rescuing musical virtue in distress.
There was a time when the term pop music didn’t conjure images of air-brushed karaoke kids, dance routines and banal repetitive, nonsensical lyrics. A time when pop and rock were merely extremes on a sliding scale rather than mutually exclusive forms. A time when melody was king, hook was the be-all-and-end-all and my Icicle Works... Continue Reading →
Join the dots between the hazy American dreamtime of the likes of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young and the pastoral drifts of more modern keepers of the sacred hallucinogenic flame such as My Morning Jacket and you form a line that points directly at Israel Nash. Unashamedly referencing the cosmic Americana of a distant past, he walks... Continue Reading →