Date: 1969
Release: Columbia #65150
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Fans of the Byrds’ psychedelic brand of folk-rock were left baffled by the band’s sudden about face in the direction of country music on Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Many wondered how the same band that recorded the ’60s drug anthem “Eight Miles High” could suddenly end up singing “I Love The Christian Life” without any hint of sarcasm. Even the 1968 radio ad promoting the record features a disbelieving fan insisting, “Naw, that ain’t the Byrds,” after hearing only a few song snippets. Ahead of its time, Sweetheart of the Rodeo was a groundbreaking act of rebellion away from the classic rock sound of its day, entirely different from anything the Byrds (or anyone else) had recorded before.

The catalyst in the birth of the new Byrds sound was the addition of Southern-born singer-songwriter Gram Parsons, who replaced David Crosby on vocals and guitar. Responding to the influence of Parsons, Bryds front man Roger McGuinn packed up his trademark 12-string guitar, picked up the banjo, and took the band into the recording studio in Nashville. What resulted was an album filled with solid country graces–syrupy slide and twangy rhythm guitars, honky-tonk piano, hoe-down-style violin, shuffling drums, and strumming banjo. Gorgeous harmonies were the main ingredient still remaining from the Byrds earlier musical incarnations.

In a slight nod towards tradition, the album opens up strongly with a Dylan cover, a spectacular Nashville-infused reworking of “You Ain’t Going Nowhere.” The Bob Dylan songbook is pillaged once more on the album’s climactic closing cut, a country-rocking version of “Nothing Was Delivered,” replete with crashing drum cymbals and steel guitars. While the two Dylan cuts clearly take top honors, the pair of Parsons-penned originals don’t lag far behind. Parsons’ classic rendition of “Hickory Wind” is as arresting as a good swig of Southern Comfort. The long-lost original version of Parsons’ “One Hundred Years From Now,” (included as one of the eight bonus track on the 1997 CD reissue) features his own voice, which far and away surpasses the vocals later overdubbed by McGuinn for the official release of the album. Due to ridiculous contractual troubles, Columbia Records had Parsons’ lead vocals removed from several of the record’s cuts, bringing McGuinn back into the studio to overdub new voice tracks. Comparing the Parsons and McGuinn versions of “I Like the Christian Life,” it’s obvious that McGuinn was affecting a Southern drawl in order to overdub his best Parsons impersonation.

It’s funny, but hearing the Byrds sing such straight-faced versions of “I Like The Christian Life” is akin to watching the honky-tonk bar scene from “The Blues Brothers,” where Belushi and Akroyd take a pretty damn good stab at country music with their inspired cover of Rawhide. You’re laughing with pleasure at just how well they pull off their preposterous little foray into country. The only difference was that the Blues Brothers won over the crowd. Despite its winning brilliance, sales of Sweetheart of the Rodeo were lackluster compared to earlier Byrds records. Few could understand what in the hell the Byrds were doing experimenting with country-rock, because every self-respecting follower of the late-’60s counter-culture knew that country music belonged to Squares and had no business being mixed up in rock. Over 30 years later, we can step back and realize that Sweetheart of the Rodeo was a deliberate act of musical defiance exemplifying the true spirit of Rock and Roll.

Date: 2000
Release: MATADOR OLE 426-2
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Like the blues itself, Cat Power (aka Chan Marshall) is a soulful product of the Deep South. Her voice is charged with aching strains of gospel, soul, blues, and country-folk. The Covers Record is her quiet storm, a stripped down affair, featuring nothing more than her captivating voice coupled with a lone piano or guitar. Without any contrived nostalgia, her covers of mostly contemporary songs sound as if they could have come from Alan Lomax‘s Great Depression field recordings.

She updates the old American folk tradition of using other peoples’ songs as a way of getting at her own soul. A distinctly individual singer, she reworks the songs of Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, The Velvet Underground, Moby Grape, and Michael Hurly, dramatically transforming them into something of her own in the process. Opening the album with The Rolling Stones‘ “Satisfaction,” Marshall turns this classic rock & roll stomp into a restrained and bluesy statement of personal frustration, stripping away the song’s inane “I can’t get no, a-no-no-no” chorus and leaving a brooding sensuality in its place. In her hands, this all-too-familiar Stones anthem is reborn with a real sexiness.

