Rock

Jeremiah Freed: Slow Burn

Sam

The band photo that graces the inside front cover of Jeremiah Freed’s second full-length, Slow Burn, is like a window through time. It easily could have been taken in 1973, what with the button-down shirts hanging open (with a western vibe) and everybody’s hair making a run for their shoulders. There’s a chance the photo is something of an ironic nod, a take-off on the Allman Brothers Band’s debut self-titled album’s cover, or maybe the cover to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s 1999 best of album. But even if the photo is on the up and up, simply a genuine snapshot of who Jeremiah Freed are, you should still take a look at those two albums if you want to see the genesis of Jeremiah Freed.

Sure, the Allmans’ debut is only six songs, but it’s full of the Southern fire the Freed are using to fuel their songs, and “Whipping Post” might be the best Southern rock song ever written. And that Skynyrd greatest hits album definitely scores with “Free Bird” and “Sweet Home Alabama,” but it’s the inclusion of “What’s Your Name” that provides a fitting counterpoint to “Do My Best,” the best song on Slow Burn, and a tune that deserves to be played at every senior prom for the next 10 years.

It’s a song, like many on Burn, that has vocalist Joe Smith evincing a resigned, though not dispirited, air. “I gave up trying to be a tall, strong man/ Now I’m thinking about running, just as fast as I can,” he sings, over a bouncy acoustic guitar, simpler than most of the guitar work here, but, of course, less can often be more.

He can’t decide if he wants to be bitter or loving, standoffish or pleading. On one hand he offers that, “If you leave me, you’re going to get hurt/ You’re going to feel empty, I bet you’ll miss the smell of my shirts.” But the chorus is a sweet pleading: “I’ll do my best not to yell to you, if it would help us make it through/ No it never seems that bad, one lesson is all you had/ Walk on down to where they know you best/ Shed a tear as you remove your dress/ Let that other man on inside/ Give another one a place to hide.”

There’s a good cadence in the bridge. The song couldn’t be catchier in general. It’s made for radio and singing along. But what separates the tune from standard radio fare, and elevates it to anthemic status is the guitar work from Nick Goodale, who impresses all over this album. It’s not just that he can rip out a great solo — most practiced guitarists can master the idea of staying within a chord structure and moving their fingers around. It’s that Goodale has a rare talent for matching his breaks with the mood of the song, and for never seeming like he’s showing off. Mostly — and I say this with true jealousy — it seems effortless.

On “Do My Best,” his guitar gently weeps, as it does on “Riding Home,” the rock version of Dylan folk. But those latter tunes follow earlier album cuts with alternating aggressiveness, wit, detachment, and exultation.

Live, the album’s opener, “Ride On,” actually would make for a cool jam leading into “Riding Home” as a final number before the encore — the second tune clocks in around seven minutes even on the album. They play off of each other, too. “Ride On” sets the Southern rock tone early, and their “advice to you is ride on.” But I don’t want to. This is a place of transcendent guitar solos, with Smith’s gritty (maybe deeper than in the past?) voice recalling cool motorcycles and hot chicks, a little bit Black Crowes, a little bit Zeppelin.

But “Riding Home” tells me that the band have “got something to tell you/ I don’t think you’ll like it. Because I feel that it’s not my fault/ Cuz you were thinking about seeing me die.” In fact, “there’s a certain spot in hell/ A level for me, too/ Empty bottles everywhere, and a girl with an empty stare.” That doesn’t sound very fun. Who said anything about part Morrissey?

For me, Southern rock has always been a pretty care-free arena, but the Freed have taken that sentiment and turned in a dire, “Man of Constant Sorrow” kind of album. They’re even “Off the Bottle.”

In Josh Rogers’s review of their debut album, he wrote about “vocal consternation,” “gloomy lyrics,” and “emotional drain.” Slow Burn offers up more of the same, culminated in the all-acoustic finisher, “Feed Me Well.” It’s laid back, melancholy, with a turn on the acoustic slide from Goodale, but, as with the debut album, there’s always a hope to grab onto. Here, they seem to revel in the fact that “I’ll still see your eyes/ And your smile will always make me blink.”

It’s encouraging that Jeremiah Freed have embraced the deep, soulful sound that seems to come naturally, and have avoided what may have been a strong impulse (while signed to Universal anyway) to make alt/radio/aggressive rock. Sure, these guys can turn in a scorcher with the best of them, but their depth and commitment to their sound shines through, and that’s going to create an emotional bond with the fans that should prove their ultimate success.

Sara Cox: Arrive

Sam

Independent girl

Sara Cox stirs the waters with Arrive

Sara Cox’s only previous solo effort, 2000’s EP Firewater, has been in heavy rotation ever since it showed up here at the Phoenix offices (rivaling only our contraband Raycharles Lamontagne disc and Spouse’s seminal Nozomi for repeated listens).

I am enthralled and engaged by Cox’s vocal range, mesmerized by her melancholy pathos, lulled by her sweet sentiment. It’s sort of pathetic, really. I find myself driving along in the car, getting all teary-eyed listening to “Fourth Child” or “No Harm,” manufacturing things for myself to feel all depressed about. There’s no doubt that music (second maybe only to smell) is a highly charged emotional trigger.

