On his first album since 2008, Sweet employs vinyl in the mastering process to sweeten the sound—a sign of his '60s-pop infatuation. Fans of Girlfriend-era Sweet may wish that this record rocked more; others may find its introspection a sign of growth.
Fans of guitar superslinger Phil Keaggy (which include, it is said, the late Jimi Hendrix) know that he's incredible live, the high quality of his studio discs notwithstanding. Here he combines studio precision and live spontaneity as he tackles classic-rock covers ("To Make You Feel My Love," "Here Comes the Sun") and his Christian-music chestnuts ("What a Day," "Salvation Army Band").
Mylo Xyloto strives to be melodic and grandiose, thoughtful and
commercial, a big seller but not a sellout. It's the artistic equivalent
of trying to serve Zeus and mammon, and it doesn't come without risks.
Mark Olson and Gary Louris reunited for a duo record in 2008, but this is the first album they've made together with the Jayhawks in 16 years. The two harmonize like a countrified Simon and Garfunkel, and they write potent songs that stick to your synapses.
First portions to my husband, then the boys. I eat what’s left behind, grow willowy, more like a girl than I ever was.
My clothes curtain, I think of cutting the excess to sell, for what? There’s nothing left in this town, we are the only harvest to ripen white in the wind.
My husband says sometimes God allows pain to cause us to move. I pack our things.
The last cow to calf was three springs past, and now I boil its bones to make broth.
Naomi’s sojourn Ruth 1:1
The grain fled from our hands. Harvest brought no yield. Each day turned to us—empty faces, empty faces, and our sons’ mouths gaped wider. My fat of childbirth negotiated to rib, our children’s bellies bloat. I cut the oil by half and by half til we are eating water, some dirt. Hunger becomes the greater God; it gnaws us like a bone. We leave our home.
What they say of you, they say of me, the girls you were a girl with, the men you did not choose, I will not choose. I will carry what you carry, like a child, on my hip that has never born a child, heavy as a child who will not follow your voice. Your home built of sorrow will be my sorrow, the wasp pressed against the inside of the pane, my pane, the slackening of your skin, loosened skin around the eyes, will be my loosening, your hair gone colorless will be my own lack of color. Your cup of bitter waters is my cup of bitter waters and together we will drink it, until the bowl has gone dry as a skull.