Yesterday, it was my brought to my attention that one Mr Donovan Woods, resident of Canada, excellent songwriter, had recorded a live version of ‘Put On, Cologne’ for Studio A Sessions. It’s a lovely performance. I’ve been listening to it all morning. After a sleepless night, the reasons for which I cannot fathom, this is a bandaid this morning…

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Donovan Woods :: Put On, Cologne [mp3]

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There are mountains in the Himalayas, too. I know they’re different from my mountains and peaks here in the Ozarks, but they are still just slabs of rock. They are composed of the same materials and they were forged the same way over millions of years, as the Earth grew up. In the Himalayas they have the same breezes as I, pushing hair off foreheads and perfecting already perfect hours in the sun. Exclusive of that, they are so very different and I know this, too. Their zephyrs send a small swash of cloth flittering in the air, a triangular bit that has been touched by a block of wood doused in ink, leaving traces of images that seek to call out compassion and strength and wisdom. My breezes send bath towels and long, flowing skirts temporarily adrift but nothing more.

Prayer flags, crafted earnestly and with a belief most of us will never understand or know, are left to weather the elements on peaks and branches, waiting for blessings to fade and thus, be set free into the ether to live with the multitude of other blessings so sincerely thought of. Up there in the air, they all merge together and become one big mass of hope, a perennial part of the universe ever-lasting, until the next crush of blessings are sought.

A prayer flag, not just the blessings of or on it, but the actual piece of light cloth you can hold in your hand, is replaced on those peaks and branches every year as it begins again. Those old wishes and sanguine expectations are let go as the humans making and hanging those prayer flags acknowledge that life moves on. What you wanted last year, you sometimes see, is not what you needed or what you want for yourself now. The act of adding crisp, vibrant new flags alongside those rows of faded and tattered ones accepts that and makes it all okay and reduces it simply to what it is: life, with all its ebbs and flows.

It is no surprise then, given the history and storied symbolism of these scraps of cloth, that Pickering Pick’s new album is called Prayer Flag. It’s just an album, yes, and one that looks the same as all those before it. Just as that speck is forever composed of the same colors and inks and is repeatedly hung in the same places, this is likewise. And on the other side, even though in looks they are near carbon copies, they are something different, both a prayer flag and an album. They look identical, just as before, at their core – pieces of woven cloth; pieces of shiny plastic – save a few different images, but it’s the combination of the two that makes them equals, despite the symbolism for either millions or just one.

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It does not bewilder me that the same singer/songwriter responsible for Prayer Flag is able to so nonchalantly call up the imagery of Keats ‘Ode To A Grecian Urn’ in everyday conversations and I’m sure that this same man sees the parallels in that, considering what he’s singing for us now. “There’s nothing better on the other side / And I’m gonna stay by yours, at least until it feels right,” is not all that different from Keats borderline mad mutterings of “More happy love! More happy, happy love!”. Now, I’m sure it’s known all over this planet that I’m no scholar and I cannot say for certain what emotions he had to both embrace and let go of to conjure up the words of these songs but I can say that Keats was writing a song for a beloved that he never could catch and Pickering Pick seems to be doing the same. The two fit so well together.

Just as Pickering Pick is so gifted at calling up old poets, he is also skilled in the harsh and fucking wonderful rock prose of one Lester Bangs, at the very least as he was in his fictional, Hollywood-shined version, but in real life Bangs was pretty much the same as that character so there’s nothing wrong there. Bangs once said, “Nothing ever quite dies, it just comes back in a different form,” and years later one Bruce Springsteen expressed the same sentiment in ‘Atlantic City’, singing, “Well now, everything dies baby, that’s a fact. But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.” The point is, this has all been said before. Keats lost and lamented it, Bangs warned us about it. And Springsteen knew of it too though his version of loss included a bit of harmonica. Pickering Pick has not written an album full of emotions no one has ever experienced but that’s the glory of it. It’s universal and it’s something that no matter how hard we work to avoid it, it befalls us all. “There’s a time for the truth and a time for just letting it go,” are words that you should carry with you, because sooner or later, no matter who’s singing them, they’re gonna be your salve.

Just like a prayer flag are these words of dead poets, greasy rock writers, New Jersey’s Boss, and one of folk loving America’s favorite British expats with a guitar and a microphone. They’ve all put those utterances down, their own personal prayers and hopes on paper, and they’ve given it to us that will listen. I’d like to think they’ve done so so that we, those of us out here, don’t feel so alone in our loss, whenever it comes. I’ve spun this album non-stop over a two week period and upon first listens, it was almost painful. But that eased over time and now it feels like it’s part of me, sung especially about my own life, and that’s what makes this album resplendent.

