A Taste of Honey an Important Film

 

A TASTE OF HONEY (1961)

Directed by Tony Richardson

British Lion Film, 100 minutes, Not-rated. (Black & white)

★★★★★

 

 

 

If all A Taste of Honey conjures is a pop song by The Beatles or a cheesier Herb Albert cover in 1965, you’re missing a lot. For the record, the song’s original release was by Billy Dee Williams in 1961. It refers to the sweetness of a first kiss that lovers carry away when parted.

 

The film that bears that name is a British classic worthy of such an appellation. It’s in black and white and trust me; you wouldn’t want it to be any other way once you cast your eyes on Walter Lassally’s gritty cinematography. Set in the Salford section of Manchester shortly after World War II, we enter an impoverished environment where life unfolds so close to the margin that is but a small step up from living in a landfill. At the movie’s center is Jo (Rita Tushingham), a surly 17-year-old who lives in challenging circumstances with her narcissistic man-hungry mother Helen (Dora Bryan). Mum’s drill is to shift from one hovel to the next and sneak away when the landlord demands back rent. Jo wants out and who can blame her? Especially when the floozy Helen acquires a new boyfriend, Peter (Robert Stephens), who makes no bones about wanting rid of Jo after a strained trip to Blackpool.

 

Jo leaves school, takes a job selling shoes, and rents a backstairs walk-up near the docks that looks like a cross between a small warehouse and a chicken coop. Both furnishings and utilities redefine the term sparse, but it’s Jo’s to refurbish. The neighborhood is the sort in which begrimed children play with flotsam that washes up in the canal, pieces of wood, and debris from closed factories whilst singing “The Big Ship Sails on the Alley Alley Oh.” Believe it or not, that’s relevant.

 

Jo fancies herself independent, but she’s more street urchin than adult. The aforementioned song links to her first lover, Jimmy (Paul Danquah), a Black ship’s cook on an ocean-going vessel. He is kind and helps Jo, but is bound for the sea and they part with few future expectations. In addition to the taste of a honied kiss and  unbeknownst to Jimmy, he also leaves a bun in the oven. Geoffrey Ingham (Murray Melvin) also comes into Jo’s life. If you wonder if this film could get any bolder for 1961, the answer is yes; Geoff is so obviously gay that there’s no closet in which to retreat. Against what one would expect, though, Geoff moves in with Jo–certainly not as a lover, but as someone who will take care of her. He’s even willing to consider a lavender marriage.

 

British cinema has the term “kitchen-sink realism” for films such as this. Mike Leigh is probably the director today who comes closest to what Tony Richardson did seven decades earlier. There is no attempt to varnish truth to invite imagining all obstacles will be surmounted, nor can we assume they won’t be. This is cinema with the guts to trust audiences to enter the frame and reach their own conclusions. Characters do not magically transform. When Helen reemerges to attend to her pregnant daughter, she remains as self-centered as she always was and Jo retains a limited capacity to take a stand on what she wants. Put another way, “The Big Ship Sails on the Alley Alley Oh” is a children’s song, but the boat’s not necessarily on a happy course.

 

A Taste of Honey might seem like a bitter draft but despite its age, it’s an amazing film dealing with issues years in advance of Western society. Richardson painted with shades and shadows as dark as any film noir, though this is not one–more like a dramatized documentary of how people with limited life chances cope within constrained social environs. Oddly, it’s not depressing overall because it’s about survivors. Tushingham and Ingham both won acting awards at Cannes for this film and well-deserved they were. And what a treat to see a film that doesn’t spoon-feed viewers.

 

As I have said before, a great film takes us places we can’t go on our own. The look of A Taste of Honey and the acting styles therein are quite different from those of today, but this is truly an important document that any serious film fan should view.

 

Rob Weir

Kiss Me Deadly a Culturally Important Mess!

 

KISS ME DEADLY (1955)

Directed by Robert Aldrich

United Artists, 106 minutes, Not-rated.

★★ ½

 

 

 Kiss Me Deadly is almost impossible to rate. I arrived at 2 ½ via some convoluted math: 1 for movie-making, 2 as a story, and 4 for cultural significance (Divide 7 by 3 and you get 2 ½ .)

 

As filmmaking, this Robert Aldrich turkey sinks to the level of Ed Wood camp such as Plan 9 from Outer Space and shares some of its pseudo-science proclivities. Thinking of Kiss Me Deadly as camp will actually increase your enjoyment of it.

