You folks call the music you play “Cosmic Country”. Describe how that style came to be. How would you describe it to somebody who’s never heard of SUSTO?

We used the term “cosmic country”  early on, but I’m not sure we would use that anymore. I felt like it fit what we were trying to do with the first record, we were going for a type of country that was both rough around the edges & far out.

Thinking in terms of the new album, I haven’t really thought of it as a “cosmic country” album until this interview, but I guess in a lot of ways, that description fits & I’m Fine Today better than the self-titled album. There are country or alt-country undertones throughout the album, but it’s wrapped in all these different genres to help keep it fresh and (we hope) interesting. It’s a fusion of roots, electronic, rock, and world music.

& I’m Fine Today is your sophomore album. Now that you’ve been playing cosmic country for a couple of years, have you met any imitators yet?

I wouldn’t say we have encountered imitators, although I hope that we have inspired some people. I mean, I think one of the coolest things about music is that everyone is influenced by everyone. We definitely have some heavy influencers, and it would be an honor for someone to consider themselves influenced by what we are doing.

& I’m Fine Today is a big step up from your debut. It feels like a whole other level, from the songwriting to the production. What’s changed since SUSTO came out in 2014?

I think the more time you spend doing something, the better you get at it. Plus, we actually had the time and money to make this record pretty much exactly like we wanted — within reason. I think that’s why there is such progress between the two albums. I still love our first record and I’m thankful for it, because people really latched onto it. And it made it possible for us to make & I’m Fine Today, to move forward and get better.

I think that continuing the conversation and making art for the sake of social progress is worth pissing a few people off.

You guys are from South Carolina, and I know your hearts are there. In the current political climate, what’s the response been to some of these topical songs, like “Gay in the South”, in the southern states you call home?

The reaction has been what we’d expected. A lot of people are very supportive and are happy to hear music that addresses real social/cultural issues at hand. Others have definitely pushed back. People have tweeted at me saying that I’m going to hell. Some of my family members have stopped talking to me. But you know what, I don’t care. I knew that would happen but I think continuing the conversation and making art for the sake of social progress is worth pissing a few people off.

Trump and others have made a lot of us feel like there are two very distinct sides in this country. I just don’t think that is true. There are definitely far right and far left ends of the spectrum but I think we have a lot of good people in this country (and in the whole world for that matter) that want to find common ground.

There’s a lot of fear mongering out there, a lot of “us vs them” mentality, and our goal as a band is to help combat that. We want to spread love and respect for humanity. We are trying to be a different voice than what people hear on the news or read on Facebook. Hope is a powerful thing. People told me when I was young that, when I got older, I’d realize that the world can’t be changed — that it is how it is and it will always be that way. Those people were fucking wrong about the world and wrong about me.

What’s a day look like for you when you’re on tour?

(laughing) It’s usually pretty boring. We spend a lot of time in the van just getting from one place to the next, or in hotels. This tour we have had a lot more press stuff to do, like this interview + radio, TV & a few in-store performances at record stores, that helps break up the monotony. Still, the best part of everyday is playing the show. That’s why we’re all really out here and that’s what we really enjoy.

We are trying to be a different voice than what people hear on the news or read on Facebook. Hope is a powerful thing.

Any current albums on repeat?

Still listening to a lot of favorites from 2016 (Whitney, Jonny Fritz, JPKS). But I’m looking forward to some upcoming releases this year!

As a band, what kind of legacy do you want to leave?

I hope that we can bring some joy to the world and help bring about some real positive change. Big or small, we just want to help if we can.

Thanks for spending some time with us, Justin!

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A critique aims to consider the art’s merits, but it also wants to consider its place in the wider scope of form. In the case of music, a proper critical review should discuss the meaning of the music, and its relevance to either an artist’s oeuvre or general society.

There are occasions, though, when critical thinking is pointless because, well, nobody cares — and it’s irrelevant. Michael Bay movies (Transformers), Dan Brown novels (The Da Vinci Code), or Pokémon video games come to mind.

But today I’m adding Lisa LeBlanc’s name to that list.

Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen? is an insanely fun album that I can’t possibly critique. I don’t know how to describe the magic spell it puts on me, but its delightful mix of Americana, old-school rock ‘n’ roll, and garage rock attitude hits me right where it hurts.

The truth is right in the track names. “I Love You, I Don’t Love You, I Don’t Know” is delivered with all the panache you’d expect. “Could You Wait ’Til I’ve Had My Coffee?” is basically a constant barrage of delightful rock attitude. And yes, the country-style cover of “Ace of Spades” is perfect — and Lisa LeBlanc’s voice is amazing.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk a bit about her voice. LeBlanc is an excellent singer with the room-filling power of Metallica’s James Hetfield, and all the lazy attitude of Lou Reed in his prime. Her punk-y voice is a delightful antecedent to her music, which is often twangy and country-like — even if she doesn’t fully embrace the genre.

It’s hard to categorize LeBlanc’s style, actually. Most people consider her folk, but she’s the first to acknowledge her rock and metal roots. She’s dubbed her music “folk trash”, which I don’t think fits her — but it does get the point across.

Her quieter tracks (which are rarer), like “5748 km”, are more apt to fit that term. But those quiet tracks are rare. Songs like “Dead Man’s Flats” seem quiet, but are insistent on their astounding breakneck paces. Others, like “(Self-Proclaimed) Voodoo Women” start slow, but develop roaring rock personalities in their latter halves. (These tracks aren’t unlike the epic metal tracks that doubtlessly inspired them.)

The point of all this is that it’s hard to call Lisa LeBlanc folk rock. She’s dangerously close to post-punk, or garage rock — if she’s not there already. And as her band gets louder, so does her sound.

If anything, Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen? demonstrates LeBlanc’s completed transition from “folk trash” to “rock ‘n’ roll diva.” It’s not going to light the world on fire for its social commentary, but it’s immune to these criticisms because LeBlanc’s music is just so much darned fun. It makes you want to air guitar, dance, bang your head around, and cheer.

If you’re looking for a record that does that — a record that knows how to have fun and reinterpret the attitudes of the past with new sounds — look no further than Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen?. A rollicking, rocking success by any measure.

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But despite her ability to craft country music that tops the charts, it’s her solo work that feels most expressionistic. The Bird & the Rifle, which is her tenth record by my count, largely tells stories about women who can’t escape their negative relationships with bad men. (As a man, I don’t feel totally qualified to write about this, but I’m going to give it my best shot anyway.)

At her best, McKenna’s songs are powerful regardless if you understand what she’s talking about. “If Whiskey Were a Woman” hits like a punch in the guy. “Old Men Young Women” feels like a softly-sung plea. “Halfway Home” has lyrics that strike: “Calling the dreaming girls looking for a saviour; he ain’t gonna save you.”

“Wreck You” opens the album with McKenna’s voice, singing “I get dressed in the dark each day,” almost silent as the instruments slowly come in. Produced by Dave Cobb (the producer also responsible for recent efforts by Sturgill Simpson), The Bird & the Rifle has a disarming authenticity to it. It feels like McKenna is singing you these songs by the fire, sharing her story with you in trust.

Because of that nearly-alarming sense of intimacy, the album is better than it has any right to be. It’s the perfect combination: intimate, crystal-clear production paired with country-influenced Americana folk and great storytelling. The Bird & the Rifle sounds like a songwriter at the top of her game. As a result, the album is approachable despite its heavy subject matter.

The Bird & the Rifle is also an album of immense substance in its stories. It’s not just that they’re emotionally compelling; they also feel like a call to become better people. As a man, it feels wrong to comment on the obvious gender bias of the album; most of the songs are written from the perspective of the broken woman. These stories are all tragedies, but they’re also meant to be lessons.

As a result, The Bird & the Rifle elevates McKenna to a place of compassion — a rare quality in today’s music. During the title track, McKenna sings “He’s afraid if she flies, she’ll never come home again. Something about the bird in her spreading those wings always bring the rifle out in him.”

It’s a single moment among many that feel at once aware and sensitive of the situations women everywhere are in every day. The Bird & the Rifle is an album that should be celebrated because it celebrates women, and because it has compassion for them.

