Dawes - All Your Favorite Bands

Dawes have always been primarily a live band. When I started getting into them back around the release of 2011's stellar Nothing is Wrong, I remember reading, on numerous occasions, something along the lines of "They're good on record, but they're GREAT live." Even the band has said that they much prefer the free-form improvisational feel of their live shows to the meticulous record, re-record, and overdub process of the recording studio.

For all of those reasons, the band's third album—2013's Stories Don't End—was both a surprise and an anomaly. After two records with a looser, more classic feel, Stories Don't End was very much a studio project. The songs were crisper and more concise, the melodies drifted in a more pop-focused direction, and the production got a little glossier. I personally thought the album was a triumph—the band's best, if I had to pick. At least until now. But the guys in Dawes didn't enjoy the recording process, and ultimately decided to go in the opposite direction on the follow-up.

There's a conflicting ideology out there when it comes to judging great live acts on record. Needless to say, no artist wants people to say that their albums "don't capture the electricity of their live show," but at some point, just about every great live act has faced this complaint, from Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band to U2 to Counting Crows to Matt Nathanson. I remember, back when I started listening to Matt Nathanson, the buzz was always that his concerts were very funny and musically involving, but his albums were mostly flat and lifeless. He beat that assessment by going poppier and more introspective on 2007's Some Mad Home, and Dawes did something similar with Stories Don't End. The album didn't exactly capture the feel of their live show; instead, it used the studio almost as an extra band member, to craft the songs into something leaner and more immediate.

That's one way to overcome the idea that your records aren't as good as your live shows: to make a record that doesn't sound anything like your live shows. The other way, of course, is to record an album like it’s a live show, capturing improvisation and mistakes, incorporating very few overdubs or edits, and just allowing the freewheeling imperfection of the performances to make the songs perfect. Which approach works better depends on the band and the preferences of the listener, but with All Your Favorite Bands, their fourth full-length album, Dawes have at least officially tried both.

Frontman Taylor Goldsmith—repeatedly cited as this generation's Jackson Browne—told Rolling Stone that All Your Favorite Bands is Dawes' "most live sounding and most true sounding" album. Unlike last time, he didn't plan any guitar solos before he played them. Instead, the band left entire sections of songs unwritten, open to improvisational flow. The result is an album with the unpredictable feel of a Dawes live show, the sprawl of Laurel Canyon, and the color of '70s Mellow Mafia folk-rock, from the Eagles to Crosby, Stills & Nash, all the way to Browne himself.

If this all sounds rather familiar for Dawes, that's because it is—at least in part. The band's first two albums, Nothing is Wrong and 2009's North Hills, were both classified very much as Laurel Canyon folk rock. Dawes expressed a desire to get away from that sound on Stories Don't End, and to stand more on their own rather than be defined by comparisons and parallels. That impulse led them to record a more modern-sounding folk record, but All Your Favorite Bands reverts to the band's wheelhouse by sounding anything but modern.

That's not to say that All Your Favorite Bands is a step back or even a retread. Instead, it's a return trip to the well that provided Nothing is Wrong, but one made by a band that has gained significant perspective, clout, and chops in the four years that have now passed since that record. Stories Don't End may have taught Dawes the kind of studio band they wanted to be (or, more accurately, didn't want to be), but they've also become a better band, period, over the past few years, and All Your Favorite Bands is the payoff.

If there's been a tighter full band record released in 2015, I certainly haven't heard it yet. The improvisation sections (like the towering Darkness on the Edge of Town-esque guitar solo on "I Can't Think About it Now," or the slow-burn jamming of 10-minute closer "Now That It's Too Late, Maria") are loose and thrilling without ever meandering—not an easy balance to strike, and one Dawes themselves struggled with on their debut. The entire record genuinely feels like a time warp, not just because it sounds classic—though it does—but also because these 48 minutes really seem to fly by. There's something so luxuriant about spending the better part of an hour listening to these guys jam. With enough improvisation to make the whole thing feel natural, the kind of pristine melodies and striking lyricism that reward repeat listens, and a larger helping of terrific guitar work than I've heard on a record in ages, All Your Favorite Bands is an easy album of the year contender.

