Genre blurring album number six from the Michigan mavericks, applying a pop sheen to country-gothic.

Release Date: 16th February 2024

Label: Self-released

Format: CD / vinyl / cassette / digital

File under, eh, those two words guaranteed to give hives to any average music geek, with frames of reference happier evading all boundaries. (Much like the team here at ATB). So what do we call this lot? Banjo and mandolin? Must be bluegrass, then. But as they’re clearly hippies, so jamband, maybe? Musical saw? Trumpet, lots of trumpet? An occasional rhythm section, from rock, and melodica from, wait a minute. What is this madness, how can this possibly all gel? Very nicely, thanks, is the answer, very nicely indeed.

The brainchild of Matthew Milia, from that old-timey capital of the US, not, Michigan, who turns his pen to evocative and soaring tales of everyday life, the songs nearest in compositional style to those upstate New York hillbillies, the Felice Brothers, but with clearer vocals and fewer deaths. Milia writes the songs, or most of them, likewise does most the singing, with guitar, harmonica and mandolin his instrumental accompaniment to hand. Now nominally a three-piece, he is joined here by longterm Ruckus compadres, David W. Jones on banjo and vocals, and Zachary Nichols, the wildcard who brings trumpet, saw and melodica into the mix. This is album number six.

Swore I Had A Friend opens with an open prairie whine of harmonica, set to a solid beat, banjo spluttering alongside Milia’s plaintive voice. As he sings, the musical saw sings upward. Harmonies kick in for the chorus, the trumpet chiming in, and it is all quite lovely. The Felice reference is there already, with a portion or two of Calexico for good measure. The drums come from Connor Dodson. “Celebrate the minutiae” is how Milia describes his lyrical style, his songs dipping deep back into his vault of memories, accumulated from childhood onward. This first song details, I think, that imaginary friend we may all have needed to have at some stage, the level of detail immense, However, within that detail, rich with unsuspecting rhymes, one can never quite be sure. Which is how an imaginary friend should, I guess, feel. A strong opener, each of the players get a brief moment to show off their wares, and it is quite terrific.

Everywhere is simpler fare, the drums and banjo again to the fore, another song of wistful regret: “Everywhere but beside you felt wrong“. Leading into Magdalene (That’s Not Your Name), the mood is still nostalgic, with guitar now more apparent, sombre long drawn notes on melodica adding pathos. The clip clop of drums remains a constant, buoying along the sepia-tinged sadness, and I love the conceit that the subject is anonymised, as to confer a heightened sense of reality. The title track then limbers up the pace a bit, acoustic guitar and bass guitar, from guest Evan Eklund, or possibly Ben Collins, the only scaffolding until the familiar banjo/trumpet/melodica chorale joins in. Collins also adds additional mandolin elsewhere, and, with the band, co-produced. A skittery gambol of a song, the inspiration is Milia’s forebears, arriving in New York State, from Sicily, at the turn of the last century, changes seen yet sameness static: “you peel at the way you feel today, till a 10 year older version of you kneels in the dark ditch and shows you what is real”.

Mercury Sable could be one of those Harvest-era Neil Young songs in the initial opening few bars, ahead of carrying a kick of one of the slow songs on side 1, Desperado, before the Eagles lost it. Neither of these are bad things, but it makes for one of the weaker songs, at least until the elegiac trumpet part peals in. Scratch that, as, actually, it’s a grower, further listens sneaking it deep under your skin. Clarkston Pasture is a jollier and jauntier song, and lifted me out of making more comparisons, with Dodson’s drums offering a propulsive motorik that had me play it a few times. Trumpet and banjo is becoming a new favourite combination. With finger-picked guitar, In The Money, knocks on your soul with a shudder, a near solo song from Milia, bar the harmonies behind his vocal and late entry saw and banjo. These two songs could make all the difference between good and bloomin’ marvellous. Bloomfield starts all ooohs, Milia managing to add even more yearn into his keening tenor, making for three in a row.

First Song Of Lauren hits peak melancholia, and echoes the best of Richmond Fontaine, mandolin tinkling in place the banjo, and is as short as it is bittersweet. The near-orthodox Machines of Summer reprises the clip-clop beat with singing saw, and is close to orthodox country this album goes, and marries that sensibility with the feel, and sound of a silver band. A sinewy pedal steel solo finishes the song off with a dash of panache, courtesy Pete Ballard. “I’m not the boy that hurt you, but I may as well be” is how Not The Boys kickstarts, strummed guitars, as Milia reveals what else the boy he isn’t. A song of shifting moods and rhythm, as each instrument picks up the reins, so the velocity alters, even if the speed remains the same. Physics might not allow that, but it does, and it all becomes quite anthemic as the arrangement becomes ensemble, ahead a drop back to the strummed introduction. Closer, For Wherefore, the only track here not by Millia, and written by Nichols, is an elemental instrumental, as in all elements in one day, bringing back the steel and, indeed, all the guests and all the players. Like the credits at the end of the film, it allows a sense of closure to this surprising album. Surprising and memorable album.

Clarkston Pasture, a good taster for the album:

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