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Southern rock, Stax-styled soul, proggy synths, even a 25-year-old Nirvana song—they’re all woven into this ambitious but rooted song cycle.In Simpson’s callused hands, any pick-up truck could become a spaceship.
Explosions taper into radio silence; distress-mode pedals are answered by unholy choirs; bodies both human and stellar are examined on a molecular level.
The old conception of the self is obliterated from that very first cry, to make way for that new life.
It’s a terrifying moment, to gaze into your child’s eyes and know in the root of your being Wordsworth’s adage: “The Child is the father of the Man.” That tumult of fear, mystery, and time lies at the heart of Sturgill Simpson’s adventurous third album, offers no-nonsense advice and down-home imagery, yet still takes more sonic chances than the entire bro-country contingency put together.
Presumably they’ll keep exploring until they can’t return a signal.
— moving collaboration between a confirmed free-improv legend and a comparatively youthful polyglot with a wide variety of jazz, contemporary classical, and pop music bonafides.
In Moodymann’s brilliant, 30-track mix, groove trumps genre and sonic cohesion is more likely to be found in claps, cymbals, and hi-hats, than it is in booming four-on-the-floor (though there’s plenty of that in the latter half).