The flip side of all of this is that someone could easily say this album runs together. The songs aren't as immediately distinct as a lot of the gems from Nothing is Wrong or Stories Don't End were; said another way, there's nothing here as instantly gratifying as "A Little Bit of Everything" or "Most People." But the album arguably works better as a cohesive whole because of how the songs flow and link into each other. Even the album's "catchiest songs"—the one-take first single "Things Happen," or the flickering sunset wash of "Don't Send Me Away,"—shine brightest as pieces of the whole. Where Stories Don't End really placed a lot of emphasis on Goldsmith's vocal melodies, this album is more focused on the vibes and grooves the band finds while playing together. You can't totally get an appreciation for that aspect of the music on first play, or without really focusing on the album all the way through.

Indeed, there are nuances and detail to All Your Favorite Bands that listeners will only ever discover if they invest some real time in the record. How Dawes build these songs, layering them as they go, is something truly stunning. This isn't a band that would ever loop instrumental parts for verses and choruses, and just leave it to the frontman to mix things up. Instead, every song on All Your Favorite Bands is dynamic, and paying close attention to how the instrumentation morphs and fills out over the course of different tunes is one of the biggest joys the album has to offer.

The best example of this, naturally, is "And Now It's Too Late, Maria," simply because it has nine minutes and 46 seconds to work with. The song begins almost whisper quiet, though all the band members are there from the start: Griffin Goldsmith with a halting drumbeat, Taylor with his guitar, Wylie Gelber providing wisps of bass work, and keyboardist Tay Straitharn coloring in the fringes with B3 organ. As the song evolves, though, everyone's contributions become flashier. Gelber's bass grows louder, funkier, and more confident; Straitharn layers surging organs with organic grand piano; Griffin's playing gets jazzier and more virtuosic; and Taylor switches from subtle Clapton guitar licks to not one, but two extended solo sections.

"Maria" is a master class in how to build a song, and one of the few situations I can think of, in all of music, where a 10-minute tune actually feels too short. On the other hand, the John Mayer-flavored "Somewhere Along the Way" makes arguably the album's biggest mistake by fading out early. The song kicks into a higher gear three-quarters in, with a stunning three-part vocal harmony break and yet another pristine guitar solo from Taylor. But just as the band starts jamming and getting into a groove, the song fades to black. It's a curious decision, and perhaps the only instance where All Your Favorite Bands doesn't fully deliver on its potential.

If a misplaced fade-out is your biggest problem, though, you've pretty much made a masterpiece, and All Your Favorite Bands could very feasibly be classified as such. From the timeless production (provided by David Rawlings, a guy who specializes in making records that sound like they came from the earth), to the way every band member remains completely present and pivotal for every second of every song, this album truly makes me proud to be a Dawes fan. Taylor Goldsmith's lyricism, also, has never been better, pairing images of intense loneliness ("The flicker of a candle looks like a one way conversation/Reacting to something that nobody else can see/While I sit at the table and I relive the whole situation/Until the valet who wants to go home comes in and gives me my keys") with poetry of wry acceptance ("To be completely honest, I think I know how it ends/The universe will keep on expanding while we discuss particulars of just being friends") for a unique and weirdly uplifting take on the break-up album trope.

Perhaps the most patently Dawes song on the album, though, is the title track, a rich bon-voyage of a piano ballad that no other band on the planet could have possibly written. "I hope that life without a chaperone is what you thought it be/I hope your brother's El Camino runs forever," Goldsmith sings on the chorus. "I hope the world sees the same person that you've always been to me/And may all your favorite bands stay together."

From the beginning, Dawes have always come across as a band full of music geeks. Their albums are special because they don't just reflect the musical abilities of four talented players, but also their infectious love for music. The first time I heard Nothing is Wrong, I could immediately picture these guys geeking out in a record store together, or getting drunk while taking turns picking out which pieces of vinyl to spin on the turntable. So when Goldsmith toasts someone and says "may all your favorite bands stay together," it's serious business. It doesn't matter if he's bidding farewell to an ex-girlfriend, or to a friend who is moving across the country. The effect of the statement is the same either way: a loving and genuine well-wish from one music obsessive to another, entirely devoid of bitterness, cynicism, or regret. It's the perfect encapsulation of who Dawes are as a band, and of how they probably view life in general: that no matter the heartbreak or circumstance, the world will keep spinning just as long as the music keeps playing.

