Certain records get inside you: every twist of every note somehow slithers into your nerves and becomes as familiar as your own breathing. It might be the time in your life you discover a particular album, or the mood you were in when you first heard one of the songs, or the way some stranger's voice speaks your own mind just closely enough to demand stunned reverence. For me, Strangers Almanac was one of those records.
Found in the outbox bin of my college mail room, consecrated the night I met K-Funk for a row of pool at The Catalyst, and celebrated in porch-lit solitude over deep slugs of bourbon in the witching hour of many nights that followed, it was and remains one of my all time favorites. From the lazy opening notes of "Inn Town" to the closing jumble of "Not Home Anymore," this is an organic, flowing record of expert craft. Caitlin Cary's lacey fiddling throughout is the work of gold. Phil Wandscher's guitar kicks through and belies the musical context in which punk rocker Adams learned how to channel his intensity into textured heartland rock.
Adams' more youthful vocal performance will shock later-era Adams fans. While his current singing style favors moments of higher register quasi-mewling and wild dynamics, his Whiskeytown work has the smoky mumble of an older soul and the rustic cadence of a Southern spirit more at home in the turgid mosquito air of a Carolina-tavern parking lot in summer than the zipping lights of a limo careening to some big-city after party. Adams' eager striving to portray the depths of his sorrow in these songs has a warm innocence that only peeks out through the scars and pricey outfits of his later work; he was so much older then - he's younger than that now.
Listen to the latent twang in "Somebody Remembers The Rose." That's a genuine hell of a wail. Consider the majestic "Avenues." Few have ever portrayed the gap between the lonely and the loved the way Adams does with the devastating lyric "all the sweethearts of the world...
Certain records get inside you: every twist of every note somehow slithers into your nerves and becomes as familiar as your own breathing. It might be the time in your life you discover a particular album, or the mood you were in when you first heard one of the songs, or the way some stranger's voice speaks your own mind just closely enough to demand stunned reverence. For me, Strangers Almanac was one of those records.
Found in the outbox bin of my college mail room, consecrated the night I met K-Funk for a row of pool at The Catalyst, and celebrated in porch-lit solitude over deep slugs of bourbon in the witching hour of many nights that followed, it was and remains one of my all time favorites. From the lazy opening notes of "Inn Town" to the closing jumble of "Not Home Anymore," this is an organic, flowing record of expert craft. Caitlin Cary's lacey fiddling throughout is the work of gold. Phil Wandscher's guitar kicks through and belies the musical context in which punk rocker Adams learned how to channel his intensity into textured heartland rock.
Adams' more youthful vocal performance will shock later-era Adams fans. While his current singing style favors moments of higher register quasi-mewling and wild dynamics, his Whiskeytown work has the smoky mumble of an older soul and the rustic cadence of a Southern spirit more at home in the turgid mosquito air of a Carolina-tavern parking lot in summer than the zipping lights of a limo careening to some big-city after party. Adams' eager striving to portray the depths of his sorrow in these songs has a warm innocence that only peeks out through the scars and pricey outfits of his later work; he was so much older then - he's younger than that now.
Listen to the latent twang in "Somebody Remembers The Rose." That's a genuine hell of a wail. Consider the majestic "Avenues." Few have ever portrayed the gap between the lonely and the loved the way Adams does with the devastating lyric "all the sweethearts of the world are out dancing in the places where me and all my friends go to hide our faces."
Get this album and play it in your car while you drive home through warm nocturnal air. Discover the moonbeam steel guitars of "Dancing with the Women at the Bar," the sensitive Eisenhower-era vignette of "Houses on the Hill," Alejandro Escovedo's ragged cameo on "Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart Tonight," the lovelorn ache of "Turn Around" and the coiled drama of "Waiting to Derail." Bridging the more humble pastoral sketches of Faithless Street and the polished, later-to-be unveiled Pneumonia, Strangers Almanac is the beating heart of Whiskeytown's catalog and one of the best albums of its genre and era.
IPOD
RADIO
Certain records get inside you: every twist of every note somehow slithers into your nerves and becomes as familiar as your own breathing. It might be the time in your life you discover a particular album, or the mood you were in when you first heard one of the songs, or the way some stranger's voice speaks your own mind just closely enough to demand stunned reverence. For me, Strangers Almanac was one of those records.
Found in the outbox bin of my college mail room, consecrated the night I met K-Funk for a row of pool at The Catalyst, and celebrated in porch-lit solitude over deep slugs of bourbon in the witching hour of many nights that followed, it was and remains one of my all time favorites. From the lazy opening notes of "Inn Town" to the closing jumble of "Not Home Anymore," this is an organic, flowing record of expert craft. Caitlin Cary's lacey fiddling throughout is the work of gold. Phil Wandscher's guitar kicks through and belies the musical context in which punk rocker Adams learned how to channel his intensity into textured heartland rock.
Adams' more youthful vocal performance will shock later-era Adams fans. While his current singing style favors moments of higher register quasi-mewling and wild dynamics, his Whiskeytown work has the smoky mumble of an older soul and the rustic cadence of a Southern spirit more at home in the turgid mosquito air of a Carolina-tavern parking lot in summer than the zipping lights of a limo careening to some big-city after party. Adams' eager striving to portray the depths of his sorrow in these songs has a warm innocence that only peeks out through the scars and pricey outfits of his later work; he was so much older then - he's younger than that now.
Listen to the latent twang in "Somebody Remembers The Rose." That's a genuine hell of a wail. Consider the majestic "Avenues." Few have ever portrayed the gap between the lonely and the loved the way Adams does with the devastating lyric "all the sweethearts of the world...