So, it should come as little surprise that I am wholly in love with Cox’s debut full-length, Arrive. I’ve even made a copy of it, so I can have it at work and at home and not have to worry about fighting over it with my wife.

Unlike the Coming Grass’s Transient, released earlier this year, almost all of the material on Arrive is being released for the first time, barring the title track, which appeared on GFAC 207, Vol. 3, and doesn’t pop up here until the very end. The material seems to have to come to Cox in a flood. I remember last winter, when she started talking about a solo effort, she said she was writing all kinds of new songs, “and some of them are even kind of happy.”

I think happy might be a relative term for her. These aren’t party songs, but they are, from time to time, upbeat; there is a pervasive feeling of impenetrable hope that keeps what are reflective and thoughtful songs from delving too far into the miasma of Nick Drake or David Gahan.

There are even likely singles here. The opening two numbers, “The Milk Song” and “Hit the Wall,” are adult-alternative radio naturals. With a full-band sound, poppy sentiment, and lyrics reminiscent of a school-girl’s diary, “Milk” sounds as if it could have come off the 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack penned by Letters to Cleo. “Wall” has an ultra-catchy “ba-bah-da-da” vocal hook and the great line: “Why are you asking permission to be doing what it’s clear that you have already done.”

If the “band” sounds familiar, yes, it is largely the Coming Grass, dominated by the electric guitars of Nate Schrock and Stephan Jones, the drums of Ginger Cote, and pianos by Paul Chamberlain. The Jerks’ Carter Logan even makes appearances on the fiddle, of all things. Add backup vocals from Darien Brahms on a few songs and the line-up doesn’t look too different from a certain other female-vocalist’s recent solo album, Green Valentine. And, sure, there are similar sounds here — coming from what I guess you could consider Portland’s emerging “session musicians,” but, like Valentine, Cox’s Arrive is unmistakably driven by the lead vocalist and songwriter.

Where Brahms led with her sass and new-found bravado, melding honky-tonk with jazz and Latin flavors — and having a ton of fun — Cox leads with her money voice, sculpted to evoke a dainty girl and strong-armed woman, a nurturing mom and an independent gal.

“Look Up” is the whole package. It opens with a simple lead on the congas, a percussion instrument I’ve never really been that fond of in Western music, but here it works. Or perhaps Cox’s voice is just so good here that they could be pounding on a dumpster and I’d be happy. I remember standing next to Nate during the show at SPACE where Cox first played this live. He was entranced like a 16-year-old hippy girl seeing Trey in the flesh for the first time. We both agreed it was a phenomenal song. But think about that. By that point he’d probably heard her rehearse it a hundred times. Still, he couldn’t contain his inner fan.

When Cox reaches up for the falsetto chorus, it’s a bona fide religious experience. “And the sky still glows even though you’re looking at your feet/ Kicking down at the ground.” Darien’s singing backup here, really grounding the harmonies. And what a song of hope tempered with realism: “No one’s gonna reach in and grab you/ The world’s just going to keep spinning round.” Unless you get up off your sorry ass and do something about it. Otherwise, “One day, you’ll wake up to be 40/ 40 years of shutting down.”

Not that Cox needs a band to prop her up. “Confession #87” is stripped down and shows that she has no problem convincing with just a guitar and her remarkable voice. The lyrics are an interesting half-feminist screed: “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but most days I can’t tie my shoes/ And most days I can hardly choose/ I confess, I do need you/ Does that make me not independent?”

An interesting question that. Being independent is this lauded trait in “strong” women. But what’s wrong with loving someone to the point that you can’t imagine life without them? Isn’t there a depth of emotion there that’s enviable?

I love the sarcasm laden in the repeated phrase, “well now girls, we’re independent.” Paired with “Devotion” and “Single Girl” (where we’re asked “have you noticed that most things come in pairs?”) there is a pattern of deep-seated familial love broadcast through a picture of what life might be like without the devoted husband and kids. Could be I’m a sucker for that sort of thing right now.

Oh, and there’s flexibility here, too. How about “Stir the Waters,” a “Watching the Detectives” rhythm paired with an “Octopus’s Garden” chord progression in the chorus. The first listen on this one is a little strange — talk about white man’s reggae — but it really grows with repeated listens. It’s super smooth, has Cox singing at some of her lowest on the record (echoed by a falsetto of herself, in impressive fashion) and all these crazy four-note electric fills.

This is where you recognize that Cox’s musicality is being repeatedly emphasized by Nate Schrock’s growing talents as producer. The levels are just completely on, and everything hovers in the background behind Sara, as though thrown into shadow by the light she casts. And there’s always an egg-rattle finish, or tossed-off cymbal, or rumbling, tuning instruments as intro keeping each song from sounding too polished. Check the effect on Chamberlain’s piano for “Paper Cup.” It’s like a ghost, fuzzy at the edges, halting, disinterested. The only choice I might argue with is the brief echoing added to lines in Cox’s fine a capella version of Richard Buckner’s “Fater,” which precedes “Arrive.” A song that aims for purity seems just that bit marred. Maybe that’s the intention.

By the time “Arrive” does come, it’s simple, familiar, climbing four chords are a fond farewell. “I hate it when you’re gone/Don’t go.” I’m not going anywhere.