in performance: george thorogood and the destroyers

george thorogood.

After he and the rest of his road schooled Destroyers band had ripped through the boogie-centric bounce of “Get a Haircut,” George Thorogood took a moment to flash the electric grin that has become as synonymous with his live shows as his slide-savvy guitar work and bask in the fevered response a crowd assembled earlier tonight at the Lexington Opera House was awarding him.

Amid the ovation, one crowd patron began shouting out song requests with a hint of agitation that suggested it was time for the music to proceed. Thorogood would have none of it. Remarkably fit and tirelessly jubilant at age 67, he knew the moment was his.

“It took me 40 years to get up here, partner,” Thorogood replied to the fan. “I’m going to enjoy every sweet second of this.”

As well as should. But the 90 performance, which never faltered from its thundering, smartly paced and potently rhythmic flight pattern, was no indulgence. Thorogood has long been a disciple of the blues and boogie pioneers that came before him, having fashioned several of their staples into streamlined, loud-and-proud rock ‘n’ roll party pieces for a younger and – let’s just go ahead and say it – whiter generation. That explains how a jump blues gem like Rudy Toombs’ “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” first popularized by Amos Wilburn in the 1950s and more famously by John Lee Hooker in the 1960s was essentially appropriated by Thorogood in the 1970s. Tonight, it was still a boogie tune at heart. But the carnival-like rock spirit the guitarist continues to invigorate the song with has lost none of its immediacy or accessible cheer.

Ditto for Hank Williams’ “Move It On Over” and Elmore James’ “Madison Blues,” two very different roots music treasures Thorogood all but made his own four decades ago as celebratory showcases of untrendy, forthright performance machismo.

Mostly, though, a Thorogood show is about groove. As guitar heavy as tonight’s program was, the electricity summoned was very elemental. Songs were constructed around riffs, hooks and a level of rhythmic propulsion that prided itself on being uncomplicated. Sometimes the groove was so inherent in the song that Thorogood and the Destroyers simply hitched a ride to the obvious melodic gusto. Case in point: the insatiable beat behind the Bo Diddley classic “Who Do You Love?” that was piloted largely by longstanding Destroyers drummer Jeff Simon. Other tunes, like Mickey Bones’ “Twenty Dollar Gig,” the only work Thorogood put down his guitar for, yielded a more ensemble-generated drive.

Thorogood, of course, played the role of party host as readily as he did that of groove merchant. Early in the show, he joked how the Destroyers were all out on bail for the evening. Near evening’s end, he remarked how a talk with “management” during the encore break resulted in the Opera House’s performance curfew being lifted.

Nice try, George. That comment prompted a glance at the watch, which read 9:02. Youthful as the show was in spirit, it turned out there was one inevitability of age even rock ‘n’ roll couldn’t mask.


in performance: darrell scott

darrell scott. photo by jim mcguire

Darrell Scott walked onstage last night at Willie’s Locally Known with zero sense of ceremony. Performing without a band, he strapped on an electric guitar and casually test drove a few licks with a sensibility far jazzier than what we might expect out of such a championed Americana stylist. Then the tune veered into swing and the groove, still decidedly jazzy, became more fluid. The packed house slowly began to realize Scott wasn’t soundchecking and curtailed their chatter. What resulted was a summery invitation called “Head South,” the first tune from the first album (1997’s “Aloha From Nashville”) released by the Eastern Kentucky native.

But any seasonal sentiment darkened with the two songs that followed – a stirring and still harrowing “You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive,” steeped in sturdy blues and empowered by the startlingly natural guitar play that distinguished the rest of the two hour concert, and a considerably more reflective “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” The latter served as a dual eulogy for Texas songsmith and longtime friend Guy Clark, who died a year ago Wednesday, and Chris Cornell, who Scott shared a recording session with. He died two days ago.

All that came just within the first 20 minutes of the performance.

The rest of the evening was devoted to a loose-fitting array of songs with vivid folk and storytelling imagery colored by extended, intricate exhibitions on electric and acoustic guitar that enforced the fact Scott remains as potent an instrumentalist as he is a songwriter.

Several of his compositions possessed a gorgeous simplicity, but perhaps none more so than the title tune to 2010’s “A Crooked Road” album. Dressed with a melody that initially suggested The Beatles’ “Blackbird” (“if you steal, steal from the best”), the tune quickly revealed a more markedly wistful lyricism that gently supported the worldly but affirmative feel of the narrative (“I see the straight and narrow when I walk a crooked road”).