The New Basement Tapes - Lost on the River

My love of Blood on the Tracks is well documented at this point, but there are definitely days when I think that The Basement Tapes might be my favorite Bob Dylan project. Recorded in 1967, but not released officially until 1975, The Basement Tapes brought two of the brightest musical talents of the time—Dylan and The Band—together for an invigorating set of songs. Some of the tunes they recorded (most of the ones that made it onto the original record) were Bob Dylan compositions, now-classics like “Going to Acapulco” and “You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere.” Some were traditional folk tunes. Others were covers of respected country artists like Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. And all of them had an infectious looseness that was and is incredibly rare to find on a studio album.

It’s not difficult to see why the original Basement Tapes were so loose, creative, and dynamic. There was no expectation among any session members that the tapes in question would ever be released. And so they all played with reckless abandon—no pressure, no reservations—and made one of the most incendiary records in history as a result. None of those songs had the lyrical depth or eloquence of Dylan’s finest work, nor were they as emotionally resonant as what he came up with on Blood on the Tracks. But because of the fertile and collaborative environment in which they were recorded, the songs from The Basement Tapes became classics anyway.

And that brings me to Lost on the River: The New Basement Tapes, a project assembled by legendary Americana producer T Bone Burnett to see if that old Big Pink basement had any more magic left to offer. The project was born when Dylan’s publisher contacted Burnett and asked him if he wanted to do anything with a box of unused, handwritten Bob Dylan lyrics that had recently been found. Burnett, a producer always looking for unique projects in the roots music sphere (acclaimed soundtracks for a pair of Coen Brothers films, for instance, or a music supervisor post for the television program Nashville), jumped at the chance and quickly assembled what is arguably the ultimate modern day folk super group.

Elvis Costello, Jim James (of My Morning Jacket), Marcus Mumford (of Mumford & Sons), Rhiannon Giddens, and Taylor Goldsmith (of Dawes): these are the talented musicians, singers, and songwriters tasked with turning Dylan’s outtake lyrics into fully formed songs that honor the tradition of the original Basement Tapes. Each member chose different texts and set them to music individually, choosing the words that moved them, and bringing the contributions to the recording process. Because of this process—of starting separate and then coming together—each song on this record has the distinct flavor of the person who sings lead. However, because the lyrics were all penned by Dylan, and because the songs were all arranged, fleshed out, and recorded by the full group, Lost on the River ends up feeling a good deal more cohesive than you might expect an album with five lead vocalists to sound.

Probably the most refreshing aspect of this record is that no one ever shoots for straight imitation. The New Basement Tapes may be writing songs based around Dylan’s words, and they may be paying tribute to the freewheeling nature of the original Basement Tapes, but it is testament to the talent of these five individuals that Lost on the River never sounds like an attempt to approximate Dylan’s sound. Jim James gets the closest, with numbers like “Down at the Bottom,” “Nothing to It,” and “Hidee Hidee Ho #11,” hitting upon a vintage sound not far off what Dylan and the Band cultivated all those years ago. James even sounds like he’s doing a bit of a Dylan vocal impression during the latter of those three tunes, but he’s a talented enough musician and songwriter to make his songs sound fresh. “Down at the Bottom” is particularly splendid, alternating between moody atmosphere and rousing momentum for the perfect album starter.

If James gets the closest to Dylan’s sound, Goldsmith probably strays the furthest away. A sweet-voiced folkie who has always been compared to Jackson Browne, Goldsmith is tasked here with writing the collection’s most luxuriant songs. His contributions—“Liberty Street,” “Florida Key,” “Card Shark,” and “Diamond Ring”—rely heavily on piano and acoustic guitar, with Goldsmith’s voice providing a lullaby-soft wistfulness to the dusky arrangements. The songs are pretty, particularly “Florida Key” and “Diamond Ring,” and they allow Dylan’s lyrics to breathe in a way they don’t always do on James' or Costello’s more raucous numbers, or Mumford’s more pop-centric ones. When Goldsmith sings “If I ever get back to St. Louis again, there’s gonna be some changes made” at the beginning of “Ring,” it’s the perfect delivery, landing somewhere between the scathing, whip-smart fashion in which Dylan would have sung it, and the more measured insights that Goldsmith imparts on his own records with Dawes.

