the Postcrypt Coffeehouse in the spring of 2000.

RG is Jack Hardy's 19th or 20th album, and I think it's one of the better ones; in the top half, let's say. In its thematic coherence and suitably austere arrangements, it may even be top 5. As he's gotten older, that weathered voice of his has deepened, its cracks combining with the man's personal history--his brother was in one of the Twin Towers when it collapsed and, over 30 years before, he was deeply involved in radical politics on the University of Hartford campus--to evoke world-weariness and political despair. The album opens with the song that best evokes that meaning: "Soundtrack," which overviews recent political issues and events with various references to pop and folk songs of years past. The refrain features his daughters' harmonies: "bye bye American pie / bye bye Blackbird." Later on, there's "Ask Questions." And, in between and thereafter, there are a bunch of above average country songs.

But while Bandolier was little more than an album of country songs (and at least three great ones: "The Moon Is Full," "Autumn," and "Everything's Bigger in Texas"), on RG, there are darker things going on. There is a disillusionment that, like Ani Difranco's, is earned. RG may have some good country songs on it, but it is quietly and brilliantly an album about how and whether people will face down the evil in their midst. "Soundtrack" suggests that "There's still time to lock up your daughters," and its use of older folk and pop songs helps evoke an innocence that Jack surely knows didn't define the era that they're usually associated with. "Crime of the Century" squeezes in references to the touring life and illegal downloads, while quietly suggesting that the real crime is the political disengagement in that lifestyle: "You headed out to save the world / wound up drunk and chasing girls / buddy can you spare a dime / for the crime of the century?" The title track is quiet and hypnotic in its evocation of an American south terrorized by the Klan and argues that we don't "Ask Questions" enough about that facet of America's past. "Prisoner"'s "And there's no one to ask questions / and there's no one to reply / to ask why i was taken / on the fourth day of July" evokes the same themes. Meanwhile, "If I Were to Lay Me Down" and "Kansas" and "Now and Then" are stark and beautiful, with Jack sometimes using his higher vocal registers to evoke restlessness and discontent.

I don't usually think of Jack Hardy's albums as having thematic coherence, but RG does, and the more I've listened to it, the more I've come to admire it. And, while it isn't as listenable as some of his more recent stuff, it's also a bit more ambitious in its own subtle way. I like it more than Richard Shindell's NFN; the songs and the voice have more depth than most of the stuff on NFN, and the austere arrangements take on a haunting, mysterious quality that Shindell can only approach (and never really does on NFN).

Jack Hardy's stock-in-trade is songs. I find that his focus on songwriting sometimes results in unimpressive albums. As I've said to Matt Winters in the past, his albums can be hard to listen to, because the instrumentation becomes monotonous over a dozen songs. Occasionally, an arrangement will nail the song perfectly: the guitar parts on "Porto Limon" from 1984's The Cauldron and the title track of Through (1991), the male harmonies on the title track of White Shoes (1982), the Roches' harmonies on "The Tailor," from The Mirror of My Madness (1976), and the slow-but-solid beat and lead guitar lines on "Johnny's Gone" and haunting mandolin part on "111th Pennsylvane," both from Civil Wars (1994). At their best, his recordings are extraordinary: two of the highlights are "The Tinker's Coin" from Landmark (1982) and "Eclipse" from Omens (2000). His best albums combine great songwriting with consistently good melodies and arrangements--The Mirror of My Madness (1976), Landmark (1982), Civil Wars (1994), Omens (2000), and Noir (2007) are my top 5, in chronological order. This year's Rye Grass deserves mention as a great one too. It's the first album of his I've heard that I've enjoyed a lot, in spite of its all-too-consistent arrangements. Why? Because the music, the lyrics, the voice, and the thematic consistency add up to something; it's not just a collection of songs. Whether he meant to or not, Jack Hardy has made a serious album of folk and country songs about a decaying United States of America, about how hard it is to speak out against the injustices therein, and how necessary it is to do so.