From the other side of the road came a ghostly reading of Hank Williams’ “Ramblin’ Man,” where Scott’s voice would rise like an incantatory yodel and then fade like the “old train rollin’ down the line” depicted in the song’s opening verse.

Scott turned to fretless banjo for the finale version of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” summoning a light, antique feel that merged the performance’s generations of sounds and style into a sing-a-long full of back porch intimacy.


chris cornell, 1964-2017

chris cornell.

Long before the rock mainstream co-opted the term “grunge” as a fashionable means to market a punk/metal-ish collective of artists pouring out of the Northwest, there was Soundgarden. The band was one of the formative voices of its generation, one empowered with garage rock smarts, youthful gusto and unapologetically brazen immediacy. At the center of that cyclone was Chris Cornell.

Cornell’s death on Tuesday is disturbing on a number of levels, not the least of which was its ruling this afternoon as a suicide by hanging. He was 52, an elder in rock ‘n’ roll terms, yet what a terribly premature age to leave the world with. But there was also the image, perhaps a naïve one to those of us outside the inner workings of an artist, that all seemed well – enviable, even – with his career. He managed the impossible by balancing performance lives as a solo artist as well as with a reconstituted Soundgarden, which regrouped in 2010 after a 13 year split.

Then again, how can an audience member even begin to comprehend what plays out in the mind of an artist they adulate, especially during that performer’s offstage life? That’s ultimately what makes Cornell’s passing so disheartening.

I first saw Cornell sometime in the late 1980s – best guess is 1989 – when Soundgarden played the long gone Short St. rock club The Wrocklage (Shakespeare & Co. now occupies that building). Memories are scattered of that performance, mostly because I knew so little of the band at the time. But I was in the minority. With the beginnings of an indie rock revolution already taking hold, word on the band has already spread. I just hadn’t gotten the memo. Outside of Son Volt’s 1995 debut at The Wrocklage, I have never been in a club so packed with patrons as I was at the Soundgarden show. But Son Volt was a folk act compared to Cornell and company. What I do remember was how his voice – that atomic, operatic voice – seemed to rip the room right off the floorboards.

Flash forward to May 2007, almost a decade ago to the week. Cornell was a solo act playing the Louisville Palace one day after the release of “Carry On,” his first album following the breakup of Audioslave, the Los Angeles band he fronted with Rage Against the Machine guitarist Tom Morello.

This was the evening that stuck with me. While Cornell was promoting new music, the two hour performance was essentially a career overview covering Soundgarden tunes, Audioslave music and even a few songs from Temple of the Dog, the famed but short lived early ‘90s Seattle band that also boasted several members of the soon-to-be-formed Pearl Jam.

And as an unassuming nod to his star status, Cornell also performed “You Know My Name,” the theme song he wrote and recorded for the first James Bond film of the Daniel Craig era (and one of the finest Bond movies overall), “Casino Royale,” which had become an international hit the previous fall.

Cornell established his credentials at the onset of the evening, tearing into the show-opening “Spoonman” – the lead single from Soundgarden’s 1994 breakthrough album, “Superunknown.” Hearing him blast away on the songs affirmed how much the enduring Seattle bands of that era (Pearl Jam included) owed to Cornell’s intensity as well as to his honest, even good natured stage demeanor.

This wasn’t some staged presentation of rock/metal rage. The music was triumphant and real. It may have come from a different, darker generation, but it addressed the same restlessness that fueled every rock ‘n’ roll generation before and since.

in performance: peter rowan/john jorgenson bluegrass band (j2b2)

peter rowan. photo by ronald rietman

Given the thematic distances separating Peter Rowan and the John Jorgenson Bluegrass Band (J2B2) on their newest recordings, one might assume the only thing their co-billed appearances earlier tonight at the Lyric Theatre and Cultural Arts Center for the WoodSongs Old-Time Radio Hour had in common would have been an arsenal of stringed instruments. In the end, though, one inherently shared sound brought both acts together.
Any supposed distance was suggested by the songs Rowan shared from his new “My Aloha” album, a record that explores links between Hawaiian and American roots music. If his performances had adhered more to the Honolulu recording sessions with noted native artists that made up the album, then, yes, this would have been an evening of contrasts. But as Rowan performed either by himself or with members of J2B2 as accompanists, what you heard was far more in line with the bluegrass-bred Americana music Rowan has cultivated for decades.
Sure, one of the newer tunes, “My Aloha (Appalachian Mountain Home)” reached out from one shore to another in its storyline to become possibly the only song ever written to reference Mother Maybelle Carter and Queen Lili’uokalani side by side. Similarly, “My Blue Hula Girl,” aided by J2B2 guitarist Patrick Sauber, sported a high, spirited Rowan vocal that suggested the yodeling that has frequented his more Americana inclined songs through the years.

john jorgenson. photo by piper ferguson.