 

Aldrich had an interesting idea that oozed of personal vendetta. He was a leftist who expected to be targeted in the post-World War II Red Scare. It never happened, probably because he was such a small fish that potential inquisitors wouldn’t have acquired political or cultural capital by netting him. Aldrich hated crime writer Mickey Spillane, the creator of hard-broiled private investigator Mike Hammer. In Aldrich’s mind, Spillane was a fascist, an overdrawn assessment though not by much. (Spillane admired Ayn Rand–enough said.) 

 

In Kiss Me Deadly, Hammer (Ralph Meeker) is transformed into a sleaze-bag divorce investigator who gets results by prostituting his secretary Velda (Maxine Cooper). She seduces ‘em and Hammer blackmails ‘em. Hammer is so crude, amoral, and sadistic that cops like the LAPD’s Pat Murphy (Wesley Addy) despise him and probably wouldn’t bother to fish his corpse out of the Pacific Ocean were he to meet a suspicious end. As the story begins, Hammer nearly hits a barefooted hitchhiker, Christina Bailey (Cloris Leachman) when she flags down his racing sportscar. She tells him that she was placed in an insane asylum to keep her quiet, but to “remember me” if her pursuers murder her. That is exactly what happens and Hammer is also captured, drugged, and placed in his sports car with Christina, which is pushed off a cliff and explodes in a ball of fire.

 

We don’t know how he survives; it’s one of many can’t-be-bothered-to-stitch-it plot holes. Hammer launches an investigation–when he’s not having sex with Velda–that leaves more crumbs to follow than Hansel and Gretel. He visits a hood named Carl Evello (Paul Stewart), though this scene seems merely an excuse for his moll Friday (Marion Carr) to throw herself at Hammer like a hamster in heat. He also visits and harbors Christina’s roommate Lily Carver (Gaby Rogers) because, of course, the hoods staking out his apartment would never think to look for her there! Hammer gets personal when a Greek friend, Nick (Nick Dennis) is murdered an excuse to be more violent and more stupid.

 

The movie’s mystery will hinge on a pair of oxfords, a key, an assumed identity, poetry, and (metaphorically) opening Pandora’s box. To call A. I. Bezzerides’ script a mess is an insult to sloppiness. You’ve probably never heard of Meeker, Carr, or Rogers, nor should you. Though he did some 1950s TV, Meeker is a stiff masquerading as an actor and both Carr and Rogers had short careers. Cooper was terrific as Velda, though all of the women in the film are slutty and displayed in lurid poses. Don’t get me started on ethnic stereotypes.

 

 The question arises as to why Kiss Me Deadly is part of the Criterion Collection of films considered as important. It helps if your film is rejected by the Catholic League of Decency. (Nothing attracts attention like censorship!) It might have faded away had the CLD left well enough alone, but French intellectuals associated with the journal Cahiers du cinema, including director Claude Chabrol, championed the film once they saw it.

 

Why? This gets us to cultural significance. Kiss Me Deadly could be billed as Mike Hammer-meets Red Scare-meets fears of nuclear holocaust. The world’s first hydrogen bomb–700 times more powerful than the atomics dropped on Japan in 1945–was tested in 1952, less than two years before Aldrich began Kiss Me Deadly. The H-bomb provided the capacity to destroy all life on Earth. Fear was part of the rationale behind the Red Scare and numerous sci-fi novels and Hollywood films featuring aliens, monsters, mutants, or nuclear destruction. In other words, Aldrich’s turkey attained flight via a Zeitgeist updraft. This makes Kiss Me Deadly so bad it’s good. It did give Cloris Leachman her first break, so there’s that. Besides, it’s a guilty pleasure to watch Aldrich reduce Mike Hammer to a grotesque idiot.

 

Rob Weir

A Curse on Both Political Parties!

 

Why It’s Time to Change the Political Tune (in one chart)

 

 

Call me cynical; then explain why millions of people purport to despise both political parties, yet go the polls and select one or the other in the belief they’ve voted for the lesser of two evils. To me, that’s cynical. It’s voting against something, not for something. Is Monster versus Milquetoast really a choice?

 

There is just one solution and it will take time: Stop voting for Republicans or Democrats. Choose another option. If you’re on the left, vote Green or some other progressive party; if you’re conservative, vote Libertarian, just as long as you know that Ted Cruz and Rand Paul are liars, not Libertarians. (A true libertarian would not vote to restrict abortion access.)

 

I quit the Democratic Party during the Clinton administration and the only Republicans I’ve ever voted for were named Silvio Conte and Charlie Baker, the latter because who can even remember who ran against him? That tells you all you need to know about the Democratic wannabes.

