One of country music’s most endearing traits is its ability to feel historical without the artist necessarily having a vast history of their own. At the height of its prowess is a knack for being able to bring to mind Dixie (real or imaginary), old loves (real or imaginary), old time bands in Mississippi bars and old time good-times in 1940’s cars, real or imaginary. Good country music sounds so familiar and honest that it becomes instantaneously relatable and memorable, as though you’ve heard it a thousand times through on the first go round.
Laura Cantrell has been around for a few years now, setting up shop in New York City while not falling prey to any sort of Alt-Country or Alt-Folk or New-Country or any of the generic names attributed to the myriad of mini-movements within the world of popular music. Cantrell’s music is country. It is not country in any sort of guise or adulterated by other genres, like the Old 97’s or Wilco or Hank Williams III; it is country, with prominence given to song craft and the magic of musicians playing music together. With an acoustic guitar, a piano and a drumkit shaping the songs and violins and harmonies on the outskirts of the room, jumping on stage once in a while to liven things up, Cantrell’s sound is unique right now in its lack of too-cool-for-school swagger or any sense of ironic ‘I’m playing country music but I’m way cooler than country music’ flair.
What’s disappointing about her third LP, ‘Humming by the Flowered Vine,’ is that the songs retain the feel of the old, great country sound (Cline, Williams, miscellaneous bands in Podunk taverns) but the air is a bit too still in the room: she’s playing songs we’ve heard before without giving them new life or reinvigorating the classic, traditional, historical sound of country.
‘Letters,’ the album’s best song, is an old Lucinda Williams song, and is the archetype for perhaps what ‘Humming’ could be but is not: the lyrics are mysterious without being too vague or silly, the chorus hook is dead-on attractive and the band is allowed to play. The drums move, the piano pounds, the lightly-distorted electric guitar breathes over the whole thing like it knows what’s going on, and the vocal is sexy and honest with a melody that breaks hearts.
Unfortunately, ‘Humming by the Flowered Vine’ doesn’t offer up much else to remember it by. ‘Wishful Thinking’ features the slide-like lead play of an electric guitar and Dixie violin with a classic country melody and exciting harmonies on the chorus; ‘California Rose’ offers up a bit of Latin guitar and the same aforementioned sweetly sung harmonies. As a whole, however, the album exhibits little to keep the ear from wandering around and wondering where else to find this sound sounding a bit more excited, a bit more weary and ragged and anxious to tell the tale. Songs like ‘Khaki & Corduroy’ and ‘And Still’ feel like the initial attempts of a novice songwriter at the first open mic, not the work of an accomplished and lauded songstress; their melodies are derived more from a need to sing something over the laconic piano and guitar parts than from any real necessity to impart a mood or share the excitement of musical creativity. They are more songs written than songs created.
‘Humming by the Flowered Vine’ flashes briefly with a pretty violin here or well executed harmony there, but we are given only glimpses of glory, which is utterly surprising and disheartening for the artist whose first LP John Peel credited as maybe his ‘favorite of all time.’ The album seems more a collection of odds and ends hurriedly assembled than a group of songs cared for and patiently perfected, as though Cantrell were more interested in putting out another record than in putting out another Good record. Perhaps its greatest failure is that when it is effecting (‘Letters,’ ‘Wishful Thinking,’ and closer ‘Old Downtown,’ with its almost trippy rock ‘n roll feel) ‘Humming’ can give the impression of the old-ones, the worshipped ones, but when it is not effecting it’s just some band in some Inn, drinking beers and going through the motions, G-chord after G-chord. |