This is not apple-polishing. As a music lover and someone who takes very seriously my ability to turn you, dear readers, on to something you might not otherwise hear, I’m more ethical than that. It might be said that the subject matter within Prayer Flag, at least as I see it, has glorious timing in regards to my own life so perhaps I’m not the most objective of listeners these days. I suppose it could be said that I’m nothing more than one of the women The Beatles sang about in ‘She Came Through The Bathroom Window”, one that gives credence to a man just because he’s holding a guitar but I deny that. I appreciate, in the greatest sense of the word, that which ties us all together: love. It is because of that I can see the similarities of the Himalayas trees and my own, despite the different things that are hung in each. It is because of the universal experience of love that I appreciate and revel in this album, despite the meaning behind it and however far that truth may be from what I’ve assigned to it. It is because of love that I’m so happy to share this album with you, with Pickering Pick’s blessings, because I hope that you can find in it what I have.

One of these days I imagine that you too will try to ford the river. I suggest packing a bag for that journey. Include a book of Keats best, a prayer flag if you’re so inclined, and this album. It will help you get to that other side.

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Pickering Pick :: Stay By Yours [mp3]

Prayer Flag will be self-released February 28.

The Ozark Mountains, and all its rivers and streams, are beyond the ideal setting for music played in real time. In real life. 10 miles from  me one way there is a quaint little smattering of primitive cabins on the river. 10 miles the other way is the old, restored mill, with its own little happy gathering of dwellings.

It would seem to me that land such as this would breed such beautiful music but in terms of those making it around here, there are no terms. It’s not happening. The only strumming of a guitar the trees that quietly line the gravel road hear is that of Eric Church as an ol’ Chevy makes its way along the winding path, an occasional Natural Light thrown from the window. The flowers and birds of our woods never hear a banjo, as they damn well should. The hawthorn’s buds have never encountered a mandolin, as I believe they deserve.

What a glorious thing it would be to remedy that. How happy it would make me to gift the inanimate objects of the woods that surround us here with something as beautiful as the gifts they give to me on the days that I’m willing to take the time to see them.

I often imagine Pickering Pick on an old cabin porch. I dream about Shakey Graves sandwiched between two hundred year old oaks in a field. I pray for all 13 members of Typhoon on the side of a gravel road, serenading the unsuspecting passer-by as they hit a road cruise on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

If I were to curate a festival, up here in our woods, alongside a drearily moving river, my favorite place of all on Earth, these are some of those I’d invite. I’d pay them in exceeding gratitude, cheap American beer in cans, barbecue barbecued the best way (slowly, in case you’re wondering), and other morsels derived from the recipes of my mother and great-grandmother. I’d float them down the waterway in a canoe my father’s long-time employer made and show them the way to properly put a worm on a hook, if they aren’t already aware. I’d show them what’s left of the untouched country in America.

If I were to curate a festival up here in our woods and someone said, “Seriously dude, no Avetts or Bon Ivers. They are fucking expensive and Pitchfork likes them and we’re poor folk.”, these are the bands I’d invite…

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Trampled by Turtles :: New Orleans (HearYa Sessions) [mp3]

This is a given. If I’m being honest, I’d reserve the sweetest cabin for these men. Simonett and Co. would get the bestest canoe. They would be the headliners.

There’d be a set in the morning, as biscuits are fried over an open fire and we’d rejuvenate ourselves and the band with sun and river shell hunting all day, before we asked them to play again after the sun has descended and the mosquitos and they’re much more bearable cousins, the fireflies, venture out for the music with us.

PRE-ORDER Stars and Satellites :: WEBSITE

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Shakey Graves :: The Waters [mp3]

Basically, one of the few goals I have in relation to this here blog in this here year, is to get Shakey into this here county.

BANDCAMP

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Spirit Family Reunion :: On That Day [mp3]

While it would most certainly be a sacrilege of some type, I want to load this band in the back of an old beat up pick up truck and drive them to an unkempt cemeteries languishing in a far off field. We certainly have plenty of them here and if they were not to protest too much, I’d have them play this song for those people who would most appreciate — those who heard this kind of music way back when it was the best thing you could hear and when your grandpa was the fiddler in that band.

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Punch Brothers :: Rye Whiskey [mp3]

I suspect that we could, with are immeasurable alcohol procuring skills in this county, come up with a super special, limited edition blend of Punch Brothers Rye Whiskey. It would kick the ass of whatever Jim Beam is calling rye whiskey these days, guaranteed.

