The Van Pelt Parties, Patterson Hood (from the ATO Records release Exploding Trees and Airplane Screams)
Patterson Hood has long been a master of Southern storytelling, and on his latest album, he delivers a collection of tales—some real, some imagined—that reflect the complexities of life in the Deep South, particularly his native Alabama. These aren’t grandiose myths or nostalgic gloss; they’re sharply observed vignettes, told with the kind of authenticity that can only come from someone who’s lived the stories—or something close to them. Even the fictional moments ring so true, they feel like they were pulled from family photo albums or passed down in hushed conversation.
Take “A Werewolf and a Girl,” a track that bristles with quiet tension and vivid detail. It opens like a faded snapshot—“It was forty years ago / When you came back to town / Picked you up at the Trailway’s / And you kissed me on the mouth”—before unraveling into something stranger and more emotionally charged. The song includes a sly nod to Warren Zevon—“Saw a movie set in London / About a werewolf and a girl”—a passing line that deepens the sense of mysticism and foreboding. Lydia Loveless’s haunting harmonies only heighten the unease, underscoring the album’s darker, more brooding undercurrent.
“Miss Coldiron’s Oldsmobile” is a quiet, character-driven ballad that highlights the richness of Hood’s storytelling. Centered on an aging Southern woman whose world is quietly unraveling, the song is filled with vivid, unsettling details—from red velvet car seats to whispered family dysfunction. References to “lithium and tranquilizers” arrive not as shocks but as inevitable turns in a life marked by loneliness and slow decline, rendered with empathy and precision.
“Last Hope” digs even deeper into the Southern psyche, laced with social critique. Hood’s voice sharpens as he warns, “Be a shame if it all came down to Jack and Diane / The clichés we learned to live with will still kill us in the end.” It’s a striking reminder that memory and myth are sometimes dangerous bedfellows.
Despite the album’s heavy themes, the album closes on a note of searching optimism. “Pinocchio” trades weariness for aspiration, as Hood sings of learning, striving, and reaching for redemption. It’s a fitting coda for a record that spends much of its time reconciling the past with the present—always looking back, but never standing still.
This is Patterson Hood at his most reflective and most precise, spinning stories that feel lived in, weathered, and deeply human.
Do It Myself, Olivia Ellen Lloyd (from the self-released Do It Myself)
On Do It Myself, Olivia Ellen Lloyd delivers a knockout collection of country songs that seamlessly blend sharp storytelling with emotional candor. Across these tracks, she moves fluidly between the narrative tradition of classic country and the raw vulnerability of introspective songwriting—often doing both at once.
Take “You,” a heart-wrenching reflection on the aftermath of a breakup, where Lloyd’s voice—at once delicate and defiant—lays bare the wounds left behind. Her lyrical precision hits hard:
Did I deserve all of those things you said about me?
On darker days I think that maybe you were right.
But aren’t I only just a flawed and fragile person
Clawing in the dark to find a sliver of light.
It’s a moment of brutal self-reckoning, delivered with haunting grace.
“Every Good Man” leans into classic country textures—pedal steel and all—but there’s nothing sentimental about it. This is a breakup song with teeth, where Lloyd flips the script with a feisty, clear-eyed perspective. As the tempo shifts into the chorus, she lays it out straight: “Behind every good man / There’s a woman who’s tired / She’s keeping the lights on and putting out your fires.”
Lloyd delivers it all with a mix of weariness and dry wit, capped by a final line that cuts with precision: “Go on and find someone as desperate as you.”
The title track, “Do It Myself,” amps up the grit and guitar, celebrating post-breakup independence with swagger and bite. The line “So please don’t ask me if you’re shallow when we both know that you are”
lands like a brutal takedown—honest, direct, and unapologetic.
“Beautiful Mess” softens the edges, embracing the discomfort of a relationship in limbo. It’s tender and tentative, carried by the quiet bravery of choosing to stay in the unknown: “If it’s all the same to you, how about we take it day by day? / We can always draw a map, if we begin to lose our way.”
On “Knotty Wood,” electric guitars add muscle to a family-rooted tale of resilience and the hard truths behind romanticized memories. Lloyd’s voice cuts through the nostalgia with clarity and weight:
“Don’t other people’s lives look good when you paint over the pain and knotty wood?” It’s a standout track, as grounded in grit as it is in grace.
Throughout Do It Myself, pedal steel and electric guitars weave through arrangements that feel both timeless and freshly personal. But it’s Lloyd’s voice—lyrically sharp, emotionally rich—that anchors the album. She doesn’t just sing her songs; she inhabits them.
This is true country music, done with heart, honesty, and a whole lot of craft.
Another House, Andrew Duhon (from the Well Kept Secret release The Parish Record)
Andrew Duhon’s The Parish Record is a deeply human collection—bluesy, soulful, and lyrically rich; one steeped in New Orleans textures and unflinching emotional honesty. Duhon has always had a storyteller’s heart, and on this album, he pairs it with a lived-in voice and a keen sense of how melody can carry both weight and warmth.