 

This handy chart outlines why I’ve lost trust in both the Monsters (Republicans) and the Milquetoasts (Democrats).  Republican Monsters in column two; Democratic Milquetoasts in column 3.

 

School Shootings	Arm teachers, janitors, secretaries, and students.	Talk, talk talk.
Gun control of any sort	Repeal the 5th Commandment. Replace with the Second Amendment.	Talk, talk, talk.
Abortion	Why should we care about women and choices?	Talk, talk, talk.
High gasoline prices	Drill, baby, drill!	Talk, talk, talk.
Climate change	What climate change? Drill, baby, drill!	Talk, talk, talk.
Coronavirus	Fake news. Masks are evil. Sick? Drink bleach.	Talk, talk, talk.
Methamphetamine production	It’s a form of free enterprise.	Talk, talk, talk.
Inflation	Slash taxes on the rich and big corporations.	Talk, talk, talk.
Problems of blue-collar and service industry workers	Vote for us because we will stop those socialist job killers.	Talk, talk, talk. Wait a minute, who?
The destruction of American democracy	Trump won the election. Investigate that.	Talk, talk, talk.
Health care reform	Socialism!	Talk, talk, talk.
Education and student debt	College education is elitist (unless you can afford an Ivy). Ban CRT.	Talk, talk, talk.
Crime	Empower the cops and arm babies at birth.	Talk, talk, talk, though I’m sure this issue is racist.
Racism	Bring back slavery.	Oh, how terrible!
Cops killing people of color (even on camera)	They had it coming to them.	Oh, you really shouldn’t say that. How mean.
Immigration	Seal the borders, round up illegals, and ship ‘em back.	Talk, talk, talk, but maybe open the borders. You know, if it’s not too much trouble.
LGBTQ rights	Sinners! Ban them. Except for Log Cabin Republicans.	Talk, talk, talk.
Trade	Who cares as long as the Stock Market goes up?	Gee, we really ought to do something about China. If it’s not upsetting.
Runaway military spending	Huh? Triple the budget. Cut those wasteful social programs.	Oh golly, we really respect our vets, although we’re sorry we voted for that last dumb war.
Deficit	It’s the Democrats fault.	It’s the Republicans fault.
Choosing candidates and judges	Choose whoever is barely legal. Unless it’s Trump.	There must be 80-year-olds whose turn it is. I wonder if the Clintons would speak at a fundraiser?
Women in general	Yeah, we love babes. Especially blondes with shapely legs who want to have sex with Trump.	That is so rude I’m almost tempted to say something about it.

 

MUSEUM OF INTERNATIONAL FOLK ART: PART I

MUSEUM OF INTERNATIONAL FOLK ART: PART I

One Museum Hill

Santa Fe, New Mexico

[Clicking on individual photos = larger display]

 

If you visited our home, you’d find masks on several walls and small carvings and statues scattered among the things most people use to decorate their dwellings. Part of this has deep roots–Emily’s great uncle was a whittler and I love Inuit carving–but a lot of our objects d’art were inspired by having known the regal Miriam Usher Chrisman, an important advisor during my early graduate studies. She loved to invite grad students to her home, which she and her husband Donald filled with wonders gathered during their travels. As Miriam told the story, when they were younger and raising their children, they lacked the money to collect painting, sculpture, and other items associated with the (elitist) term “fine art.” So, they collected folk art instead.

 

It will thus come as no surprise when I tell you that Santa Fe’s Museum of International Folk Art (MIFA) is one of our favorite museums anywhere in the world. We’ve been there three times, but it’s so chockful of delights large and small that you could visit daily for a year and would probably still miss something grand.

 

The MIFA has expanded since our first visit and now has wings for special exhibits, not to mention an entrance corridor for assemblages such as saint medallions, etchings, and hangings. But the main attraction is its warehouse-like maze of folk art fashioned from wood, ceramics, clay, fibers, dried plants, and glass. It is true to its handle in that it is truly international in scope.

 

Among the marvelous things about folk art is that genres meld into one another and it’s impossible to judge any of it. By definition, most folk artists are untrained. As such the stories and cultural values embedded within objects take priority. Perhaps we can look at two pieces and see that artist A was a more skillful wood carver than B, but that in no way means you or anyone else will prefer one over the other. The MIFA has some themed displays, but often it doesn’t. For example, cases of ceremonial masks are hung willy-nilly and unless you grab the laminated card for individual cases–objects are numbered rather than placarded–you won’t know for certain if a mask is Amazonian or Ghanian.