BUY Who’s Feeling Young Now? :: WEBSITE

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Pickering Pick :: Like A River [mp3]

Open Scene: Ext. Gently Flowing River Bank In The Middle Of Slow Moving Eddy – Day. Scene begins with footage of water and we get all hipster about that shit and fuck with the focus now and then, keeping it interesting. A canoe approaches. A cooler of cheap American beer is unloaded. Cut to multiple scenes of said beer being drank on said river bank, close up of a few laughing and/or smiling faces (my friends and family will play the extras in this movie, FYI). At some point Sam (not I; also hates green eggs and ham, I imagine) plays this jam. Everyone shuts up. Then we all laugh some more and float away. I’ve not figured out how we’re gonna get a goddamned guitar down the river in a canoe yet but I’ll get there.

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The Beaten Sea :: Serpent Song [mp3]

I suspect that The Beaten Sea would be the band to bring the class to this supposed, imaginary festival, what with their penchant for hats and suspenders. Which is good because with the amount of moonshine we’d drink at this shindig, we’re gonna need a bit of class.

BANDCAMP

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Ha Ha Tonka :: Usual Suspects [mp3]

Being that this band is from a city very close to us, one that I used to inhabit myself, and being that this band is named after a state park just a few minutes down the road from me, they’re in.Plus, we’re gonna need some indie rock up in this bitch.

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Harlowe and the Great North Woods :: Roses [mp3]

Amongst the piles of folk music I’ve listened to in the past two years, this band still holds a spot atop that stack. There is a place I envision, just down by the river and around the bend, and this band is resting on the rocks there, instruments in hand, playing this song.

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Chatham County Line :: Wildwood (Live at Daytrotter) [mp3]

I’m really only inviting this band because I want to convince them that they should be my neighbors. There’s a vacant house next door, I will wax on to them about the possibilities of squatting, and maybe they’ll pack a van and move here. And then I can wake up to bluegrass instead of an alarm clock. I think I can make it happen.

BUY Wildwood :: WEBSITE

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Typhoon :: Common Sentiment (Live at Daytrotter) [mp3]

If you’re not in the boat with Typhoon, you’re a slacker and you should really rent a canoe for yourself and catch up with us as we ’round this fast eddy. 13 members strong, perfection live. A set by this band in the woods would call out to the animals and in addition to the humans jamming out, the band would no doubt be playing for the squirrels and baby deer that would head out the woods to hear what was being putting down.

BANDCAMP :: WEBSITE

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Joe Purdy :: San Jose [mp3]

There is far too little talk of just how awesome Joe Purdy is on folk/indie blogs and there is far too little Joe Purdy on my g’damn mixtapes. We insert him into this festival and all is forgiven. I feel better about myself already. (As a sidenote, one year, not too long ago, I listened to this song EVERY F’ING DAY. Deal with that.)

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Whiskey Folk Ramblers :: The Penitent [mp3]

When the day winds down and the sun begins to set out over our hills, it’s ray sprinkling in still through the mess of trees outside our cabin’s doors, this band will play. They will provide the second wind, the one we blame the next day for our skinny dipping in the pool up the hill and our hangovers.

BUY Midnight Drifter :: WEBSITE

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Ozark Mountain Daredevils :: Chicken Train [mp3]

After a couple of days of music and camaraderie, with a smidge of debauchery tossed in for good country measure, we’d ask our hometown heroes to close out our time together. I’ve spoken at length before about what the Daredevils mean to me and what they mean to my family, but a highlight of my life would undoubtedly be this little band that was once famous among the likes of Dylan and Young to playing for just us. While this is clearly one of the craziest songs to venture forth from the 1970s and while there are better songs I could feature, nothing captures the Daredevils like ‘Chicken Train’.

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The beauty of these house shows is two-fold for those of us here in the Ozarks. Let me explain. On the one hand, I get the glorious task of introducing those here in my vicinity what exactly it is that I love about the music I endear myself to and that endears itself to me. The people here are quintissential working Americans — they wake early every day and they go to jobs. They raise families and they work to leave those people something when they are gone. They do not concern themselves with business that is not theirs and they have time for what is given to them on the radio and nearly nothing more. Because I love music as much as I do, I cannot put into words how glorious it is to bring it to their laps, knowing they’d never hear it otherwise. I cannot tell you of the benefits of that to my soul because it’s just too hard/awesome to put into words.

On the other hand, the beautiful part of this is that I get to introduce these bands from so far away what it is that draws me in and keeps me. The people here, they are such good folk. They suffer in the national spotlight from supposed stereotypes of the typical country American, uneducated and simple, when they are anything but. They are the salt of the Earth and while labeling them is certainly something I did before I learned to love this place and it’s people, I know now how wrong that is. I get to cover these bands in people who are the salt of the goddamn Earth.

I am a card that has two sides. I was made to live somewhere else, somewhere bigger I think, but I choose to stay here and marvel at the tenacity of these people because it inspires my awe. I get to show my people here the opposite side of my card they rarely see or know exists and I get to show these singers and music makers the opposite side of that card too, that part of me that instinctly trusts and is comfortable in this small country place.