The problem is, the Goldsmith songs that made the record don’t take advantage of the frontman’s true talents. The best Dawes songs are big, almost church-bound slowburns like “Something in Common” and “A Little Bit of Everything,” songs that build from slow, modest beginnings into cathartic climaxes. Here, Goldsmith’s songs are pleasant little ditties, but they are admittedly lightweight compared to what everyone else is doing. (As stupid as the descriptor is, it’s telling that Pitchfork called his contributions “adult contemporary.”) Whether Goldsmith got pushed to the side because of the presence of bigger names, or simply didn’t bring his best material to these sessions, the fact is that he’s ultimately the only one of the five songwriters who doesn’t deliver an essential highlight.

Costello is probably the group’s key member, providing two of the three best songs here. His “Lost on the River #12” is particularly stunning, playing like something that could have come off this year’s fantastic War on Drugs album, Lost in the Dream. “Six Months in Kansas City,” meanwhile, is the perfect penultimate moment for this record, a wild runaway train of a track that gets each member of the band bellowing at the top of their lungs during the chorus. It’s the most spontaneous moment on the album, and one of the few spots where this album absolutely taps into the unpredictable atmosphere of the original Basement Tapes.

Marcus Mumford also earns his paycheck, penning the record’s most instantly infectious numbers. The complaint most often tossed off about Mumford & Sons is that they write songs that all sound similar, and that their lyrics are poor. Both problems are solved here, where Mumford either writes typical Mumford & Sons melodies, but gets to use them on top of great lyrics (“Kansas City,” featuring an electric guitar shredding cameo from actor Johnny Depp) or co-writes with other members to come up with songs that sound different than anything he’s ever done (the Goldsmith co-written “When I Get My Hands on You”). In both cases, his songs are terrific.

As for Giddens, she’s fairly easily the weakest link, delivering boilerplate Americana that you could hear at virtually any folk festival (“Duncan and Jimmy”) or slowing the first side of the record to a crawl with “Spanish Mary,” a song which wouldn’t have been too out of place amidst a few of the overlong clunkers on Dylan’s own Tempest. She also contributes the worst song on the album, a second version of “Hidee Hidee Ho” that boasts an awkward rhythmic setting of Dylan’s words, not to mention some remarkably flat vocals from Giddens herself. It’s the only number on the record that sounds amateurish, and it should have been cut. Still, even if Giddens is a weak link, she justifies her presence with “Lost on the River #20,” a haunting Appalachian folk arrangement of the same text that Elvis Costello already turned into a winner. In fact, her take on the text might be the best song on the record.

Some will undoubtedly trivialize the New Basement Tapes as a novelty project. Indeed, the whole idea behind the project is high-concept, to the point where many listeners and critics probably won’t be able to get past the Dylan thing to appreciate these songs as standalones. The thing is, though, these songs are great. While the record’s bloat does kind of compromise its overall consistency and cohesion, Lost on the River probably still has more of the year’s best songs in one place than almost any other album. It doesn’t quite match the fun or looseness of the original Basement Tapes, but it’s still both a worthwhile tribute to that album, and an impressive showcase of everyone involved.

Dawes - Stories Don't End

Dawes - Stories Don't End

HUB Records, 2013
9.0/10

A few years ago, when the sounds of Dawes’ sophomore record Nothing is Wrong first reached my ears, it was like a blast from the past. Equal ingredients ’70s Laurel Canyon folk-rock (Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, etc.) and ‘90s roots/alt-country (Whiskeytown, Counting Crows, The Wallflowers), the music this L.A.-based quartet was cultivating hit almost every one of my sonic sweet spots. Somewhere between the soaring, sun-kissed guitar solos, the B3-organ swells, the rich vocal harmonies, and the thoughtful lyricism, there was a band that absolutely could have been a legendary, multi-platinum act three decades earlier, but one that was probably never going to take the radio waves by storm in the here and now. Apparently the band sensed that feeling too: no longer content with simply being really good folk-rock revivalists, Dawes have evolved on their new album—titled Stories Don’t End—to a point where it feels like anything is possible for their future endeavors.

From the moment Stories Don’t End bursts open, with a lush vocal crescendo at the top of “Just Beneath the Surface,” it’s clear that these guys are a different band than they were a few years ago. Once regarded as a terrific live outfit that could never quite capture the electric charge of their performances on record, Dawes have clearly learned to use the studio to their advantage this time around. Credit producer Jacquire King, who covers these 12 tunes in a warmer and more consistent layer of studio sheen than we’ve seen on past albums. With his strong and assured presence behind the boards, the band seems to open up a bit more here, lending album highlights like “Just Beneath the Surface” and “From the Right Angle” a grandiose, arena-ready sensibility, or turning the piano-led first single “From a Window Seat” into a disorienting pop-rock trip. When a frantic guitar solo kicks through the wall on the latter, we know we’re in good hands.