 

You would exhaust yourself in short order if you tried to ID every object and the cool thing is that you don’t need to do so. The MIFA is a place to feel the magic of human creativity and it simply doesn’t matter who created, when, or why.

 

I could fill my blog with a month’s worth of pictorial postings but instead, here’s a Part I sampler. When I know something about the photo, it is so labeled. Otherwise, do what I did and take a casual meander to see what catches your eye.

 

Rob Weir

 

Mermaids abound, sirena in Spanish.

 

Mexican villages are a major theme of MIFA

 

Subtle commentary on anthropologists and tourists

West African, I think

Amazing. This large hanging is yarn pressed into warm wax!

African, but I forget where.

 

Liane Moriarty on Tennis, Regret, and Secrets

 

 

APPLES NEVER FALL (2021)

By Liane Moriarty

Macmillian Australia, 516 pages.

★★★★

 

 

 

 Recently I reviewed the movie King Richard, so how about a follow-up tennis novel? Apples Never Fall is the latest novel from Liane Moriarty of Nine Perfect Strangers fame and it bears passing resemblance to King Richard in that it deals with an Australian version of a tennis-obsessed family, a great champion, and adjustment fallout when one’s coaching days are over.

 

 Stan and Joy Delaney once ran a tennis school in Sydney, but Stan is now 70 with bad knees and Joy is 69, sick of Stan’s slovenly ways and moaning, and in need of something more in her life than Stan and the travails of her four children: Amy (39), Logan (37), Troy (35), and Brooke (29). To paraphrase a famous movie line, each of them could’ve been a contender, but none reached their potential and Stan lost the student who actually became a champion when Harry Haddad moved on to a different coach and won three majors before he got injured and retired.

 

It’s hard to put that behind you when you learn that Harry is trying to make a comeback. It’s also a bitter pill to swallow when the kids have seemingly made a hash of their respective lives. All four won college tennis scholarships, but three turned them down. Amy has three flatmates, is in therapy a lot, and has part-time gigs as a taste tester and in market research. Logan—who once beat up Harry–has just broken up with his longtime girlfriend that Joy hoped would produce a grandchild, Troy is once-divorced and remarried to a (gasp!) Yank, has become (double gasp!) a money-obsessed commodities trader, and quit playing tennis in college (quell horror!). Poor Brooke suffers from migraines, runs a failing OT clinic, and worries that her marriage might also be crumbling.

 

Collectively they are prone to blame their parents for their struggles though Joy imagines, “All four of her children each fervently believed is separate versions of their childhood that often didn’t match up with [her] memories, or each other’s for that matter.” After all, Stan and Joy can’t possibly be to blame for much; everyone agrees they have a “perfect” marriage. The only blemish–other than losing Harry—is that Stan is so conflict-adverse that he walks away from troubling things and sometimes stays away for several days. And, no, there’s no mistress or other such secret involved.

 

Stan and Joy get a jolt when a young woman shows up on their doorstep, claiming she is fleeing from domestic abuse. Stan thinks she’s not their problem, but Joy invites her in. Before you can say love-40, Savannah has moved in. You don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out that Joy sees her as a granddaughter substitute or to predict her presence will make Stan uncomfortable. Savannah is content to be a live-in Jill-of-all trades: gardener, cleaner, chef, chauffer…. At this stage of the novel we wonder if we are moving into Single White Female terrain. Is Savannah as advertised, or is something sinister lurking behind her façade? The siblings, especially Troy, are convinced of it. When Logan watches a TV show and hears exactly the exact words he heard Savannah use to describe her backstory, he’s convinced as well. Both daughters are also on edge for various reasons. Jealous brats or parental guardians?

 

Another crisis occurs when, this time, Joy disappears. After 17 days, foul play is suspected and that’s all you’re getting out of me. This is one of those novels that hinges on appearances, deceptions, excuse-making, over-active imaginations, and legitimate concerns. In tennis, love equals zero. Likewise, in both tennis and relationships double faults, and things that are out of bounds are bad.  But the ultimate question is what is at stake. There’s a world of difference between losing a point and losing a match point. I leave it to readers to discover how this match plays out.

 

Rob Weir

Camera Man: New Look at Buster Keaton

 

CAMERA MAN (2022)

By Dana Stevens

Atria Books, 393 pages + back matter

★★★ ½ 

 

 

 

Most agree that Charlie Chaplin was early cinema’s king of comedy. Then it’s a tossup between Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton. Dana Stevens, a film critic and podcast cohost for Slate, makes a strong case for Keaton. She is an unabashed Keaton fan.