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Perhaps Louris and the rest of the band took that as a challenge, but the album feels distinctly focused despite it being a potentially late-career releases from the Minneapolis. Louis has been served as the band’s sole frontman before, and has proven himself capable, but the second loss of Mark Olson makes his leadership feel even more important than before.

To be clear, the band delivers here. On occasion, The Jayhawks remind me of an era of rock that has long since passed us by. Pretty Roses in Your Hair reminds me of Donovan’s Hurdy Gurdy Man and Rod Stewart’s (I Know) I’m Losing You — not thanks to its pace, which is lethargic by comparison, but thanks to its tonal qualities. The band simply sounds vintage.

A large amount of this is owed to the album’s production style, which is not vintage but rather dense: Paging Mr. Proust is not afraid to be thickly layered, well-executed rock music. While it’s much more country than Donovan or Rod Stewart, the band plays with many of the same elements. Some guitar solos, if it weren’t for the production quality, would be buried amidst the guitar licks. The vocal harmonies are reminiscent of both Beach Boys and Allman Brothers, yet remain consistently original and brightly executed.

For many people, the music will be perhaps too brightly executed and optimistic. Quiet Corners & Empty Spaces feels charming to the point of being annoying, and it’s an admittedly unusual start to the album. The album’s best tracks tend to come along in its mid-section, where the band is playing to all of their strengths without any expectations attached. Songs like Ace and Isabel’s Daughter are remarkable in their conception and flow — not to mention each band member’s individual abilities.

That’s a great summation of where it feels like The Jayhawks are as a band: when the expectations are lowered, it feels as if they rise to the occasion and surpass them. Nine albums into a sterling (if under-rated and poorly acknowledged) career, perhaps they should be given the benefit of the doubt.

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The opening track kicks off with a heavy, meaty riff that’s purer gold. At some points, the band sounds like rock-influenced country music of decades past. Don’t reminds me of country rock as much as it reminds me of The Roxettes, complete with a nasty guitar riff in the verse that’s just as heavy as anything Mötley Crüe ever put out.

That style, going back and forth between 80s rock and country twang, is something the sisters seem very comfortable with. The album’s strongest track, When God Closes a Door, perfectly captures the sound of a Wild West bar fight. It’s partially the guitar parts, but it’s also Rebecca Lovell’s brilliant vocal work: she doesn’t sing the obvious melodies, but she notes she hits feel perfect in hindsight. Her singing gives the songs a sense of atmosphere they wouldn’t have previously.

Trouble in Mind is clearly influenced by the Black Keys, with a riff and vocal line that feels like it was lifted from Brothers.

The album’s pacing, which is decidedly front heavy, can prove to be problematic when the Americana tracks from Kin, the band’s previous output, get tagged on to the end. Tracks like Stubborn Love and Jailbreak feel much less energetic than the rockier outings on Reskinned, and instead of looking for a new tracking that would make the new material part of a bigger whole, the label’s taken the easy way out.

Perhaps the new material would have made a better EP. But it begs the questions: is this the last time we’ll get to so clearly contrast two sides of Larkin Poe? What direction are the Lovell sisters taking the band next? If nothing else, Reskinned gets us excited to hear more from Larkin Poe soon.

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But more importantly, the songs on The Very Last Day are great songs. Hades Pleades furiously opens the record with foot-stomping, aggressive glee. Millsap’s performance is completely unbridled, howling like an animal throughout the song with a seemingly unstoppable energy. Not every track carries that level of intensity — Hands Up (a song about a robbery) is another great example of high-speed rock and roll — but Millsap sets the bar for his vocal work on the opening track.

It’s Millsap’s voice that undeniably carries The Very Last Day. On the traditional blues song, You Gotta Move, he screams like Robert Plant on the first Led Zeppelin record. On Wherever You Are, his triumphant howl during the chorus elevates the song from its standard blues rock/American riff.

Lyrically and vocally, Millsap is a revelation. He’s confident and aware of his roots. In fact, if The Very Last Day has one concrete thought throughout, it’s that Millsap wants to show off his roots. Tribulation Hymn sounds like a traditional hymn, and imitates the style perfectly. Millsap’s lyrical genius takes the songs to new places.

