Reviews

Opener “Turdle” proves as much. “I’m a son of a bitch/For breakin’ your heart/But I had an itch/For a brand new start,” the chorus asserts in humble-yet-confident fashion. When recited over the same gritty bubblegum that originated somewhere between Gainesville and Tallahassee, it’s not only believable, it’s sympathetic. Even if this guy did mess stuff up with his romantic interest, a song like this suggests he more than deserves another shot. Rarely do you find such a winning combination of sincerity and affability in local music.

It keeps going with “Middle Class Man.” Announcing itself with a dirty group vocal, an acoustic guitar and finger snaps, it ultimately settles into the band’s trademark uptempo groove before developing into a blue collar composition. As a whole, it embodies Hucklebuck’s aesthetic better than anything else the band offers: quirky, modest and fun. And even if you find the structure a little too obvious, check the chorus, where the call-and-response vocals grant the band a compelling dynamic it should use more often than it does.

Equally as compelling is how tenacious these guys are when it comes to sticking to what they know best. “Workin’” feels so simple, yet so profound with its rundown of a working-class man’s everyday life. “If I had 10 cents for every time I took off a day, I’d be minus a dime” is a pretty great line, yet what makes it even more memorable are the vague backing harmonies that give the production warmth. The way they tell it, there isn’t a single person in all of Western Maryland that can’t relate with at least a line or two from this song and that’s a laudable feat to achieve. Not only do they achieve it, but they make it look easy.

Actually, they probably make it look too easy. If there’s a fatal flaw surrounding these 12 songs it’s that … well … there’s 12 of them. While these guys have mastered what they do, what they do doesn’t necessarily lend itself to long-form listening. After a while, the tracks here begin to run into each other and the formula becomes tired. What made Petty, clearly their biggest influence, legendary, was his ability to change things up. “Breakdown” was groovy; “American Girl” was college rock.

Unfortunately, nothing here distinguishes itself in such ways. “Fayngr” uses the same country licks that “Have Another Round” features while “Red Alert” and “Union Boys” not only swing similarly, but they also ease into themselves with an anticipated acoustic guitar pattern. This isn’t to say that a full-length would be a bad idea for Hucklebuck; it’s just to say that if they want to go that route, they should consider some versatility moving forward. The 4/4 time signatures and the clean electric boogie guitars can only take you so far.

But then you hear the sentimentality of “The Losers” and you realize all is not lost. Sounding not unlike something that could have been on most Hootie & The Blowfish records, it’s a fine showcase for how imperative vocal harmonies are to this band’s equation. The sound is Wilburys-esque and that’s not a statement to be taken lightly. Plus, “Quarter To May” has enough rock in it to make anything that came out of Seattle in the mid 1990s proud. These guys can play in the intersection between grunge and indie rock well enough to do it more frequently than they try to do it currently.

And still, there are things to value. “Scream” retrofits ‘80s pop soul in admirable ways, borrowing just as much from Talking Heads as it does David Bowie as it does Prince. An electric guitar wins points for trying to funk things up between verses but then the bass guitar struggles to line up with the electronic groove. It’s such a fixable misstep that one can only conclude that the Frederick native wasn’t willing to put in the required attention to detail to make the song work. Conceptually, it’s a fine piece of art. When it comes to execution, however, the questions begin to mount.

Maybe that’s why something like “High” works in the ways it does, even if it is uniquely milquetoast. Written for the European dance clubs that made Cher relevant in the ‘90s, it’s almost too simple, unapologetically bland and never meant to be heard anywhere but a place that has strobe lights. That said, don’t sleep on its peak, which goes down when Apollo kind of/sort of goes for an insane high note and kind of/sort of halfway gets there. R&B fans might skip it, but it does suggest the singer has an admirable level of versatility that can only gain him more followers.

Another moment that could garner him more supporters is “Zoo,” which features some killer saxophone, tasteful atmospheric keyboard parts and the same live tribal drums that appear on “Rings Of Saturn.” Even better is the use of the choir that backs Apollo as he hits a particularly sketchy vocal moment less than halfway into the track. Topping things off is the funk guitar that returns with more stability and better placement than it had on “Scream.” All-around, it might just be the EP’s best track.