If the opening of the record is strong though, it’s the mid-section where these guys really hit their stride. The chiming guitar chords that open “Most People” herald one of the best and most majestic songs frontman Taylor Goldsmith has ever written. The song builds effortlessly, carried along by an infectious refrain and one of Goldsmith’s finest vocal performances to date. And when the band dials it back down for the outro—a call and response fugue between Taylor and his brother Griffin (the band’s drummer)—you’ll have trouble doing anything but hit “Replay.” The powerful, cathartic build of “Something Common” is even better, beginning on a subtle, restrained note (“All my mornings start with the alarm clock/Every dream gets stopped before the end,” Goldsmith sings at the outset), and building to a shout-it-to-the-rafters conclusion that ranks among the best musical moments I’ve heard all year. “‘Cause all the love and friends and happiness that ever came my way/Revealed themselves the moment I stopped watching,” rolls the final chorus, exploding from the speakers like a pure and fierce confession of the heart. “‘Cause it’s not faith that comes from miracles, but miracles that come from faith/And I’m sure that they’ve got something in common.” Perfect.

The above is just one lyrical gem in a song rife with them, from a band with a better way with words than most working today. Sure, that song is also graced by a gorgeous bed of instrumentation, from cinematic piano chords to emotive electric guitar lines, but it only reaches the next level when you sit back and let the poetic beauty of the words course through you. And that’s the case with the rest of this record as well, from the Springsteenian characters of “Bear Witness” (the granddaughter who's still working at the movies, letting all her boyfriends in for free), to the haunting cliffhanger of “Stories Don’t End” (“They go on and on, just someone stops listening...”), and certainly to the glorious, travel-worn troubadour tribute that is “From the Right Angle” (“I need a cold beer from a dressing room, I need a string of dates back out/I think there are a few of us that still belong out on the road”). If you’ve been looking for a collection of songs to soundtrack the upcoming summer months, songs that could ring from the stage of an evening music festival as fireworks explode in the sky, or songs that could ring through your car as you cruise down a sunburned highway, look no further.

Throughout its 12 tracks, Stories Don’t End strikes a perfect balance between lyrical ingenuity and musical accessibility, between classic rock throwback and modern musical relevance, between instrumental virtuosity and full-bodied, beating-heart passion. Goldsmith’s songs are catchy and comfortable, but they’re never easy. You can imagine something like “From a Window Seat” or “Just Beneath the Surface” making minor waves on college radio—probably more than anything off previous albums—but it’s only with time and intimate attention to the lyrical and musical details that the layers of these songs begin to peel away. I could easily (and happily) waste an evening digging through these songs, obsessing over cryptic lines from Goldsmith and trying to decipher precisely what they mean, or marveling at vintage-sounding musical passages and playing classic albums alongside them in a quest to figure out the band's every influence. Hell, even the numbers that feel more “minor,” like the raucous cover of Blake Mills’ “Hey Lover,” or the rollicking, bass-driven country of “Someone Will,” suggest that spending an afternoon with these guys and their record collections would be any music fan’s dream come true.

But ultimately what matters most is that there are no weak moments here: the songs are great, the album sequencing and pacing is faultless, and the band has never sounded better. And while elements of the ‘70s Laurel Canyon scene are still evident here, they’re surrounded by so many other nuances of folk and rock music’s back pages that they no longer feel like the obvious focus. Stories Don’t End, as a result,is neither a throwback album nor an entirely modern one. It is, quite simply, a Dawes album. It’s the sound of a young band coming into their own unique musical niche and making the record they’ve been reaching for since they first hit the scene in 2009. And if there’s any justice, the record it will be a sounding board for a long and storied career: from all indications, it seems like this band has what it takes to be one of the greats.