Millsap is the artist who’s bigger than the sum of his parts. In a lot of small ways, he feels like the future of the folk rock, Americana genre. The Very Last Day is refreshing and exciting, despite its somewhat bleak topic matter.

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I’ve heard some publications herald this record as the best album of the decade, which is pure link-bait. Calling any record “the best of the decade” when we’re only four years into it is pre-emptive to the point of idiocy. Whether the album stands the test of time or not is irrelevant. This is the album we needed today, not six years from now.

With that in mind, listen to Under The Pressure, Red Eyes, Eyes To The Wind, and Burning to get a taste of what Lost in the Dream is all about. For many people, this will be their album of the year, and I doubt that claim is hyperbolic.

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The real complaint a lot of people have about Magipie and the Dandelion is that it sounds overproduced, or more like the Avetts are buried in the production. I can hear that, but I think people are wrong. This is The Avett Brothers at both their most energetic and their most melancholic. When they’re energetic, they’re on top of their game.

Open Ended Life is such a beautiful opener and filled with the sort of energy I’ve come to expect from these guys when they really let loose. It also sounds like traditional ho-down country at occasion, which some will find nauseating. I think it’s refreshing. Another Is Waiting is one of those fast-paced rockers that I swear I’ve heard the Avetts do before. But at the same time, it’s fresh. It’s youthful. And youthful is definitely the vibe these boys are going for with this record. Skin And Bones fits the Avett Brothers quite well.

When they slow down, despite a slow start with some earlier slow tracks, the Avetts still really know how to perform. Vanity is just perfect. Bring Your Love To Me is just a sweet, calm song (and it sounds great live). The Clearness Is Gone is just sad, but its organ sound reminds me of the older Avett Brothers stuff in the best way possible. But I think the saddest song, the one that might induce some actual tears from a couple listeners, could be Part From Me.

Some people talk about how The Avett Brothers feel like they’re not breaking any new ground with this record. Other people, like me, aren’t tired of them yet. I don’t need them to break new ground. I just need them to keep being awesome. This is well worth the listen.

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Every track on this album is great, and I’d love to talk about each one individually, but in the interest of brevity, I want to let you know Man is the single. It’s clever, but not my favourite track on the record. When it comes to favourites, I dare you to listen to Nearly Midnight, Honolulu without your jaw dropping, with these lyrics delivered a cappella:

Hey, little kid that I saw at the bus stop one day. It was nearly midnight in Honolulu. We were waiting for the shuttle to take us to the aeroplane, when your mother said, like I couldn’t hear her, she said: “Get the fuck away from me! Why don’t you ever shut up? Get the fuck away from me!” … They won’t believe you when you say, “My mother, she did not love me.”

I could go on a little longer about this record, but there’s no point. It’s just amazing from start to finish. If you want more, check out City Swan and Where Did I Leave That Fire, but do yourself a favour and listen to the album all the way through. Simply remarkable.

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Every single review I read of this record is awful. It’s all “John Mayer throws women away and half the songs are about ex-girlfriends” and all that kind of stuff other less-popular musicians don’t have to put up with. But isn’t that what blues is about? It’s a relief to hear Mayer stick to what he knows.

I’m of the belief that John Mayer’s always been a good songwriter, despite some of his lesser records. While Paradise Valley is no Continuum, it’s his best since. It’s got a little blues, a little country, a lot of Americana, and a little more of an optimistic outlook than songs like Dreaming With a Broken Heart.

Want some great tracks from the album? Check out Wildfire, a nice intro to Mayer’s newest stylistic country. Waitin’ On the Day and Paper Doll are the most old-school like Mayer cuts. My personal favourite, I Will Be Found (Lost at Sea), is beautiful, and Badge and Gun is as breezy Americana as you could ever expect.

The real talk of the record is Who You Love, which features Katy Perry. We’re all talking about it because Perry’s on it. But the song sucks, naturally, despite Katy’s less in-your-face vocal mannerisms. It’s not a good fit for her sexually grandiose style — Perry singing softly doesn’t feel natural. It’s the stuck-up thumb on an otherwise great record.

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