Finally, Guy Clark has received a thorough tribute that lives up to his mastery and honors the way he does things: live, spontaneous, without studio trickery to supplant the energy that players create in the moment.
The first question to ask about a Paul McCartney standards album is why it took him so long. The guy’s always been fascinated by the American Songbook, and unlike some pop singers who have taken detours to the land of jazzy old tunes and swinging little combos, Sir Paul has a powerful and chameleonic voice.
Pinning down this Chicago-based group’s sound is difficult. But it’s easy to name resemblances: the progressive song structure and guitar work of Yes; the spoken-word interludes of Frank Zappa and Ken Nordine; the slithery funk of 1970s David Bowie.
The Minneapolis-based Rundman has built an unlikely career as a scruffy Lutheran rocker, tackling scripture and spirituality with finesse that transcends the vapid Christian rock scene. This disc surveys Rundman’s career from 2000 to the present, with cuts from the 52-song Sound Theology project such as “Carol of the Bells,” which celebrates a cute girl in the handbell choir.
Dion, a Rock and Roll Hall of Famer, might have little left to prove. But the devout Catholic singer-songwriter turns in a feisty effort on this blues disc.
Richard Colligan, a Lutheran church musician, yields two uplifting discs and 30 songs inspired by the Psalms. The overall feel varies from minor-key folk to gospel-tinged rock. It’s anchored by Colligan’s voice, a creamy, sublime tenor reminiscent of Jars of Clay’s Dan Haseltine.
The same morning I press my shorn chest flat against an x-ray machine, my sister pushes from her body a baby girl. Praise God, whose hand passes over itself like river currents as it gives and takes, pulls one film from the whirring machine while pushing in a new, unprinted slide. Praise God for this fearful doubling, over which I will sometimes weep and curse. Little breathing at the still whole breast of my sister, little gold seed of death awakening as the first sun touches its tendrils.
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