The record opens with “Waco Kool-Aid,” a funky, sharply observed commentary on our fractured politics. It’s got groove, bite, and a wink, as Duhon sings, “’Cause we’d rather draw a line between ‘us’ and ‘them’ / And the way you vote makes you a foe or friend / I got two different neighbors yelling through a chainlink / Even though everybody kinda want the same thing.” It’s wry without being cynical—a rare balance these days.
That deft touch continues on “Hand Me Down Love,” where Duhon’s restrained electric guitar sets the stage for a slow-burn groove. The song’s reflection on the enduring, often cyclical nature of love is underscored by a regal yet funky piano solo at its center. By the end, his tone turns quietly rueful: “Yea, I tried it new, but I’d only been made a fool of.”
“Girl From Placamine” looks backward with a tender ache, viewing young love through a soft-focus lens of memory. There’s innocence, longing, and regret in every note, and Duhon captures that bittersweet cocktail with heartbreaking clarity.
“Felt My Heart Breaking” deepens that emotion, layering wistful strings over a bristling arrangement as he discovers, through loss, the very beauty he once overlooked: “I feel my own heart breaking / Never more alive / Never more awakened.”
“Just in Case” is the album’s emotional fulcrum, a sobering meditation on friendship, mortality, and the fragility of time. Duhon sings, “Raise one to the journey / One more to the journey’s end / Just in case we never meet again,” and it lands like a quiet prayer. The moment becomes even more intimate when he adds, “I got a buddy’s service next Sunday / If they call my number one day / Just know it was always house money / We were playing with, my friend.” It’s grief and gratitude wrapped in one.
On “It’ll Come Back to Me,” a gently swaying rhythm gives weightlessness to a song otherwise steeped in tender regret. The sing-along chorus—“Oh na na na na now”—feels like a balm, softening the sting of unfulfilled longings and half-remembered wisdom: “What was that line / About lovin’ somethin’ / And settin’ it free… Never mind, give it time / It’ll come back to me.”
But nothing hits harder than “Another House,” a stark, moving portrait of watching a loved one—his mother—slip into memory loss. It’s raw but never without love: “And I know it’s gonna take all of me / ’Cause her love made every part of me.” Duhon’s voice carries the emotional weight with quiet strength—measured, tender, and full of ache. It’s not just what he sings, but how he sings it, letting each line land with the gravity it deserves.
The Parish Record is a work of subtle power. It doesn’t beg for your attention, but it rewards every listen with songs that feel lived in, stories that resonate, and melodies that linger long after the music fades.
Where I Belong, Galactic featuring Irma Thomas (from the Tchoup-zilla Records Audience with the Queen)
Talk about a potent combination—legendary soul queen Irma Thomas joining forces with New Orleans funk mainstays Galactic is a musical match made in Crescent City heaven. The result is a record rooted in classic soul and funk, yet charged with a sense of urgency that speaks directly to the present moment.
The album opens with “How Glad I Am,” a spiritual take on the 1964 Nancy Wilson classic. It’s a perfect curtain-raiser—elegant, heartfelt, and delivered with the kind of reverence that only a veteran like Thomas can bring. From there, the energy surges.
“Where I Belong” kicks the R&B into high gear. It’s not just a standout track—it’s a mission statement. “Still doing my thing, singing my song,” Thomas proclaims, and you believe every word. Her voice, rich with experience and still lit with fire, slides seamlessly into the hard-grooving “Love’s Gonna Find a Way Again” and the politically charged “Lady Liberty,” which hits with pointed resonance: “Is this the world that we’re living in? / The one we raise our children in?” It’s protest music in silk gloves—smooth, but with a sting.
They ease into a lower gear with “Puppet on a String,” a lush 1960s-style ballad soaked in heartbreak. It’s a standout not just for the songwriting, but for the sheer musical chemistry. Thomas’s emotional depth meets Galactic’s precision in a way that feels effortless.
Irma Thomas and Galactic don’t overplay their hand—they just lock in and let the music speak. Hopefully it’s the start of an ongoing collaboration—but even if it’s not, what they’ve made here hits hard and grooves deep, with the kind of raw feeling and precision you only get from true masters.
Fool Is the Last One to Know, Vicki Peterson and John Cowsill (from the Label 51 Recordings release Long After the Fire)
There’s a lot of heart behind Long After the Fire, and it shows. Drawn from songs written by John Cowsill’s late brothers, Barry and Bill, the album carries a sense of legacy—one it wears lightly, thanks to finely tuned songwriting and pitch-perfect performances. In collaboration with Vicki Peterson (The Bangles), Cowsill taps into a golden-era pop-rock sensibility that’s both timeless and deeply personal.