Not the EP’s best track? Opener “Suicide,” which embodies all the problems Sonny Apollo faces. Clearly not one to shy away from the dramatic, these songs struggle to paint the artist in the earnest light through which he so obviously wants listeners to view him. In some ways, his chanting of the song’s title feels on the verge of parody and that’s never good. Sure, the synths are a fine lush backdrop, but lyrically, the singer comes across as someone who needs to hone his craft. If he wants to be taken seriously by others, he needs to quit taking himself so seriously.

And while that might sound like a forgivable problem, it’s actually at the core of why “Adventures In Paradise” doesn’t resonate. There’s a lot of talent here — and some even better ideas to boot — but the easiest thing to see through in all forms of R&B is inauthenticity and unfortunately, Sonny Apollo has trouble with that. At the end of the day, this set adds up to one song that chants the word “suicide” ad nauseam and five others that are so explicitly sexual, you begin to wonder when — or if — any intellectual depth will appear.

Such is why “sloppy” isn’t just the word to describe the music here; it’s also the word for Sonny Apollo as a lyricist. “Tonight, I’m going to go home with a brand new toy,” he asserts on “High.”

How about a book?

** 2 STARS OUT OF 4 **

“Red Arrow,” the West Virginia singer’s latest excellent effort, is a coming out party in the grandest, most impressive of ways. Sure, Lopez leaned in with an occasional drawl on both “Pilot,” his blink-and-you’ll-miss-it 2014 EP, and “Onward,” his 2015 promising debut LP. And yes, you’ll always be able to find a touch of Americana ethos within his work, regardless of how far he strays from the country-western hemisphere.

But the largest, most clear takeaway from these 11 songs is that Lopez is now a bona fide stellar hook-writer, a musical mind more than capable of crafting tunes that will make you dance as much as they make you think. His eye isn’t necessarily on the prizes that George Jones and Hank Williams once claimed. Rather, this album suggests that his victory reaches far beyond genre and straight to the top of the Hot 100 era during which his pals in Sister Hazel could dominate the universe with a hit like “All For You.”

And he’s even better when he combines that virtue with a desire to dig deeper into his musical bag of tricks. “1972” is an outstanding shot of Southern soul, complete with a dark groove and a killer organ that grants the proceedings atmosphere and credibility. Part Leon Russell, part Shout It Out-era Hanson, part classic rock radio, it’s the best song of Lopez’s career to date. Plus, check that falsetto as the chorus unfolds and soars in ways only rock-pop could some 20 years ago. Adam Duritz would be proud.

“Someday” is in the same vein, though just a little more anthemic than its brethren (anytime the “O” sound is stretched out in a hook, you just know the artist can hear a crowd singing it back to him or her somewhere down the line). Doubling down on warm production, the singer’s voice feels as delicate as a feather once the second verse settles in and he asserts, “It’s good to see you again.” Even the simple guitar-driven bridge is a thing of beauty, case in point that simplicity in pop is always the right way to go, 100 times out of 100.

Speaking of simplicity and delicacy, this guy mastered both of those skills long ago and even when his familiar approaches return from previous albums, the results are better than they’ve ever been before. Opener “Swim the River” is steeped in roots accessibility, lush fiddle and all. The best part comes as the bluegrass unfolds and Lopez sounds as comfortable as ever, old-school production values combining with a new school flair for Americana. The inevitable string soloing makes you want to grab a partner and head to the barn while the earnestness in the singer’s delivery will force you to swoon as he recites both the things he’s good — and not so good — at doing.

These moments pale in comparison, however, to how exciting the album feels whenever Lopez tries something new. How so? Well, “Say Goodbye” is a Motion City Soundtrack song if Motion City Soundtrack grew up in West Virginia and tried out for American Idol. No, but seriously. If you don’t believe these words, fast-forward to the 45-second mark and hear the quirky synth/keyboard work step to the forefront as the uptempo continues to push forward. It’s surprising, thrilling, infectious, ambitious, and, without question, the most fun Lopez has had on a record.

Even single “Don’t Wanna Say Goodnight” is more sock-hop than it is a square dance. Led by an impossibly catchy electric guitar line, the track chronicles a night filled with urgency, lust, and desperation backed by a retrofitted pop structure that should always be listened to while sipping on a milkshake. Also noteworthy is the subtle, tasteful guitar leads that fill out the backdrop in ways not often heard in pop music these days. It’s the perfect combination of classic bells, yesteryear whistles, and modern-day shine. Or, in short, the song is a lot of great things, but it ain’t all that country.

