Aural Fixations

RYAN ADAMS
Gold (Lost Highway)
JAY FARRAR
Sebastopol (Artemis)
CHRIS KNIGHT
A Pretty Good Guy (Dualtone)
Wags call it the great roots rock scare of the 90s. About midway through the last decade, it seems like every time you took a step you tripped over a band that fell under the nebulous term "Americana." Country music was suddenly cool again—as long as it wasn't the kind on country radio—and bluegrass, folk and blues became hip genres to draw from. Young musicians spun tales in interviews about how they grew up listening to as much Johnny Cash and Hank Williams as punk rock, and Gram Parsons' ghost was welcomed to rehearsal halls all over the country. Cult and regional favorites like Townes Van Zandt, Joe Ely and Steve Earle found themselves sited as seminal influences, while major labels scrambled to sign up examples of this new underground sensation. Nobody wanted to be caught with the proverbial slack around the ankles when this new, song-centered, unpolished music trend started selling millions of records.

Except it didn't work out that way. Alt.country or Americana or No Depression (named after the magazine that sprung up to chronicle the music's trials and tribulations) or the new roots rock or whatever it's called remains a largely underground phenomenon. A great number of the bands associated with the movement in the early 90s have either broken up (Blue Mountain, Whiskeytown, scene godheads Uncle Tupelo) or mutated into something less inhibited by style or fan expectations (Wilco, the Jayhawks). Arguably any major artist with ambitions beyond making pleasant but inconsequential records will evolve beyond the constraints of any genre classifications anyway, and the best of the Depressed ones are doing just that. At the same time, new faces have sprung up to champion the roots-oriented values outgrown by the originals. (The 90s originals, that is—the 80s roots rock scare is a whole 'nother story.) Going into the new millennium, alt.country remains at the cult level, where it's likely to remain. But that doesn't mean some fine music, equal to anything with a higher profile or even mainstream success, isn't still coming out of the fertile womb that is Americana.

As the leader of Whiskeytown, Ryan Adams was alt.country's dark-haired golden boy, a precocious, phenomenally talented musician who constantly wrestled with the conflict between artistic development and youthful indiscretion. It's an ongoing struggle that's resulted in an uneven career; fortunately, maturity seems to be winning out. Gold, his second solo album (following the low-key Heartbreaker), finds the North Carolina native operating near the peak of his powers, popping out good-to-great songs more consistently than ever before. It's an old-fashioned singer/songwriter record, abandoning stylistic restrictions and concentrating on good tunes. He pulls together pretty much every musical inclination he's ever leaned toward, from folky pop ("Answering Bell," "New York, New York") to loud rock ("Enemy Fire," "Nobody Girl," "Tina Toledo's Street Walkin' Blues"), lush song stylings ("SYLVIA PLATH," "Goodnight, Hollywood Blvd.") to his specialty, countrified ballads ("Harder Now That It's Over," "Wild Flowers," "When the Stars Go Blue"). Despite his seeming restlessness, he maintains a coherent tone throughout, due partly to his strong melodic sense and distinctive voice and partly to Ethan Johns' clean, uncluttered production. Not that the record is perfect; at 21 songs and an hour and a half of music spread over two disks, it's got at least a half dozen tracks too many. Trimming the lesser tunes (basically all of disk two) would've made for a stronger statement, but overall Gold hits far more often than he misses. With little fuss and plenty of heart, Ryan Adams finally proves himself worthy of his hype. (more)

Stagestruck

FREEDY JOHNSTON/ROSE POLENZANI
@Cactus Cafe, Austin, TX; October 27, 2001
Hoboken's Freedy Johnston has always been a rocker, the kind of performer who flourishes best with a tight, versatile band behind him, so it was a new experience to see him sans extra musicians. It seemed fresh to Johnston as well, as on his faster tunes he backed away from the mike, bobbing his head furiously in time to the drumbeat only he could hear. Despite having over a decade of experience and one of the most high quality singer/songwriter catalogs in contemporary music, he seemed apprehensive, as if he wasn't sure that the audience would warm to the bare-naked versions of his songs. He needn't have worried—the crowd was just glad to see him and happily accepted any song he chose to play. (more)