RIYL: Grateful Dead, Veviter, Conor Oberst

Kevin Barker’s tenure as a sideman for the likes of Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom, Vashti Bunyan, Vetiver, and Espers appears to have prepped him well. On this, his first outing as a front man, Barker meshes the rustic perspective garnered from his well-heeled resume with an off-handed saunter that often recalls Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead in limber jam band mode.

Produced by Thom Monahan (Vetiver, Gary Louris), You And Me, assembles an all-star cast of nu-folk veterans, including Newsom, Pat Sansone (Wilco), Jonathan Wilson (Elvis Costello, Jenny Lewis), Eric Johnson (Shins, Fruit Bats), and Otto Hauser (Vetiver, Espers). The proceedings convene with Barker’s down-home intents on full view, the emphatic pluck and stomp of “Little Picture of You,” the low-lit gaze of “You & Me” and the modest shuffle of “Mountain & Bear” signaling Banhart’s intent to veer towards backwoods realms. Factor in the quiet saunter of “Amber” and the folk-infused delivery of “My Lady” and it becomes clear that Barker embodies both a wayfaring minstrel taken with traditional musings and a knowing musician whose work is underscored by an alternative inclination. (Gnomon Song 2009)

Kevin Barker MySpace page

RIYL: Emmylou Harris, Linda Rondstadt, Tift Merritt

Weaving her way through the series of hard-luck stories that illuminate Crows – her much-anticipated follow-up to last year’s critically acclaimed Mockingbird – Allison Moorer cries foul on any number of subjects, among them broken hearts, leaving lovers and all manner of ills in general. Apparently life for Mrs. Steve Earle is no bed of roses, and with song titles like “Just Another Fool,” “The Broken Girl,” “Should I Be Concerned,” “When You Wake Up Feeling Bad” and “Sorrow (Don’t Come Around),” it’s clear she has numerous thoughts that need venting.

Then again, Moorer’s music rarely dwells on optimism. Over the course of her eight albums, Moorer’s reflected a worrisome perspective, belabored by ongoing remorse, disappointment and despair, as well as an ache and a yearning that often keeps her focus somewhat removed. Crows essentially offers more of the same, from the troubled rumblings of “Abalone Sky” and the plaintive repose of “Easy in the Summertime” to the acrimonious dismissal of “Sorrow (Don’t Come Around)” and the scorching break-up ballad “Still This Side of Gone.” The mournful sentiments create an air of unrelenting sadness, yet one that still allows the beautiful melodies to shine through. Suffice it to say, those who were smitten by Mockingbird will find Crows a similar bird of a feather. (Ryko 2010)

Allison Moorer MySpace page

RIYL: Jenny Lewis, Cocteau Twins, Patty Larkin

After nearly a decade attempting to make their name among L.A.’s alternative elite, the Watson Twins scored their big breakthrough when they were chosen by Rilo Kiley’s Jenny Lewis to share the billing on her first solo outing, Rabbit Fur Coat, in 2006. Since then, they’ve been able to carry the marquee rights on their own, earning themselves a deal with the venerable Vanguard label, which released last year’s major label debut, Fire Songs and subsequently, an even better sophomore set.

Despite their down-home Appalachian upbringing, the sisters lean less on heartland sentiments and more on urban rock sensibilities, a modernist approach that places the emphasis on propulsive rhythms and eclectic arrangements to bolster their dreamy harmonies. In the course of these dozen tracks, the Watsons’ vary their vocals between the languid and the assertive, with melodies that veer from ethereal hymns to those that sound positively chipper by comparison. So while songs like “Forever Me,” “Snow Canyons” and “Give Me a Chance” tend to cast the album in a meditative haze, the pronounced stomp of “Savin’ You” and “U-N-Me” bolster the bottom line and add the emphasis that’s needed. (Vanguard 2010)

The Watson Twins MySpace page

RIYL: India.Arie, Des’ree, Roberta Flack

Corinne Bailey Rae’s self-titled debut was a Starbucks hit, selling nearly two million copies on the strength of the immediate chord it struck with fans of vaguely jazzy, vaguely folky pop singers like Norah Jones. It also took its share of lumps for being yet another in the chain of politely soulful albums that have flooded the marketplace over the last five years or so; though it showed flashes of real talent, VH1-ready singles like “Put Your Records On” put Rae across as pleasant at best.

Well, whatever else you might be able to say about it, Rae’s sophomore effort, The Sea, isn’t pleasant – like the body of water it’s named after, this is a collection of songs that might sometimes seem placid on the surface, but which boast unfathomable, often stormy depths. It’s an album steeped in grief, shadowed by death, and wrapped in yards of delicate, folk-and-jazz-tinged arrangements. Even on the album’s more up-tempo tracks, such as “Paper Dolls,” there’s an overwhelming sense of something – probably Rae – about to break. Even if you just play The Sea in the background, you’ll catch hints of its disquieting vibe.