Which is OK, of course. Because if Christian Lopez has been waiting for his breakout moment, “Red Arrow” is a cannonball of arrival. Matured and textured, you would be hard-pressed to find a more promising illustration of youthful, fully realized pop-rock in 2017. If nothing else, this set proves that Lopez is a singer with his sights set far beyond parameters some have unfairly set upon him throughout his early years. This, though? This is a brand new chapter, an invigorated artist, and perhaps most lasting, a courageous mind.

“Cause it’s now or never,” Lopez half-shouts on “Don’t Wanna Say Goodnight.” “Red Arrow” proves that “never” wasn’t even an option.

**** 4 STARS OUT OF 4 ****

Take, as an example, the difference between the album’s highest and lowest points. “The String” is the best thing Miller’s library, Grand Ole Ditch or not, and it’s because of his innate sense of tone. Steeped in roots reggae, the song proves how dynamic its writer can be, hushed vocals and all. Plus, this thing has a killer horn section. Sure, the bridge seems a little lost, but damn it if that groove doesn’t pull you right back once the song re-finds its footing.

Conversely, the title track is … tough. At a whopping 10 minutes and 38 seconds, it’s clearly an attempt by Miller to stretch out and become as epic as he possibly can. The problem is that there appears to be no direction when it comes to mapping out a route to the top of Epic Mountain. Easing in with acoustic guitar strums and an easy voice, the track eventually boils over into spastic soloing and an uptempo section that doesn’t quite line up with the rest of the song’s feel (and that’s evidenced with how wobbly it feels as the band comes in and out of the movement). In a word, it’s gratuitous.

The rest of the songs fall somewhere between the two. Opener “White & Yellow” is pleasant Adult Contemporary with a banjo/electric guitar riff that will stick in your head far longer than you think it should. Reminiscent of the wimpier side of Hootie & The Blowfish, the song is harmless and without question the most accessible he gets. You can practically feel the wind’s breeze as it blows through an open West Virginia field as the hook’s harmonies take shape.

Miller also has no problem exploring his funky side, which can be both good and bad. “Muddy Funny Walk” is a light dose of fun featuring a jangly banjo and requisite background party soundbites that give the production a communal vibe. Oh, and don’t sleep on the igniting sax solo that bursts onto the scene into open arms about halfway through the track. “Nothing Honey,” however, feels just a little forced, the groovy bass line needing just a little more soul and the pedestrian drums hoping for just a little more power. Not helping matters is the odd opening line, “The sun has set seven times, but you’ve only seen it six/Sometimes, you can even teach a dog new tricks.”

What?

Anyway, many of the missteps are forgiven with “Biscuits & Coffee.” A play on the timeless “Go Tell It On The Mountain” refrain, the song perfectly outlines Miller’s sweet spot between Americana and bluegrass. Chugging along with some swing as the verses unfold, the middle sections provide a unique combination between picking and pop. Staying steady with an atypical mid-tempo structure, a competing banjo solos its way through the proceedings in double time. It works in a weird way — the type of feat that takes a few listens to truly appreciate, even if you wonder about the moving being the song’s best option.

Which, naturally, sums up “A Spark” nicely: A guy who’s unafraid to explore the depths of his imagination without consideration for consequence. Some of the failures are noble while some are just … well … failures. Meanwhile, some of the successes are laudably memorable while other successes are just … well … successes. It adds up to an imperfect, yet noteworthy debut from someone who’s been ready to step out on his own.

Or, well, in other words, it lights a spark. And now, it’s time to see how bright the fire can shine.

** 2 STARS OUT OF 4 **

But we’ll get to those. First, the good stuff. “Foxes Spy,” the opening track and easily the best song here, swings as easily as any 21st-century playground, David Lester’s bass holding down a groove that’s half “James Bond,” half 2:30 a.m. in a lonely cellar bar. Meanwhile, Ploski’s clean jazz guitar offers all the breeze anyone could ask for, creating the perfect atmosphere to back his matured, show-biz croon. Sure, he’s no Sinatra, but damn if Seth Macfarlane wouldn’t force a grin to this stuff.