Jorgenson’s crew, aided by veteran West Coast songsmith (and the bandleader’s one-time co-hort in the Desert Rose Band) Herb Pedersen, covered all the bluegrass essentials, from the three part harmonies that drove “Beautiful Sound” to the brisk instrumental sparring during “Ridin’ on the L&N” (with guitarist Jorgenson playing predominantly on mandolin). But other tunes – Paul Craft’s “Midnight Flyer,” the Emmylou Harris/Guy Clark eulogy “Bang the Drum Slowly” and even Pedersen’s oft-covered, road weary weeper “Wait a Minute” steered J2B2 closer to a very natural, folk-fueled country blend.
With all the promotional focus on new albums, it was a treat to hear Rowan toss in two of his signature tunes, “Panama Red” and “Midnight Moonlight,” as full collaborations with J2B2. Rowan could have sleepwalked through both works if he chose to and still won over the crowd. But whether it was the fresh instrumental fire Jorgensen’s crew triggered or Rowan’s own ageless performance vigor, both songs reflected a sense of onstage camaraderie that no stylistic or thematic demarcation could dilute.

The John Jorgenson Bluegrass Band (J2B2) performs again on May 9 at the Kentucky Coffeetree Café, 235 W. Broadway in Frankfort (7 p.m., $25).


in performance: roughhousing

jack wright of roughhousing.

About the only hint of definition Jack Wright offered prior to last night’s Outside the Spotlight performance by Roughhousing at Broomwagon Bikes + Coffee was that the group was equally at home spelling its name with either one word or two. Beyond that, the free jazz trio was presented as a blank canvas that was soon painted with color and noise over two Derby evening sets played against the storefront’s windows, outside of which a spectacular post-rain sunset offered artful décor all its own.

A veteran saxophonist and improviser from Philadelphia, Wright was perhaps the most accessible voice within Roughhousing. With acoustic bassist Evan Lipson (who was also with Wright at his last OTS concert, an April 2015 date with the trio Wrest) and guitarist Zachary Darrup coercing a vocabulary of abstract and essentially unnatural sounds out of their instruments by slapping them, punching them and inserting all manner of devices over and under their strings, Wright sat quite placidly in the center conjuring more patient musicality from soprano and, eventually, alto saxophone. As each set was entirely improvised, any lyrical or even compositional sensibility was absent. But his tone was remarkably inviting all the same. There were a few dissonant honks and corrosive whispers, but mostly the reed music sounded like a fractured mantra with rolls of notes that bounced about briefly before being recalled, reshaped and sent on their way again. Wright varied his tone on occasion by playing the open bell of the sax against his leg. But the meditative feel of his playing never wavered.

Lispon, though a far more aggressive player, often seemed to play in tandem with Wright, especially through elongated, bowed lines that oddly complimented the alto sax passages near the end of the first set. In contrast, Darrup seemed in his own universe, using the guitar more as a percussive device. His ideas for coloring the trio’s soundscapes were discarded almost as quickly as they were triggered. Add to that a constant tinkering with the amplifier and what resulted sounded tentative and often intrusive – an uncertain electric jolt to a more naturally uneasy acoustic exchange that probably would have worked equally well, if not better, had guitar been jettisoned altogether.


chris stapleton’s round 2 ignites on ‘vol. 1’

chris stapleton.

At the half-way point of his sublime sophomore album “From a Room: Volume 1,” Chris Stapleton attempts to rattle the cage of a relationship – in all likelihood, a marriage – long steeped in domestic purgatory. During a sobering tune called “Either Way,” both parties keep up appearances to the outside world but live a wholly separated existence, talking only “when the monthly bills are due.” Then, as the song reaches its chorus, the stark denouement is reached. “You can go, you can stay,” Stapleton sings in that now familiar, soul-inscribed country voice. “I won’t love you either way.”

Now, here’s the kicker. Even if another Nashville songwriter could have designed a song of similarly unsentimental torment, they would have weighed it down with strings and other obvious anthemic devices to make sure it was a weeper of cinematic proportions. What Stapleton and producer Dave Cobb do is let the song essentially sing itself. All you hear is Stapleton’s singing, which packs the potency of a cyclone, and a lone acoustic guitar. In short, the song is left to bleed before your ears with raw, uncompromising urgency.