Saintseneca is a band that I first stumbled on in late 2010 when I found their S/T 7″…somewhere. The exact location is lost to me now but at first listen the sounds of a built family within their music set me in love. This music is the kind that lends itself perfectly to these kinds of shows and so on 8 April of this year they’ll venture out into the Ozark woods and they’ll play for us all in the back yard. As before, we’ll feed them tasty morsels of barbecued meats and home-cooked baked beans. We’ll gather ’round them in Coleman chairs and people will listen intently to a band they never would have listened to if not for this show. We’ll pass around the whiskey bottle and make piles of spent aluminum beer cans off to the corner of the grass ‘stage’.

My heart will likely swell and burst. You should come. Come and watch. RSVP here.

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Saintseneca :: Acid Rain [mp3]

Saintseneca :: Wonderlust [mp3]

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Last night I wrote up over 600 words about the first listen in this house to this record. And then I slept, had heartbreaking dreams, and woke up realizing that anything I had said, no matter how perfect or poetic it might have been (it wasn’t) would not be good enough. I’m convinced ‘Stubborn Love’ infected my dreams and the powers that be in the universe, or at the very least The Music Gods, were telling me I was doing an injustice to such an album. Fuck those 600+ words. Just listen…

(In other news, as if I wasn’t excited enough to see this band at Wakarusa this year, I’m now convinced that the money I’ve already spent on that endeavor is going to be so worth it, without thought to any of the other bands I’ll be seeing. Also, music in 2012, thus far, is turning out to be so good and so fucking healing. I think this year will kick the ass of the last.)

Full Soundcloud Stream of The Lumineers S/T:: WEBSITE

{Update: The album is no longer available as a set of tracks via the label’s Soundcloud page, but as individual tracks. You can listen here.}

It was my wish to save this song for a massive mixtape I’m putting together. Said mixtape features nothing but bands that were born to play in our woods and Horse Feathers is one of those bands. But I just couldn’t wait. I do not have the testicular fortitude to deny ya’ll this glorious, perfect sound.

I’m of the opinion that perhaps Horse Feathers should re-christen themselves as the Folk Jam Miracle Machine, as somehow everything I hear them throwing down becomes my new favorite song the second the sound hits my eustachian tubes. I’m going to send a letter, via snail mail, and suggest this name change. I’m sure they’ll take my advice.

(I feel like I should write a whole mess of words about how this song perfectly explains my liberal leanings and the community in which I reside. It explains the need for my day job, feeding those that have a tough time feeding themselves. It’s a hard country we made, indeed. Every night we all go to a house we will never own.)

For the record, the new album is out April 17th. And the band is touring. Get on that, kids.

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Horse Feathers :: Fit Against The Country [mp3]

PRE-ORDER Cynic’s New Year :: SITE

It’s noon:28 here. It snowed and is snowing. There are inches of it on the ground, chasing away the birds that resided in the front yard trees just yesterday, and it’s continuing it’s assault, buckling down in the past couple hours with flakes the size of fists. Evil bastard winter fists.

I got an email from Dan this morning, Ye Dude of The Glorious, and all I can tell you is that the band is currently residing in Melbourne where I’m sure it’s not fucking snowing. I can tell you also that I’ve no idea why I like this so much, I cannot put my finger on it and I’ve been sitting here with a stolen Blue Moon (thanks for forgetting those, Smash!) pondering that very thing. I’d like to explain it and look like an all-knowing music blogger but I just like it and that is all. I think you might too…

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The Glorious :: Revival! [mp3]

Head over to the WEBSITE and grab their EP free. Cause these dudes are just nice. Then head to Soundcloud and listen to your heart’s content. Anything/everything from Sweetwater is worth your time. Annnnnd, go.

{I love you Shakey, but Coors? Seriously?!}

You should download this…and quick.

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DOWNLOAD The State of Texas vs. Alejandro Rose-Garcia EP :: BANDCAMP

Here is a recipe for you. Mix one part Alexander Ebert (of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros fame) with one part James Vincent McMorrow. Add a splash of cusses and a pinch of a rad drum beat. Mix well. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. The result is an utterly delicious Matt Corby pie. Eat up, fuckers.

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Matt Corby :: Brother [mp3]

BUY Into The Flame EP :: SITE

For the life of me I cannot remember how it came to be that I stumbled on this lovely if not oddly-named fellow, Olentangy John. Regardless — or irregardless, if you’re one of those idiot assholes that thinks that’s a word…or one of those people who just loves a good portmanteau — I’m pretty damned stoked about it.  Quite honestly, all I can tell you about this dude is that he found himself in the Appalachian foothills sometime in 2002. Obviously, the Appalachian foothills bit combined with some stellar banjo pickin’, means we love this shit.

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Olentangy John — Daniel [mp3]

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