The smiling stops, however, as Ploski and his trio get further and further away from their natural habitat. “Tethered” is the most comparable to “Foxes,” kicking up the tempo in tasteful ways while still maintaining a healthy distance from anything remotely resembling aggression. That’s a good thing, what with the song’s jangle-obsessed feel making it impossible not to bop up and down with the groove. It’s right at the sweet spot between where the singer’s talents are at their best and where they begin to feel forced.

As for where they feel forced, check the oddly smarmy “Uncomfortable.” Seemingly about love gone wrong, the track is a kiss off from a guy who has a voice that literally sounds incapable of being angry. Throw that on top of music most commonly found in a 1968 elevator and the dichotomy between intention and execution becomes too stark to bear. Plus, it takes the singer further away from The Lounge, which, remember, is where he belongs the most.

That distance becomes larger with “Washed Away,” the EP-ending ditty that makes Ploski’s rightful home seem a world away. Abandoning all swing, it’s a play for pop that doesn’t serve the Frederick native — or his band — well. Partially failing because of the collective’s apprehension toward their instruments, partially failing because of the songwriter’s desire to force parts that don’t have to be there (the final 30-ish seconds showcases an irrelevant guitar solo that awkwardly stops to end the song), it eliminates all the goodwill Ploski earns elsewhere on the record if for no other reason than how loose everything is presented.

Equally as flimsy is the title track. With an opening guitar lick that’s oddly reminiscent of Sugar Ray’s “Someday,” it encapsulates the guy’s strengths and weaknesses. While the guitar is back to being passive and tasteful, the individual performances aren’t tight enough to warrant a solid song. And that’s to say nothing of the singer’s voice, which doesn’t work in all settings. Here, his proclamations of love feel hollow because of how unbelievable his utterances tend to be. Above all else, they simply need emotion.

Or, well, at least they need emotion if he wants to veer into pop music territory. And that’s why “Love In Motion” can be such a frustrating listen: Nathan Ploski’s ceiling is much higher in The Lounge than it is in any of the other rooms he insists on visiting. “There’s going to be a couple bumps and some scraped knees,” he croons on the aforementioned pedestrian title track.

Well … not if you stay where you should, sir.

** 2 STARS OUT OF 4 **

It’s made of art that, in one way or another, bridges the divide.

And it’s done pretty damn well, too. “I Sing The Body” exemplifies the upper echelon of the band’s versatility. Soaked in ragtime drums and vaudevillian ethos, it’s a perfect showcase for singer Jess Eliot Myhre. Gifted with tangible charisma and a low(ish), mature voice, her energy shines a bright enough light that it’s a glow in which all the band can bask. The most obvious example of as much comes as she slithers her way through the line “put your back into it” right as the song’s first minute concludes. It’s equal parts thrilling and empowering.

Similarly impressive is opener “Many Paths.” Leaning on the type of music born to be in Woody Allen films, the song somehow feels historic yet contemporary, folksy yet assertive. Reminiscent of the days when a band like Squirrel Nut Zippers could thrive on alternative radio, it’s the musical equivalent of a jaunt through wooded trails and breathtaking mountaintops. Adding to the song’s authenticity is Chris Ousley’s Southern drawl that he contributes tastefully throughout his vocal performance. Add in a prominent pedal steel and you find yourself in a world where Mountain Stage constantly broadcasts from the Grand Ole Opry with the result being one mega pot of awesomeness.

Not all the songs here are exotic, though. “Over Your Head” is adult contemporary pop bliss. Led forth by Myhre’s developed croon, its half-funk structure gives the track ample danceability. As the singer advises “You’re in over your head” repeatedly throughout the hook, everything comes together in an infectious manner, creating a chorus impossible to forget for those who love a little sugar with their martinis. Plus, her vocal inflections keep things interesting as that line pounds into … well … your head.

Where the pop turn doesn’t work as well, however, is the title track single. Somewhat of a departure from their roots-laden Americana, the song is straight pop-country schmaltz, complete with occasional pedal steel that makes sure the production resides below the Mason-Dixon. Even so, the track has at least two redeeming qualities: the horns that pop in with stabs throughout the second verse and, naturally, the mildly clever chorus that has Ousley lead the refrain, “I never met a stranger at the bottom of a bottle.”