 

As Camera Man’s subtitle suggests—The Dawn of Cinema and the Invention of the Twentieth Century—Stevens has ambitious things in mind that go beyond a blow-by-blow look at Keaton films. Not that the latter is even possible; some of his one-reel films are considered lost. Stevens situates Keaton within deeper connections between popular culture and its historical context, a strategy that sometimes drops Keaton from the limelight and into the background of events that helped define the twentieth century, including social problems, reform movements, vaudeville, World War One, technological change, anti-Antisemitism, racism, the Roaring Twenties, the power of print media, surrealism, and the triumph of big business. In like fashion, Keaton takes his place among others synonymous with the shift from Victorianism to modernism: D. W. Griffith, Mack Sennett, Henry Ford, William Randolph Hearst, Ernest Hemingway, Louis B. Mayer, Mary Pickford, Mabel Normand, Irving Thalberg, Bert Williams….

 

Stevens begins her tale in earnest when young Joseph Frank Keaton—dubbed Buster to differentiate him from his father Joe—began performing in vaudeville at the age of three with Joe and his mother, Myra. Theirs was an act that would shock those of delicate sensibilities. Laughs were milked by Joe’s hurling of Buster across the stage with such force that Buster was dubbed “the boy who can’t be damaged.” When alarmists sought to end such endangerment, an outraged Joe Keaton told his detractors, “He’s my son and I’ll break his neck any way I want to.” Eventually, though, things did get out of hand; Joe Keaton descended into alcoholism, Myra briefly left him, and Buster read the tea leaves correctly and realized a new entertainment platform doomed vaudeville: motion pictures.

 

Buster’s movie career took off when he befriended Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle. Count Stevens among those who believe Arbuckle was a wronged man when actress Virginia Rappe died at a 1921 party at Arbuckle’s home. Arbuckle was accused of rape and manslaughter and, after three trials, was acquitted though his career lay in tatters. Keaton fared better. The years 1920-28 saw Keaton make silent films that established him a star. Three—Sherlock Jr. (1924), The General (1926), and Steamboat Bill (1928)—are considered silent film masterworks. Stevens argues that Keaton’s move to MGM in 1928 was a misstep and I agree.  Camera Man, the 1928 film that lends its name to the book, is practically unwatchable.

 

Unlike Stevens, I only partly blame MGM. Film fans know that “talkies” took off in 1927. Keaton made several more silent films before shifting to talkies, but Stevens and I part company on Keaton’s post-1928 movie career. Keaton was a brilliant physical comedian who did outrageously funny things far more dangerous than being hurled across the stage—watch him ride backwards in a driverless motorcycle in Sherlock Jr.­ or stand in the door of a house falling down in Steamboat Bill Jr.­—that could have maimed or killed him. He was so nonchalant that he dubbed the “Great Stoneface.” Like many great comics, this sort of comedy had its season. The 1930s would belong to verbal comics and Keaton couldn’t top what he did in the 1920s.

 

Stevens correctly notes that Keaton tried to adapt. He was also a “camera man” because he became a producer and director, but was he funny? Keaton wrote gags for others, but even erstwhile friends such as the Marx Brothers found his shtick shopworn. His film work in the 1950s and 1960s was largely confined to cameo roles, as were his incessant guest turns on television from 1949-65, and as a product pitchman until his death in 1966. This work was extensive, but not artistically brilliant, though Stevens is right to give him credit for again identifying how popular culture was shifting.

 

Keaton’s deeper problem could be labeled “like father, like son.” Stevens details Buster’s own descent into alcoholism and attendant problems, including two failed marriages. I enjoyed this book, especially Stevens’ balance of analysis and snark. I wish, though, that she had more control over her fandom. Like it or not, the 1920s were not only Keaton’s high-water mark; they gave him license to be merely okay for the next 36 years.