From album’s beginning, you are struck by Marshall’s remarkable ability to create an intense immediacy and depth with every word she sings, making her compelling in much the same way as the great Billie Holiday. Far from being a one dimensional or derivative singer, she covers a wide emotional and vocal range, from the twangy down-home levity of “Salty Dog” to the crooning sensuality of “Wild Is The Wind.”

With its many different currents, this is a mood album only in the sense that all of its songs are spare and expressive. Taken as a whole, the album leaves you throbbing with a delicious melancholy approaching that of Nick Drake’s Pink Moon. Taken individually, each song is a self-contained universe of expression and meaning, pulling you in and demanding your undivided attention. Quietly spiritual, The Covers Record is one of the most heartfelt and original examples of how best to appropriate other peoples’ songs.

Date: 1972
Release: POLYGRAM #810314
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Laid-back, Southern-tinged, white-boy groove music from the early 70s. Cale is best known for having penned a string of hits covered by Eric Clapton, including “Cocaine” and “After Midnight.” His own recordings have largely been overlooked and forgotten. This album captures Cale in his most creative period, and reveals why his obscure sound is so often imitated by those in the know.

Really flows like an album should, with its own distinctly mellow vibe. This is music perfect for creaky old porches, rocking chairs, and hound dogs. The band shuffles along with a grooving country-blues edge that defines Cale’s unmistakable sound. His nimble guitar playing and mumbled singing style blend soulfully together on such songs as “I’ll Kiss the World Goodbye” and “Right Down Here.”

An understated guitarist of formidable talents, Cale steps out on Muddy Water‘s “Mo Jo” and his own tasteful “Changes.” The standout track is “Soulin’,” whose name really says it all. His songwriting skills shine on “Lies,” a gritty lament about a no-good, two-timing woman. All in all, Really is a totally relaxed and loosely jamming session by one of the lesser known greats of the 70s.

Date: September 24, 2002 (release)
Release: Sub Pop #600
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Iron and Wine is the obscure name adopted by singer/songwriter Samuel Beam for his self-recorded, back-porch leaning, lo-fi, one-man band. As the story goes, someone with pull at Sub-Pop Records came across a free-CD sampler from a small music magazine featuring one of Beam’s songs. In un-characteristic music exec fashion, the guy fell instantly in love with Beam’s stripped down, lyrically compelling, Southern-folk flavored sound. Beam was soon tracked down in Florida (where he fittingly teaches cinematography at some unnamed university) and offered a record deal. After signing across the dotted line with one of the last great independent labels, Beam dutifully handed over two album’s worth of self-recorded songs.

Rather than bring him into the studio to slick up his production, Sub-Pop wisely decided not to mess with flawed perfection, understanding that when it comes to intimate atmosphere, there’s no place like home. Compiling the best songs from these home demos, The Creek Drank The Cradle features an unadulterated low-fidelity sound steeped in all the glories of four-track tape hiss, ambient room tones, and dust-spiked beams of natural light.

With impressive echoes of Nick Drake‘s Pink Moon, Beam’s gentle voice and spare instrumentation delicately amplify the power of his sad story-songs. Working alone apparently has its benefits, as Beam’s beautifully layered vocal harmonies, Delta-flavored slide guitar, and rudimentary banjo all cohere with a grace seldom found among bands of today.

While some songs are less great than others, the album is free of any weak spots. And there are a few truly amazing songs. Two personal favorites, “Bird Stealing Bread” and “Upwards Over The Mountains,” meaningfully overplayed their way through a recent emotional rough spot of mine. Thoroughly full of this album and hungry for more, I wonder if Sub Pop has any plans on releasing the rest of Iron & Wine’s first recordings. Either way, I hope that Sam Beam is holed up in his living room, busy crafting another bundle of quiet night songs for us to get wrapped up in, warmly against the cold.