It’s not that the song is bad; it’s just that the song is so far away from what these guys do well. And what do they do well? Check “Corina, Corina,” which takes you all the way down to New Orleans with its Bourbon Street bounce, quenching the thirst for those who follow the group based on their jazz leanings. “Get On Up” then recalls rockabilly with its uptempo and flavorful guitar work. And “Gimme A Pigfoot (And A Bottle Of Beer)” is a mess of fun, the kind of song you can’t not drink to, especially with its drunken horns (and subsequent woodwind) conveying the stumbles that a late night on the town inevitably bring.

Yet even when their balance seems to be a bit compromised, Bumper Jacksons always know how to get up the next morning, brush off the wounds from the previous 12 hours, and find their way back into the world. It’s that perseverance that has allowed them an admirable amount of notoriety and longevity and “I’ve Never Met A Stranger” documents a band at the peak of its powers, at the height of its maturity to date. Impeccably produced and delightfully varied, this set is impossible to ignore, let alone dislike.

Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s a set worth toasting. Again and again.

*** 3 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 ***

Yet whatever that lacking intangible element proves to be is far more of an achilles heel than he probably hopes it is. Take “Place For You,” which begins promisingly with a sunny, funky acoustic guitar that might even make Jack Johnson trade in his waves for a seat at the show. Actually, it’s one of the stronger tracks here … until the bridge comes around and Schoenfelder abandons practicality in favor of ambition. Sci-fi effects unapologetically appear — complete with keyboard work that echoes Emerson, Lake & Palmer — and it’s hard not to wonder why he would tarnish such palpable momentum with an unneeded experiment. 

Because predictability, in the case of this artist at least, is the guy’s strong suit. Opener “Atlantis” has some killer bass noodling, granting the proceedings a funky layer that sadly doesn’t appear anywhere else. Even the vocal effects attached to his opening phrases amount to a risk that works. Making things more memorable is the mandolin that guides the walk-up (and walk-down) as the first hook concludes. The combination is so good that even the uptick in tempo throughout the track’s second half could be forgiven, despite how unwarranted it is.

Speaking of being unwarranted, “Last Call” is what happens when a pop ballad suffers from too much thought. Reminiscent of early, slow-driven Hootie & The Blowfish hits (cough, “Let Her Cry,” cough), it would undoubtedly work better without the aid of Schoenfelder’s occasionally wobbly backing band. Worse is the singer’s desire to sound earnest. It’s not that he doesn’t often sound sincere; it’s just that it’s easy to tell when he tries too hard to get there. Sure, the backing harmonies are lush and impressive, but the time for these types of songs came and went long ago.

None of this suggests that no songs work; in fact some of them do work and they work with aplomb. “Here It Comes” makes up for the sins of “Last Call” if only because of how aware it is, with a swaying 6/8 time signature and a line like, “Watch out, man/I love to hurt a friend.” And closer “Self Sufficient,” while perhaps the most predictable of the bunch (of course this dude ends a record with an all-acoustic song), is probably the best thing here. Why? Because that’s the thing: This songwriter knows how to write songs and when his songs are stripped to their core, they succeed.

Or, well, they succeed in reaching Schoenfelder’s fullest potential. “Only You” works much better when the singer goes it alone, but here, a half-cooked rhythm section doesn’t do the song any favors. “Light” is the strongest bit of guitar pop-rock WTMD could have possibly heard in 1989, and for that, it should both be lauded and make Michael Stipe smile. But then “Graffiti” doesn’t have the rock ‘n’ roll energy it so badly wants to acquire and you’re reminded that there’s still a long way to go to perfection.

Not that Reid Schoenfelder is trying to achieve perfection with “Here It Comes;” it’s just that you want to be your best self if you’re willing to put yourself out there artistically, no matter the medium. These 11 songs suggest a pretty good songwriter underneath periodic lapses in production and sporadic failed experiments that cloud an otherwise solid effort. There are valuable qualities and capable ideas, but at the end of the day, it sounds like The OK Album someone writes before crafting The Great Album.

Or, in other words, it sounds like something you really want to like, but …

** 2 1/2 STARS OUT OF 4 **