Thursday Morning

Hello, friends.

Thought I'd share some folky thoughts and think of ways to think harder while I'm working. I've been listening to a compilation of Michael Hurley's unreleased output, from right after the release of his first album to the release of his second, called Parsnip Snips. Wonderful alliterative title, wonderful psychedelic album art from Mr. Hurley himself, and even better lo-fi, ahead-of-its-time songwriting.

I picked this album up (along with four others that I will mention shortly) during my stay in NYC. It is a cliche to say that this city has everything, but in terms of the availability of great, heavy-gram folk records, it is most assuredly above the curve.

Parsnip Snips contains recordings covering a seven-year period yet it achieves a meditative cohesion that would make the most polished of studio bands jealous. Listening to this record, it is easy to forget that these songs were written forty years ago. You hear traces of contemporary songwriters like Bonnie Prince Billy, Neutral Milk Hotel's Jeff Mangum and Vetiver's Andy Cabic that make you realize: these artists did not emerge from some vacuum of modern genius as some hipsters might like to believe. Michael Hurley was doing what these musicians do now before most of them were born and (I am sure) inspired them as they grew.

These songs sound like they were recorded in a musty apartment somewhere with PA's, four tracks and mics crammed into a space barely large enough for the single, cross-legged artist in its center. These are simple, earnest songs that you'd sing to yourself when you are alone, feeling pitiful and at your loneliest but still happy to be alive.

The stand out track from side one, "Don't Blame it On Me," asks the object of the speaker's desire to forgive him for loving her. "Don't blame it on me/I ain't guilty, can't you see?/Don't blame it on me/blame it all on yourself." How can he help loving her? She is perfect in the singer's mind. A sweet sentiment that celebrates life and love, but underlain with a deep sense of melancholy. The listener understands that he is not merely expressing his love; he is actually being blamed for loving her. She has moved on and he is stuck in place; he simply needs her to understand why.

Reading a little too much into the song? Probably. Coloring it with my own experiences and bias? Definitely. But isn't that why we love folk music? Because it reminds us of ourselves, of the good and the bad, the connections between ourselves and people that lived a hundred years ago? I think so. Check out Parsnip Snips and draw your own conclusions...

I picked up a few more choice records for our listeners (and my own) enjoyment: Karen Dalton's first record, It's So Hard to Tell Who's Going to Love You the Best, which, yes, I already had in digital form (you can't blame me for wanting to kick back with a beer and a smoke and listen to the needle click into groove on "Sweet Substitute" at two in the morning, can you?); When I'm Gone, a collection of early Elizabeth Cotten recordings; and two Townes Van Zandt albums: The double LP, Live at the Old Quarter Houston, Texas and a mid-career LP, Flying Shoes.

Both TVZ albums are great, but Live at the Old Quarter wins the gold. Flying Shoes nicely illustrates the problem with many of Townes' studio recordings: an overabundance of overdubs and too much polish. Due to his disdain for the studio process, Van Zandt allowed his producers to do whatever they pleased with his music, with little to no input from him. This resulted in a string of overproduced albums that (almost) succeed in disguising the simple beauty of their songs.

Townes is the type of singer that sounds best in a stuffy bar with one mic and a big ol' hollow guitar, not with an early-model MOOG accompaniment and enough backup musicians to restock the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Which is exactly why Live at the Old Quarter is the superior album. One singer. One guitar. A barroom full of drunk cowboys and adoring fans.

Well, that's all the bullshit I can come up with this morning. So here's something for all you Fred Neil fans....