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 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.
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.
Steve Martin’s novelty song “King Tut” contains the line “could’ve won a Grammy.” Now this disc by the actor-comedian is indeed Grammy nominated, in the bluegrass category. A deft banjo picker, Martin gets A-list help from Paul McCartney (who takes the lead vocal on “Best Love”) and the Dixie Chicks (who sing lovely, tight harmonies on the ballad “You”).
Here in the basement of the Espresso Royale on Sixth Street in this land grant university town, amid English Fog lattes and keypad-clatter, in the afternoon before the all-hallows-eve in which Katie, a great-great-et-cetera granddaughter of the townswoman they hanged for the crime of witchcraft, will play a game—homo ludens— of volleyball against the maize-and-blue Michigan Wolverines I draft a missive to the good citizenry of Dorchester as though they might yet happen upon these words, as though their revivified selves were a short gallop from this latitude and longitude, as though their sins of omission and commission might still be forgiven— not just forgotten—by an act of penance that includes a pilgrimage to tonight’s venue and a maniacal cheering for this descendent as she executes (I didn’t invent the language) a perfect play that culminates in (really, I didn’t) a kill. Full stop because I don’t know how to end this letter. So I do what I always do: continue breaking lines and staggering down the page until it’s time to witness more volleyball and cheer like nothing else ever happens or matters.