Counting Crows - Underwater Sunshine

Counting Crows - Underwater Sunshine

Collective Sounds, 2012

Four stars

I always enjoy when an artist reinvents another performer's song, either in live performance or as a b-side, bonus track, or soundtrack contribution, but really, do full-length cover records ever work? Whether it's a question of poor song selections, the artist not making the song their own, the artist doing TOO much to make the song their own, or just the fact that there are some songs out there that simply should not be re-done, cover albums are the single trend in the musical world that have pretty much universally disappointed me. All that said, if I had to pick a single band that I thought could perfect the art of the cover album, '90s alt-rock veterans Counting Crows would certainly be high on the list of nominees. Frontman Adam Duritz has always exuded a geek-level obsession and respect for music of all genres, and has been toying with the idea of making an album of covers for at least a decade now. The result, Underwater Sunshine (Or What We Did On Our Summer Vacation) is not only my favorite covers collection of all time, but one of the finest records of the year, and, though not quite among the band's best work, a more than welcome addition to their legacy

Duritz and company have had an interesting history, from the days of their (utterly fantastic) debut, August and Everything After, which spawned the single "Mr. Jones" and rocketed them to superstardom, to their rebellion against fame on the follow-up, 1996's Recovering the Satellites, to their renowned and emotional live show, where the band tends to re-invent their own songs with astounding regularity. They were also probably my first "favorite band," and their records, when I re-discovered them about eight summers ago, launched me into a musical obsession that I've carried around with me and nurtured ever since. But the last decade was not the best time for the Crows, seeing only two releases from them (2002's gloriously poppy Hard Candy and 2008's lukewarm, split-personality LP Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings), and Duritz's increasingly difficult struggles with a dissociative disorder that left him feeling alone and depressed after nearly every show the band played. Since the Crows wrapped up their last tour in 2010, Duritz has even gone on record saying that he may never write another song. Naturally, it was the perfect time for the band to attempt the covers album idea that they'd been tossing around for so long, and Underwater Sunshine was born.

One of the most fascinating things about this record is how unfamiliar most of these songs really are. There's a cover of "You Ain't Going Nowhere," written by The Byrds and popularized by Bob Dylan, who has been one of the band's biggest idols all along, but beyond that, most of these songs are gems that many listeners will never have heard before, and that gives the band a liberating freedom to make them completely their own. Of course, they do just that: from my first listen, whether I was listening to Duritz belt out the line, "throw your arms around my neck," from opener "Untitled (Love Song)" or the nostalgic B3-organ flourishes on Dawes' "All My Failures," this collection sounded like it could have been written by the Crows themselves, circa 1998. A lot of these songs have been making appearances in live sets for years now (like the incredibly loose take on Gram Parsons' "Return of the Grievous Angel," which kicks the album into its final leg, or the gorgeous alt-country sweep of "Four White Stallions" that follows), or have even been recorded as b-sides in the past (I stumbled upon a studio version of "Start Again," with the same sunny harmonies and keyboard licks, almost a decade ago). Across the board, these songs have a live and organic feel to them, and that atmosphere, combined with the Crows' customary layer of studio sheen, makes for a magnetic and involving listen.

But even for a die-hard Counting Crows fan such as myself, there are plenty of musical discoveries to be made here and plenty of nuances to explore. Undoubtedly, the band plays mostly in the comfort zone, picking songs that work very well within their wheelhouse, and taking few actual "risks," but I actually think that's a good thing for a covers record. That the band never resorts to gimmicky song choices or to the kind of ironic pop-music covers that have become customary in the Youtube and American Idol age, is testament to their love for music and their respect for the artists that have chosen to cover here. And it doesn't matter whether they're paying tribute to more established acts, like Dylan or Big Star, or tackling artists who fall into the realm of the obscure (like Coby Brown on the tumultuous "Hospital," or Kasey Anderson & The Honkies on the entrancing "Like Teenage Gravity," which is arguably the album's biggest triumph), because no matter what song they're performing, they do so with incredible musical skill, innate emotional connection, and palpable energy that begs to be witnessed in live format. It's not just that there isn't a bad song on "Underwater Sunshine," it's that the band makes each of them sound like an instant classic of their own devising, sequencing them into an album of perfect length, flow, and personal impact, and transforming them into a something that fits perfectly into their own body of work; clearly, Adam Duritz has made more than a few mixtapes in his time, but this is one that deserves to be played on repeat…well, at least until he decides to write another album.