 

Rob Weir

New Music: Piazzolla, Jess Jocoy, Angie Goeke, Watershed Band

 

 

Astor Piazzolla (1921-92) is a renowned figure in Argentine music. It wasn’t always that way; some felt he tinkered too much with tradition. He was, however, the leading figure in nuevo tango, meaning he took classical orchestral-based tango, stripped it down, and merged it what he learned about dissonance and counterpoint from composers such as Stravinsky, Gershwin, and Bernstein. Ten years after his death, his widow set up a foundation dedicated to his music. An offshoot is Quinteto Astor Piazzolla whose Operation Tango takes the maestro to new levels. Pablo Mainetti now mans the bandoneon (a full-sounding concertina) and like Piazzolla, melds it with melancholy piano, sorrowful violin, guitar, and double bass. Other selections, such as the title track, are filled with big drama in which we can definitely hear Gershwin’s influences even as you reach for your sexy duds and dancing shoes. Every piece on Operation Tango will make your heart break or leap, depending. Alas, it’s hard to find selections for viewing. I recommend viewing parts of this concert. If you like it, you’ll love the new record. The five members are faithful to the style Piazzolla pioneered for more than a decade and take full advantage of improvements in sound technology to make the maestro’s compositions sound even richer. ★★★★★

 

 

 

I was tempted to spotlight Jess Jocoy as my artist of the month as I really liked where she is heading. Let There Be No Despair showcases a maturing voice with deeper patina that gives contrast to her higher tones. The title track sentiment says it all. Jocoy’s response to the Covid lockdown and other worldly traumas has been to accentuate the positive and replace gloom with hope. To do this, she put herself in other people’s shoes and assumed the role of a storyteller. “I Will Be Glad” is an ode to the small joys we are given. In a simple line such as I’m with my mother every day and I wear the traits more than ever, she projects into the future–even returning to the dust from which she came–and suggests we should be grateful for small moments of bliss. She imagines herself as a deserted barren woman in “The Gardner”: My body couldn’t do her sacred duty as a woman. But instead of wallowing, Jocoy’s protagonist tends a garden in the unforgiving climate of Montana, a substitute way of making and preserving life. My favorite track is “Living in a Dying Town,” a bittersweet take on returning to a town where everything’s changing and there’s no reason to stay. Yet she also honors those who put down roots and remain. There’s good songwriting throughout, but a few things make Let There Be No Despair fall short of a career-altering album. First, the arrangements are similar and cries out for a signature song that makes you want to sing along or dance. Jocoy is Nashville-based and hopes to make it in country music, but too much of the album is reflective in ways more in accord with folk music. She could also benefit by becoming more of a song interpreter and tamping down her desire to impress. She has chops and range, but she is often overly dynamic and doesn’t articulate clearly. A few good hooks and more variety would push Jocoy to the next level. ★★★★     

 

 

 

Angie Goeke grew up in an Austin, Texas, church-going musical family and counts Ella Fitzgerald and Willie Nelson among her musical influences. This tips us off that her blend of Americana will fall on the jazz/bluegrass/country side of the ledger. Her debut full release If I Were Honest reflects that, if we toss in a bit of folk music as well. Goeke is trying to work things out, not preach. “So I Pray” is a fragile song in which she warbles to Kaitlyn Raitz’s cello as she catalogues … Lies and betrayal …. The fear, the fights, the shattered wine glass on the wall/Everyday those dark shadows come to call/So I pray. If anything, it’s too pained, as it’s often hard to make out the lyrics, but we get it. What might be harder to get though, is where Goeke wishes to position herself in the musical world. There’s nothing wrong with being eclectic, but the risk on a debut is being claimed by everyone or no one. She compares herself to the liquid in “Whiskey in a Teacup,” fiery with a kick and the song is a country rocker, yet “Leftovers” is more music hall than country. The piano-based title song trends toward torchy songbird and “Fly Baby Fly” is a sweet supportive song about her kids. See a pattern? I’m not sure if producer (and country artist) Mary Bragg did Goeke any favors by allowing her to spread her wings too broadly. ★★★

 

 

 

The Columbus, Ohio-based Watershed Band has released Against the Grain, their 10th full-length album. If you’ve never heard of them and wonder why, it’s probably because they formed when several band members were still in middle school, and because they are not a conventional rock band in any sense. Lead singer/lead guitarist Colin Gawel owns a coffee shop and bass player Joe Oestreich is an English prof at Coastal Carolina University when he’s not on the road with the band. They also sound more like a bluegrass/country/soft rock ensemble than the sort of outfit that blows you away with crunchy loud electric solos. “Someday” has a decided bluegrass helter-skelter feel and “Bluebird” a slice of folk rock. Much of “King of Spades,” especially its harmonies, evokes The Beach Boys, and “Fire Catcher” opens with a bit of banjo for a song that merges grass with some rock-style vocals. Since they are mostly on rock’s quiet end on this album, why not a love song like “You?” ★★★

 

Rob Weir