“Either Way” also serves as a crossroads for “From a Room: Volume 1.” It’s a line of demarcation separating music of unvarnished country tradition from sounds that soar into heavier soul and R&B terrain, territory the Lexington-born, Paintsville-raised artist is as versed in as the Nashville lexicon that earned him a glowing reputation as a songwriter and, more recently, performer.

The country material is pretty comprehensive in tone and thematic intent. The opening “Broken Halos” turns country outlaw references inside out to become a coarse affirmation that preaches patience. “Don’t go looking for the reasons, don’t go asking Jesus why,” Stapleton sings in a mood as contemplative as it is pleading. “When I’m meant to know the answers, they’ll belong to the by and by.”

A cover of the 1982 Willie Nelson hit “Last Thing I Needed First Thing This Morning” (the album’s only non-original tune) blows in like a desert wind, arid but comforting, before “Up to No Good Livin’ strikes up a forlorn waltz as it unravels the saga of a reveler (“People call me the Picasso of painting the town”) and his hard won redemption.

But the latter half of “From a Room, Volume 1” turns the lights way down. “I Was Wrong” is all after hours blues – dangerous, electric and refreshing ragged – while “Without Your Love” settles into deeper, darker and more quietly desperate terrain. After a slight reprieve for the hapless recreation of “Them Stems” the record reaches rock bottom with the closing “Death Row,” a prisoner’s unapologetic self-eulogy that seeks understanding more than forgiveness against a slow, doomsday groove. Don’t wait for this one on country radio.

Released two years to the day from when the Grammy-winning debut album “Traveler” hit stores to slowly but very surely introduce Stapleton to the masses, ‘From a Room: Volume 1” reflects a very unforced assuredness as it travels two very different paths. One winds around the country traditions at the heart of Stapleton’s songwriting. The other, which utilizes that earthshaking voice, takes him decidedly away from them. It also leaves you hanging, like any good story will, for where such a journey will take him once “Volume 2” rolls our way later this year.

critic’s pick: preservation hall jazz band, ‘so it is’

Give a blindfold listen to the first two tunes on “So It Is” and the act that comes to mind will likely not be the one making the music – the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, purveyor of the most vintage traditions of New Orleans music.

What ignites the album-opening title track is the upright bass of current PHJB chieftain Ben Jaffe, who co-produced “So It Is” with TV on the Radio’s David Sitek and co-wrote all of the record’s seven compositions. That’s the first clue – acoustic bass, not the usual PHJB underpinning of tuba. Then the song loosens into a late night groove propelled by pianist Kyle Roussel that revels in the kind of boppish, lanky cool one might expect out of New York. But all this is a set up for “Santiago,” a work that explodes into an immediate and quite natural Afro-Cuban groove with Roussel, Jaffe and 84 year old saxophonist Charlie Gabriel (who penned the work with Jaffe). There, the secret of “So It Is” reveals itself. Sure, you can detect hints of New Orleans second line drives throughout the album and a touch of Jelly Roll Morton within Roussell’s jovial playing. But that undercurrent of Dixieland swing that distinguished the PHJB up until the last decade? Forget that. The present day lineup is out to conquer the world – or, at least, the stylistic turf of a prominent regional neighbor.

That’s not to say “So It Is” is in any way a sellout. What unfolds is a rugged, organic sound with a strongly boppish approach to ensemble groove and soloing that utilizes the band’s Crescent City heritage as a launch pad rather than a backdrop.

“La Malanga” perhaps best showcases this decidedly non-revivalist approach with a robust bass, piano and percussion attack that propels the PHJB’s four member horn team with a fearsome ensemble bounce. The rampage, in turn, splinters into criss-crossing exchanges that require a monstrous piano break from Roussel to disperse. Prior to that, “Innocence” tempers the album’s tone but not the sentiment with a lush Cuban groove where Roussel jangles away on Wurlitzer.

The journey ends up back in New Orleans with “Mad.” The song’s hand-clapping, brass happy groove fuels the fun with a “gang vocal” spree (the album’s only non-instrumental passage) that will be bouncing around your brain after just one listen. Guaranteed. The tune is like a welcome home party for a conquering hero of a band that saw the sights, absorbed the inspirations and took them back to Crescent City to mix in the musical gumbo that has always been brewing in the backyard.

