There are several shades of weariness in Scott Nolanâ€™s latest album. Heâ€™s exhausted by a lifetime of emotional weight on his shoulders, both his own, and that which heâ€™s assumed, and his soul seems worn by having to tell these stories. Itâ€™s a tone that effectively brings the listener into both the confidence of the story and of the singer. Nolan sings of emotional dead ends and the positive expectations that make them all the more depressing, drawing fragmented details that reveal a shared picture in the chorus. He opens the album with a canny observation of the dichotomy between temporality and immortality, surrendering to the inevitability of change while still seeking to guide its course. He may feint to fatalism, but thereâ€™s a current of hope animating his songs.
Recorded in Alabama with the band Willie Sugarcapps, the tempos are contemplative, almost tentative in spots, as the group discovered the songs live, without rehearsal. The result taps into the slower pace of the South, and turns the session into an intimate performance. Nolan draws on childhood nostalgia for â€œFire Up,â€ but itâ€™s tinted blue by innocence lost. Grayson Capps opens â€œCurl & Curvesâ€ inhaling and exhaling long notes on his harmonica, building up the nerve of Nolanâ€™s quest for love – something that turns hoarse with sleepless expectation on â€œWhen Can I See You Again.â€ The album is beautifully crafted without being overworked, and closes with a pair of melancholy portraits that touch on the moods of John Prine and Neil Young. Nolan may be haggard, but heâ€™s not defeated, and his music harbors a spark of hope. [Â©2017 Hyperbolium]