A Little Bit of Everything

Ryan Adams and Dawes (among others)
Live at the Ann Arbor Folk Festival
Hill Auditorium
Ann Arbor MI, 1/27/12

Back at the end of 2009, one of my favorite blogs (here) named Ryan Adams as the artist of the decade. My vote for that title, quite obviously, would have gone to Butch Walker, who put out half a dozen of my favorite albums and became a world class producer in that time, but looking back, it's hard not to think of Adams as the definitive musical force of the '00s. His eclectic and prolific solo career began after his old band Whiskeytown, the poster-boys of the 90s Americana movement, broke apart in 2000. His first record, a sparse acoustic set of break up songs called Heartbreaker, released later that year, beginning what would be a ridiculously busy ten years, consisting of ten officially released studio records spanning numerous genres, sonic palettes and topics; meanwhile, at least as many unreleased projects made their way onto the internet and into the hands of fans everywhere. So many things about the decade in music were reflected in Adams as a figure: his struggles with his record label, his prolific, overarching musical ideas, his tendency towards excess, and his choice to embrace the growing internet music phenomenon, among others; a lot of Adams' music sees him looking back, channeling influences or directly referencing them, but at the same time, he's remarkably current: a troubadour for a new age.

I can't recall exactly when I became a Ryan Adams fan (though I would trace my earliest interest back to his haunting cover of Noel Gallagher's Oasis tune, "Wonderwall," which released as part of the Love is Hell album back in 2003. It wasn't until 2009 that I tackled the rest of his vast, challenging catalog (including unreleased works like The Suicide Handbook and 48 Hours, which sit amongst his best material). Adams very quickly rose to prominence on my Last.fm top played artists chart, not only due to the quantity of the material, but also to the quality: there is a Ryan Adams record for every mood, and when I wasn't in the mood for the upbeat acoustics and the collision of influences on Gold (still my favorite record of his), chances were that the icy piano ballads on Love is Hell or the masterful alt-country, roots rock of Jacksonville City Nights were likely to hit the mark. Then last year's Ashes & Fire, Ryan's first true solo album in years and the first since the dissolution of the Cardinals, who served as his backing band for years, made it onto my list of favorite albums at the end of the year. And last Friday, I added Adams to another list: that of the artists I've seen live.

Ryan Adams served as the headliner for the first night of the Ann Arbor folk festival, which also included acts such as Carbon Leaf, Elephant Revival, Devotchka and Dawes, another band who appeared on my end of the year list for 2011. The show, which kicked off at 6:30 p.m. at the University of Michigan Hill Auditorium, was emceed to great effect by comedian Heywood Banks, who brought a welcome sense of levity and glee to the proceedings with his jokes and his comedic singalong routine. Unfortunately, the evening's seven acts was at times dull and exhausting, and had me counting the minutes until Banks would return and speed things up a bit. Blues-folk singer/songwriter Sunny War, who took the stage first, was the epitome of this, and boring songs and a lack of stage presence made War's five song set feel much longer than it was. David Wax Museum also fit into this category, with a lead singer who shouted his way through the band's entire set of Mexican-influenced folk music.

Elephant Revival and Carbon Leaf were two of the brighter spots in the show's first act: the former filled the Auditorium with their rich, unique sound, their orchestral instrumentation and haunting lead vocals (courtesy of Bonnie Paine, who also played the band's percussion on a washboard) making use of the venue's stellar acoustics. The latter gathered around a single microphone and performed a set of Celtic infused folk, with their gorgeous vocal harmonies becoming a high water mark for the night up to that point. Both are bands that I'm interested in exploring further.

Dawes shook the place awake with the most exciting, involved set of the night. Though their five song set was far too short, the band made perfect use of every one of their 30+ minutes onstage, making me understand perfectly what I've been reading about them since the first time I heard their albums: that they're great on record, but even better live. Opener "Fire Away" was a perfect example of this, and the song thrived in new ways in its live format. Frontman Taylor Goldsmith delivered a rousing guitar solo that, in one fell swoop, made me wish the band were co-headlining the show. "That Western Skyline," the opener from the band's 2009 debut North Hills made me resolve to give that record more listening time, and the set's brevity didn't stop the band from playing my two favorite songs in the form of the bookends from last year's Nothing is Wrong. The first, "Time Spent in Los Angeles," was hampered somewhat by feedback issues and disproportionately heavy bass, but still proved to be every bit as electric as it is on record, and the second, the lyrically stunning "A Little Bit of Everything" saw the band turn the venue into a ringing cathedral for five minutes. The fifth and final part of the set, "When the Time Comes," was the perfect finale to the show's first act, with its anthemic, singalong chorus and Goldsmith's pristine vocals sending the band off on a high note.