(The Preservation Hall Jazz Band has been added to the late night lineup at Forecastle in Louisville. It will play a midnight concert on July 15 aboard the Belle of Louisville. For more info, go to

elizabeth cook doesn’t hold back

elizabeth cook.

Elizabeth Cook has never been one to hold back – not in the frank tales she revealed of her life and family during numerous appearances on “The Late Show with David Letterman,” not in the homey yarns she spun on her Sirius XM morning radio show “Apron Strings” and especially not on her soul-baring 2016 album “Exodus of Venus.”

A critically lauded country music renegade who is right at home channeling a subversive rock or folk inspiration if the spirit hits, Cook sees no point in hiding any personal truth, dark or otherwise, from anyone willing to give her songs a listen.

“I’m very forthcoming musically,” said Cook, who returns to town for a solo concert Thursday at The Burl. “That’s kind of the whole point. I just don’t see where I’m doing any service with my artistry if I’m holding back. We’re all here to comfort each other through our experiences and gain a deeper understanding. I mean, it’s sort of my job.”

Cook takes her work quite seriously on “Exodus of Venus,” an album cut in the aftermath of myriad personal hurdles – divorce, the deaths of family members, a family home burning down and a stint in rehab. The effects of each are worn like battle scars in a parade of proud, coarse electric songs whose titles do little to mask their sentiments – “Slow Pain,” “Straightjacket Love,” “Dyin’” and “Methadone Blues” – before the album concludes with a meditation of pure country anguish, “Tabitha Tuder’s Mama” that recalls, vocally and stylistically, Emmylou Harris’s finest work.

“If I’m any good at this, it’s because what I do is instinctive and it’s instinctive because I’m going down a rabbit hole for myself. Hopefully, that becomes relatable on the other side to other people. It’s absolutely and totally cathartic. I listen to it and I’m surprised by it. I found a lot of it to also be prophetic in things that played out since those songs were written and recorded. So it’s, first and foremost, self-serving.”

“Exodus of Venus” serves as a dynamic addition to a career that has clocked literally hundreds of performances on the Grand Ole Opry, collaborations with such Americana heroes as John Prine, Jason Isbell and Steve Earle and a 2012 trio performance here in Lexington with Midnight Oil mainstay Bones Hilman as her bassist (a show notable for, among other things, concluding not with a perhaps expected classic country cover but a lullaby-like reading of the Velvet Underground’s “Sunday Morning”).

But it was Letterman that proved one of Cook’s greatest supporters. Taken by unvarnished and very human stories about, among other subjects, her moonshine running father and his eventual incarceration, the comedian and talk host invited Cook back on “The Late Show” numerous times prior to his retirement in 2015.

“That was really cool and encouraging, but also very surprising to me,” Cook said. “It was very out of the blue. I was pretty shocked, especially at first. I couldn’t understand why I being put in that position of being asked questions and stuff. But I later became very humbled by it and, I guess, flattered by his attention about how he felt connected to me when he listened to me on the radio. I really think he wanted to introduce me to a wider audience.”

When asked about the influences that went into her country-conscious songs, Cook doesn’t point to a specific artist or recording. Her gateway into the world of songwriting and performance began at home.

“I had grown up with my mother and father being musical, watching them having a band and seeing how music was just a way of life for them and probably their greatest comfort and outlet for joy and solace. I think, by tradition, it became all that to me, too.

“So when I had an opportunity to start mining out what I would be doing for a living in that direction, it wasn’t so much that I saw the Beatles on ‘Ed Sullivan’ like Tom Petty did. I didn’t have that type of moment. For me, it was about coming up in an environment that was saturated by people directly around me making music all the time.”

Elizabeth Cook, Darrin Bradbury and Maggie Lander perform at 8 p.m. May 4 at The Burl, 375 Thompson Rd. Tickets: $12. Call 859-447-8166 or go to

col. bruce hampton, 1947-2017

col. bruce hampton.

Familiar with the term “old soul,” the common tag for a personality that might be worldlier than one’s youthful appearance would suggest? Well, Col. Bruce Hampton was the antithesis of that. Oh, he was worldly, alright, right from the early ‘70s when roamed the road with his Zappa-esque Hampton Grease Band. But the career we know the guitarist, bandleader and cosmic raconteur best for placed him in the company of a succession of players that were often a full generation younger. Hampton may have looked like everyone’s dad – portly, mustached, graying – but he possessed the same jovial, inquisitive and playful demeanor of the artists he made music with. That made him not just an unlikely hero of jam band audiences beginning in the early ‘90s, but a journeyman that gave little regard to the age discrepancy between himself and his band mates.

