Jimmie Rodgers has been the subject of tribute albums before -- perhaps the most memorable is Merle Haggard's 1969 classic Same Train, a Different Time -- but Paul Burch's Meridian Rising
is distinctly different: the singer/songwriter designed his 2016 album
as "an imagined musical autobiography" of the country legend. By neither
following the conventions of a traditional tribute album nor the
contours of a biography, Burch is freed to be fanciful, dreaming up scenarios for Rodgers that may not strictly adhere to written history and allowing himself to tip a hat to Rodgers' jazz and blues contemporaries. Such elasticity lends Meridian Rising considerable life, letting Burch
slide into hot dance music as easily as he cops to a blue yodel. He's
playful but not at the expense of his subject: if anything, his blurring
of fact, fiction, and styles allows Rodgers to not be seen as a museum piece, a figure that exists only in dusty history books. Burch's
wry, witty compositions -- which find their match in his swinging band,
its lineup shifting to accentuate the tones of the tunes -- bring the Singing Brakeman
to a colorful, full-bodied life while also illustrating how he's
peerless as an Americana craftsman: he's absorbed tradition so
thoroughly, he knows it's a shame to exist solely in the past, so he
makes albums as rich and delightful as this.
In "Sake of the Song," a swirling Wurlitzer, dreamy steel, and strummed six-string help Carll paint word portraits of those who share his vocation, and with a hummable melody he also reveals the traps that waylay them. "You Leave Alone" is a country waltz. The acoustic guitar is accompanied only by upright bass and fingersnaps. It would have been perfect for the pre-outlaw Waylon Jennings. The bittersweet "Good While It Lasted" is about leaving behind bad habits and ultimately a marriage. But it discloses a way of accepting any moment for what it brings rather than wasting its potential longing for what has been lost. Carll tackles the other side, too; the doubt and fear these realizations bring in "Love Don't Let Me Down" find him weighing busted dreams against future hopes. "The Love That We Need" features a gospel piano, hand percussion, and acoustic guitar. They frame a narrative about stasis in romantic relationships and commitments; it renders them impossible. In the refrain he posits the revelation "We got the life that we wanted/But not the love that we need." In spite of pain received and given, his delivery reveals an empathic tenderness that refuses to blame. "The Magic Kid," written about his son, is the set's watermark. Carll directly relates the wonder of a nine-year-old and the blinding truth imparted by a pure heart: "You shine your light for everyone to see/The only one I've known who's truly free...." Even in the set's lighter moments, such as the rag shuffle "Love Is So Easy," his poetry is searing in its simplicity, unobstructed and unaffected.
Carll presents these songs with open hands and heart; he made Lovers and Leavers to prove something to himself. With the canny assistance of Henry's sensitive production, the songwriter's vulnerability rises into open view and elevates his craft along with it. In Carll's world -- and hopefully ours -- love wins, no matter what.