For reasons unknown to me, Devotchka (another Mexican folk band), were given near co-headliner status, and played for almost double the time of Dawes. While the band's level of musicianship was obviously high, it seemed to me that their melody challenged songs and meandering arrangements would have been better suited for serving as the score to some indie-comedy (which they have, in 2006's Little Miss Sunshine) than they did as the backbone to a compelling live set (which they didn't). The fact that they were allowed to play for the better part of an hour while their more talented (and more musically varied) predecessors were relegated to extremely brief sets was something I found quite upsetting, and was a big strike against the Folk Festival's structure for me. Luckily, Heywood Banks returned to the stage just as my irritation was reaching a fever pitch, and his stand-up comic routine made the minutes fly by as Ryan Adams set up for his set.

Adams arrived onstage shortly before 10:30 p.m., picked up his acoustic guitar, sat down and began to play. As Adams played his first song ("My Sweet Carolina," a highlight from his first record), the capacity crowd of the 3,500+ people fell to complete silence and it was magical. Over the next hour, Adams morphed the regal Hill Auditorium into an intimate, coffee-house setting, playing 13 songs with nothing but acoustic guitar, harmonica and piano, and without the assistance of a single other musician. The Ashes & Fire material (the title track, "Dirty Rain" and "Lucky Now" all made welcome appearances in the set-list) thrived in the sparse acoustic setting, and it struck me how, perhaps more than any other artist I've seen, Adams' voice sounds as good live as it does on record. Adams dug deeply into the Heartbreaker album, which became the most well represented of his records in the 13 song set, and the album's songs were obviously very at home in such an intimate setting. "Carolina" seemed like an especially appropriate opening to his set, as Emmylou Harris (Saturday Night's folk fest headliner), lends backing vocals to the studio version. "Be My Winding Wheel" was every bit as good, and Heartbreaker's closer, the gorgeously restrained "Sweet Lil Gal" gave Adams his first trip to the piano in a moment as breathtaking as any that played out on the stage all night.

As far as songs go, none were more welcome for me than the inclusions from Gold: a slowed down performance of "Firecracker" reminded me why I love the song so much, and a piano take on that record's opener, "New York, New York," which became somewhat of an anthem following the September 11th attacks, struck a more mournful, emotional chord than its album counterpart. Adams was clearly aware of the set's slow tempo, and made several sarcastic, self-deprecating remarks concerning it, from "and here's another ballad" to "man, we gotta slow things down here." At the end of such a long night of music, Adams' low key set could have come across as a bit anti-climactic for some, but I've always loved seeing artists strip their songs down to their bare essentials, and the intimacy of the show had an electricity about it that was palpable even from the back row of the second balcony. 

"Come Pick Me Up," Adams' signature song and the most memorable cut from Heartbreaker, served as a fitting, if somewhat sudden, conclusion to a stellar set, with the profane lyrics, piercing harmonica, and heartache drenched subject matter bringing full circle what was, in effect, a condensed retrospective of Adams' solo acoustic material. Though the set-list was obviously trimmed considerably from what he's been playing on other tour dates, it was still a joy to hear some of his best songs come alive in such a venue. It would have been easy for Adams to come out with the full band, rock the house for an hour, and leave the audience with the loudest, most raucous, most climactic set of the night, but the fact that he was able to command the audience in the way he did with such sparse, acoustic material was the mark of a true veteran. From the moment he walked onstage on Friday night, Adams had the audience in the palm of his hand, to the point where you could have heard a pin drop, and that proved very quickly that, even after six other acts, he was simply in another class.


Setlists

Dawes
1) Fire Away
2) That Western Skyline
3) Time Spent in Los Angeles
4) A Little Bit of Everything
5) When My Time Comes

Ryan Adams
1) My Sweet Carolina
2) Ashes & Fire
3) Dirty Rain
4) Be My Winding Wheel
5) Sweet 'lil Gal
6) Everybody Knows
7) Firecracker
8) Please Do Not Let Me Go
9) Lucky Now
10) Let it Ride
11) Two
12) New York, New York (Piano)
13) Come Pick Me Up