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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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.

The post Neko Case: The Worse Things Get, The Harder I Fight, The Harder I Fight, The More I Love You appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

There is a certain feeling that, this time around, Camera Obscura are giving us the best they have to offer. It’s clear they’re not comfortable with maintaining the same sound they always have, opting instead to grow and feel comfortable with that growth. What’s interesting is that, despite the fact that they are engineering increasingly perfect recordings, Camera Obscura feels uncomfortable with that and wants to mix it up and get a renewed vision for what it means to make music in 2013. It’s a statement, and a darned good one.

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