Soft Rock for Hard Times
Three West Coast acts revive the sound of Laurel Canyon in a new age of despair
Three West Coast acts revive the sound of Laurel Canyon for a new age.
What is it about dashed expectations that breed singer-songwriters? As the Sixties dream cratered, a golden era peaked in L.A.’s Laurel Canyon — think
Joni, Jackson, Sweet Baby James. Now, a new one is blooming as the American experiment contemplates its doom. Father John Misty’s cosmic snark, Mitski’s aching character studies, Kurt Vile’s transcendent vagueness — all offer strangely comforting proof that hopelessness springs eternal.
This year has plenty more on offer. Phoebe Bridgers’ tenderly spooky debut, Stranger in the Alps, was
followed by last year’s dazzling Crosby, Stills and Nash-style Boygenius EP, cut with kindred aces Lucy Dacus and Julien Baker. Now, the 24-year-old Bridgers has another low-key supergroup. The debut by Better Oblivion Community Center opens in the voice of a seasonal hire on “I Didn’t Know What I Was in For,” searching for meaning in a world so full of pain it can drive a person literally mad. Bridgers is soon joined by BOCC’s other half, Conor Oberst. Twenty-five years in, he’s a touchstone for a new generation, Bridgers in particular. His vocal shiver is now more tremor than seizure; the duo harmonize beautifully, Oberst’s voice often just a brooding floorboard creak behind Bridgers’ brightly bloodshot confidences (see “Chesapeake”). “Big Black Hearts” finds communion in joyously ugly guitar noise, while “Dominos” looks toward a raptness shy of hope, but preferable to numbness.
Like Bridgers, Jessica Pratt is from California, but she’s more desert mystic than stark realist. Pratt was pegged as a folkie (genus freak folk) with 2015’s On Your Own Love
Again, but Quiet Signs is iridescent proof she’s more than that, painting hazy emotional landscapes rooted more in early-Sixties film themes and bossa nova than the decade’s folk revival. Suggesting Karen Dalton or an inversion of Nico circa Chelsea Girl, Pratt’s vocal strangeness may be an acquired taste. But it’s irresistible once acquired.
NoCal rambler Cass McCombs shapeshifts even more. He’s a woodsy abstractionistturned-master-of-vernacular: droning indie pop, baroque choral soul and especially saddreamy folk rock recalling Cali kin Neil Young and Elliott Smith. But the West Coast spirit hovering most prominently on Tip of the Sphere is Jerry Garcia. McCombs covered
“Dark Star” on 2016’s Day of the Dead tribute; here the vibe is late-Seventies Dead, grooves more burbling than rushing, pedal steel recalling Garcia’s un-Nashville style (“Rounder”). But “American Canyon Sutra” suggests Allen Ginsberg and Alan Vega in its indictment of our Walmart culture. And “Sleeping Volcanoes” (which should be titled “The Armageddon Song”) scrambles Babylonian horror and vintage tunecraft with 21st-century deadpan. Like the best of this deceptively chill new wave, McCombs’ music honors the past while steeling itself for the future.