The ‘90s records and seemingly endless tours Hampton clocked with the Aquarium Rescue Unit by and large introduced him to an audience far larger and more loyal than the cultish pockets of fans that took to his music in the ‘70s and ‘80s. Hampton’s new generation groove sounds would shift considerably as the decade progressed, taking on strides of jazz, funk and fusion with succeeding bands like the Fiji Mariners and, my favorite, the Codetalkers. The latter, which played Lexington several times at the long-since demolished Dame, had Hampton and his band dressed in suits and ties (although the Col. always still looked appropriately untucked) and boasted a monster guitarist named Bobby Lee Rodgers who played his instrument through the same type of Leslie cabinet used by organ players.

“Usually, I let them go for about five or seven years,” Hampton told me in a December 1996 interview about the frequency with which he formed and dissolved bands. “Sometimes, it’s process that just happens. But that’s fine. I like to build things up and then tear them down. After all, square one is always a challenge for me.”

Whatever the band, audiences loved the music, yet no one seemed to dig it more than Hampton himself. On one hand, he seemed like an aging hippie. But in truth, he was an ageless one who fed off the youthful zeal of his fans and fellow musicians just as much as they looked to him for journeys down continually new musical paths.

Hampton’s exit, sudden and shocking as it was, seemed a strangely fitting final chapter to such an artistically freewheeling existence and career. The subject of an all-star tribute concert last night at Atlanta’s Fox Theater honoring his 70th birthday, Hampton collapsed onstage during the encore and subsequently died. A horrifying experience, no doubt for the audience and artist gathered for the occasion. But, with all the respect in the world intended, what a way for a musician to go.

critic’s pick: ray davies, “americana”

The notion of Ray Davies – headmaster of the Kinks for over three decades, the Lord Mayor of British pop when it began a global invasion in the 1960s – making an album titled “Americana” initially seems unfathomable. Few artists have so been stylistically loyal to home and heritage. Then again, Davies has long been a journeyman with a fascination for American culture. Check out the brilliant 1971 Kinks album “Muswell Hillbillies” to witness the fascinating continental shift that often surfaces in his songs.

So we now have “Americana,” Davies first solo album in nearly a decade, a record mistakenly viewed in early reviews as a love letter to these shores. It isn’t. The work is an often flattering portrait, especially in its literal view of landscape and customs (Kentucky gets two shout-outs in the first three songs). But it doesn’t skirt over blemishes. “The Deal,” for instance, traces a hustler’s West Coast rise to becoming “a (expletive) millionaire” with a chorus that paraphrases Gershwin (“isn’t it wonderful, marvelous?”) before inverting to reveal the ugly American underneath (“totally fabulous, fraudulent, bogus and unreal”). If that wasn’t enough, the song also channels the Kinks in a descending guitar chord Davies has employed numerous times (most notably on 1965’s “Tired of Waiting for You”) before slipping in an entire verse of 1986’s forgotten “How Are You” as the tune fades.

Davies’ thematic as well as stylistic devotion to his material on “Americana” extends to employing The Jayhawks as a backup ensemble. It’s not group chieftain Gary Louris who figures prominently in the alliance, though, but vocalist/keyboardist Karen Grotberg, who duets with Davies on the travelogue-by-train tune “A Place in Your Heart.” It struts along with a jamboree-style variation of the Kinks’ trademark pop, but leans to the bittersweet.

True to form, there are many instances where the sounds inhabiting “Americana” live up to the album title. “The Mystery Room” slinks along with an infectious mash-up of Cajun, blues and earthy roots-rock. “A Long Drive Home to Texarkana” lingers with the elegiac feel of a classic ballad that the mirror mile markers, literal and figurative, within the song. But the album closing “Wings of Fantasy” is all Kinks-style pop in full royal splendor.

Davies sings with his usual casual, animated authority, but there is now an unmistakable weariness in his voice, especially in two spoken word passages, “The Man Upstairs” and “Silent Movie.” The latter also reveals a sense of jealous mortality as he recounts a conversation with Alex Chilton about how a song is ageless while the artist singing it isn’t. “It cheats time and makes you feel safe,” Chilton told him. “But the reality is things are changing in the world.”

“Americana,” then, offers a view of a changing landscape, both adored and ridiculed, as presented by one of the most learned pop statesmen of any age.

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