All for good reason, of course – as you may recall, Rae’s husband died unexpectedly in 2008, and many of these songs find her coping – seemingly quite directly – with her loss. It’s always a mistake to treat albums like these as the artists’ personal diaries, but when the first track is titled “Are You Here” and features lines like “Are you here? Because my heart recalls that it all feels the same”…well, you get the idea.

So yes, The Sea is a rather dark and stormy record, but it’s never maudlin; partly on account of Rae’s vocals, which are lighter than air at their heaviest, the music’s grief never threatens to overwhelm the songs. That being said, a little overwhelming might not be such a bad thing – Rae’s aesthetic is one of slight shifts and slighter melodies, and if you’ve previously dismissed her work, it’s hard to hear much here that’ll change your mind. Perhaps more importantly, if you loved Corinne Bailey Rae, this album’s darker tone might be off-putting. Rae deserves applause for pouring so much of herself into these songs; still, even after you’ve plumbed its depths, it’s hard not to wish The Sea’s surfaces weren’t so calm. (Capitol Records 2010)

Corinne Bailey Rae MySpace page

RIYL: Radiohead, Jose Gonzalez, Sneaker Pimps

Zero 7 is a project more than a band – so while Zero 7 tours as a group and has actual band members, it’s still technically the brainchild of British producers Sam Hardaker and Henry Binns. And some of those “band members” are rotated out every album or so. Once you get a grasp on that, it doesn’t take much effort to like what Zero 7 is doing. And on their fourth album, Yeah Ghost, there is still the same electronica-driven pop, but with a few added dimensions this time around. In particular, singers Eska and Martha Tilston are new to the project, rounding out a lineup that includes a few regulars like Eddie Stevens, Tom Skinner and Robin Mullarkey. After a subtle opening instrumental, “Count Me Out,” there are some bouncy dance tracks, with Eska’s power-meets-soul vocal at the forefront of awesome tracks like “Medicine Man” and “Mr. McGee.” “Pop Art Blue” features Tilston’s folky timbre and there are some fine, if quirky, instrumentals, like the haunting “Solastalgia.” But the best track on here is “Swing,” an uber-catchy ditty that still has the Zero 7 “chill” trademark – and a song that immediately has the feel of an iPod commercial. This may not be the best Zero 7 album yet, but it’s not a huge regression, either. (Atlantic 2009)

Zero 7 MySpace Page

RIYL: Townes Van Zandt, Guy Clark, Robert Earl Keen

In a world where multi-tasking has become the norm, credit Lyle Lovett with stirring up his musical mantra and effortlessly veering from genre to genre while avoiding the stigma of being typecast by any one style in particular. Once categorized solely as a country singer due to his heart-worn sensibilities, Lovett’s allowed big band, pop, gospel and blues to find equal fits in his repertoire, to the point where his current live shows and recent spate of LPs make equal allowance for all.

Natural Forces proves no exception, but while the big band and western swing elements secure their place in the mix (especially as illuminated by the two disparate versions of the saucy put-down titled “Pantry”), resilient ballads and aching laments dominate the proceedings with a focus on tender emotions. Opening the album with the rugged title track, Lovett conveys a weary cowboy narrative with a humbled but determined point of view. The traditional country hoedown “Farmer Brown/Chicken Reel,” the rollickingly autobiographical “It’s Rock and Roll,” and a vampish “Bohemia” provide his customary levity, yet the clouds part only momentarily. “Bayou Song,” “Don’t You Feel It Too” and “Sun and Moon and Stars” find Lovett crooning from a wounded perspective, one that pleas for redemption and perseverance. “The blues just keep coming and drying out your eyes / And don’t you think I feel it too,” he moans, making the hurt seem almost palpable.

Ably assisted by his usual cast of veteran collaborators – drummer Russ Kunkel, guitarist Dean Parks, fiddle player Stuart Duncan, and pianist Matt Rollings, among them – Lovett offers up another example of why he remains among the most knowing contemporary crossover artists of our generation. Flawlessly instinctive, Lovett steers Natural Forces as effortlessly as the title implies. (Lost Highway 2009)

Lyle Lovett MySpace page

RIYL: Neil Young, Greg Laswell, Hem

It’s fitting that this modest film based on the life of one of America’s most iconic authors would garner a soundtrack composed and performed by two of today’s most compelling alternative musicians, Jay Farrar and Benjamin Gibbard. Jack Kerouac, of course, helped define the underground subculture of the late ‘50s and early ‘60s with his novel “On the Road,” influencing a generation of displaced and rebellious individuals who dared defy the norms of a placid society. While they may not be quite so influential, Farrar and Gibbard’s efforts with Son Volt and Death Cab for Cutie, respectively, have nevertheless had a lingering impact on other artists who have ventured away from the tried and true and immersed themselves in similarly adventurous realms.

