A warm pool of knowledge bubbles on the top of a mountain unbeknowst to mortal man. There, Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan and Neil Diamond await their counterparts. They wait while building lyrical bonfires and melodic tents. The hard ground and bitter cold are no match for these men of musical prowess.
Somewhere along the trail, Eric Bachmann toils in his quest. His spirits low, he marvels at his own tenacity. Having been climbing for over a decade, with different merry men in Crooked Fingers and Archers of Loaf, he is alone and pondering his fate. He sits on the mountainside. He eats jerky he made from a wounded beast he encountered along the way. His morale low, he wields his salvation: an acoustic guitar.
This is how I imagine this album coming about. Eric Bachmann has honed his craft for a number of years, and this progression into a solo album is not only natural, but expected. Simple, stripped down and haunted by every man's lost loves; Bachmann's presence rescinds his full past and embraces a new warmer (albeit lonelier) future. This is not to say that this album is a man alone with his guitar for an hour. Like his Nebraska roots would demand, Bachmann intersperses violins, harmonicas and pianos when necessary. Still, he makes sure his lyrics and messages are the most important part of the effect.
The effect, in part, is not a grandiose journey or majestic hike up a mountain. Instead, it is a stark and realistic album that mixes his undeniably derivative folk past with the egregiously beautiful and hopeful future. He may never crest the mountain, but we know he's there. This, if nothing else, is comforting. After this much time, quitting would be a travesty-- sinful even. |