Arousing both literary and musical interests, One Fast Move or I’m Gone: Kerouac’s Big Sur documents its subject’s subsequent retreat from a culture he helped create, a period when he hid himself away at poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s cabin in Big Sur in an attempt to cope with his doubts and depression. Using Kerouac’s own words, interspersed with commentary from surviving contemporaries and such avowed devotees as Patti Smith, Tom Waits and Robert Hunter, the film explores his shattered psyche and sad circumstance that led to the author’s eventual downward spiral.

In that context, Farrar and Gibbard weave a lilting musical tapestry, one that emphasizes low-lit harmonies, a predominance of acoustic guitars, gentle melodies and a sweep of pedal steel. The 12 songs create a weary ambiance that fits the film’s somber pastiche; fitting midway between the somber sensitivities that characterize Farrar’s usual demeanor and the more effusive sounds that characterize Gibbard’s Death Cab duties, songs such as “California Zephyr,” “Low Life Kingdom” and “These Roads Don’t Move” give the soundtrack an amiable sway and an unobtrusive appeal. Kerouac may furnish the narrative, but Farrar and Gibbard help manipulate the mood while providing the score with its easy appeal.

After one look and a single listen, Gone is not easily forgotten.

One Fast Move webpage

RIYL: Steve Earle, Rodney Crowell, Ryan Adams

No doubt about it – Revival is quite an apt title for this latest effort from Texas-bred singer/songwriter Radney Foster. Formerly half of the country pop duo Foster and Lloyd, he’s come a long way towards establishing an Americana brand since initially venturing out on his own in the early ’90s. That said, Revival finds him significantly raising the bar and setting a new standard as far as his own output is concerned. An uplifting, soul-defining statement of unadulterated affirmation, both the messages and melodies linger long after the final notes fade away. The songs soar like expansive anthems, and on tracks such as “A Little Revival,” “Forgiveness” and “Shed a Little Light” those stirring sentiments evoke a spiritual ferocity and unbounded optimism in a manner that’s genuinely affecting. “I Made Peace with God” and “Suitcase” are especially revealing, each a testament to a new-found faith that Foster invokes without hesitation.

Still, it would be misleading to dismiss him solely as a would-be Bible thumper; the rowdy and rollicking “Until It’s Gone” and the carefree abandon of “Trouble Tonight” show Foster still solidly ensconced in secular realms. Newcomers ought to consider this an excellent place to begin, while Foster fans will find this his most indelible effort yet. Clearly, this Revival rates a solid hallelujah and an unqualified amen. (Devil’s River Records 2009)

Radney Foster MySpace page

The Echo Falls is a lesson in simplicity – the debut album from this San Francisco based trio features three guys (including front man and songwriter Alex Mandel) who will remind you of both ‘70s pop (think Loggins & Messina or Seals & Crofts) and current lo-fi hipsters (think Death Cab for Cutie). Delivering songs using only an acoustic guitar, upright bass and sparse drums and percussion will do that, but the tracks themselves have an endearing vibe that is a refreshing counterpoint to what passes for adult album alternative these days. Mandel waffles between tenor and falsetto and does it with ease, and the songs range from the triumphant kickoff “Road to Parnassus” to the (you have to hear this to believe it) They Might Be Giants-meets-Suzanne Vega quirky vibe of “Watchtower.” There’s other elements at work here too; breezy college rock (“Every Second Thought” and “You Have it All”) and ‘70s folk (“Fall Asleep in the Sand”). But the best track of all is “Love Over Time,” which could be the best guitar song Ben Folds never wrote. There’s enough to please many folks on this debut – it’s not like you can vary things a whole lot with sparse production, but the Echo Falls do a pretty decent job of it. (The Echo Falls 2009)

The Echo Falls MySpace Page

RIYL: Avett Brothers, Daniel Johnston, They Might Be Giants

When you’re setting yourself up for failure by dubbing your first effort the Worst Debut Album Ever, suffice it to say you’re putting the bar so low that any redeeming quality whatsoever makes it seem as if you’ve succeeded. Then again, considering Henry Dillard’s self-deprecating sense of humor, any pronouncement to that effect is relative anyway. On the surface of it, Without a Face, Dillard’s nom de plume, purveys a slacker mentality, all strumming guitars, unruly ranting and a decidedly irreverent and irrepressible attitude. However, there’s something to be said for the entertainment derived from raucous revelations about substance abuse (“Druggie Love”), obsession with an older woman (“31”) and an ode to the dangers of dairy products (“Lactose Intolerance”). And with a goofy hillbilly phone chat (“Worst Intermission Ever”) tossed in for good measure, it seems that Dillard’s guile resides in his ability to play the fool and make the lowest common denominator appear a form of high art. Okay, so Worst Debut Album Ever may not aspire to be anything more than what its name implies, but its unabashed honesty conveys a charm all its own. (Redbird Records)

Without a Face MySpace page