The sound throughout is classic in the best way: think early ’60s and ’70s radio, when hooks were king and harmonies had weight. These are songs built with care—melodic, balanced, and full of charm. There’s a wholesomeness to the whole affair, a kind of musical sincerity that’s hard to fake and even harder to resist.
“Fool Is the Last One to Know” kicks off with a distinct Everly Brothers vibe, a harmony-rich gem that’s as instantly catchy as it is emotionally direct. “Sound on Sound” leans into a rockabilly swagger, channeling Roy Orbison’s Oh! Pretty Woman with its galloping rhythm and infectious energy.
Peterson shines on “Come to Me,” one of the album’s centerpieces. It opens with a soft heartbeat pulse before layering in shimmering guitars and propulsive drums. It builds and fades, then roars back for a finale that manages to be both chaotic and controlled—a stunning show of restraint and release.
On the softer side, “Embers” is a heartbreak lullaby wrapped in a pristine pop arrangement. “The ember keeps burning long after the fire,” they sing, a perfect line for a song that glows with quiet sorrow. It’s intimate, nostalgic, and quietly devastating.
Then there’s “Downtown,” a driving, guitar-forward rocker with a punchy rhythm section and a chorus that blooms into harmony-laced sweetness. It’s a track that bridges the album’s retro roots with a more muscular, modern edge.
Long After the Fire doesn’t feel like a throwback; rather, it feels like a homecoming. These are songs built to last, lovingly assembled and beautifully performed. There’s nothing ironic here, just the real thing: melody, memory, and musical craftsmanship at its finest.
It’s the Little Things, Charles Wesley Godwin (from the Big Loud Records release Lonely Mountain Town)
Charles Wesley Godwin’s Lonely Mountain Town rings with a hard-earned authenticity. It’s a quiet triumph, one that is restrained, mostly acoustic, and grounded in a simplicity that gives the songs room to breathe. Electric guitar is used sparingly, more for mood than muscle, and it suits the album’s introspective nature. What really carries it is Godwin’s voice—earnest, textured, and capable of transforming plainspoken lyrics into something deeply affecting.
The album opens with “It’s the Little Things,” a front-porch singalong that celebrates the beauty of kindness shared in small doses. It’s warm, unhurried, and quietly profound: “A smile and a wave, go a little out of your way / Or holding a door a second more…” It’s the kind of song that feels like a nod to neighborly grace in an age that sorely needs it.
“Dead to Rights” leans into darker tones; it’s a love song edged with unease. There’s a quiet intensity to it, as Godwin sings, “But you crashed into me like that damned left hook I never got to see.” It’s a stark, striking line in a song that captures the feeling of being overwhelmed by love and accepting it all the same: “I don’t mind.”
“It’s Her Move” follows a long-haul trucker who’s ready to trade his rig for a family car and a steadier life. He knows who he wants to build that future with, but the uncertainty lies in whether she feels the same. That tension gives the title its weight. He’s laid his cards on the table; now it’s her move.
On bended knee, I swear I?ll tell her true
There’s nothing I wouldn?t do
I wanna lay some roots
It’s her move.
A similar push-and-pull plays out in “Then I’m Gone,” only this time the story belongs to a touring musician. He’s drawn to connection but never stays long, advising, “I’ll never stay past the night you need a song, then I’m gone.” It’s a gentle, bittersweet meditation on the transience of a life on the road.
One of the album’s most stripped-down and affecting moments comes with “She Don’t Love Me Anymore.” Just Godwin and his acoustic guitar, it opens with the gut-punch line: “Been having a hard week for the last year,” and only digs deeper from there. “Been having a good time making bad calls… Ain’t the same since she confessed she don’t love me anymore.” It’s raw, honest, and completely unvarnished—Godwin at his most vulnerable.
The album closes with “Hammer Down,” a cover of Jason Molina’s haunting song, featuring Scott Avett. It builds from a quiet acoustic start to a full-band arrangement, yet never loses the somber air of despair at its core. It’s a loving tribute to a songwriter whose legacy still glows.
Lonely Mountain Town doesn’t shout to make its point. It doesn’t need to. Godwin’s quiet confidence, his sense of place, and his unflinching emotional honesty make this album feel lived-in and lasting. It’s storytelling as it ought to be—direct, durable, and carried by quiet conviction.
Meteor, Tophouse (from the self-released Practice)
On Practice, Tophouse leans into their bluegrass roots while pushing well beyond tradition. The Montana-bred trio weaves familiar acoustic textures—fiddle, banjo, mandolin—through arrangements that feel modern and emotionally hefty. There’s a polish and depth here that steer the music toward something closer to acoustic pop, without losing the organic grit of its bluegrass foundation.
The standout “Meteor” captures the ache of unreciprocated love with poetic clarity. It begins in hope, then slips into realization: kindness mistaken for love, a mirage mistaken for something real.
“Wasted” is stripped-down and devastating. The lyrics are few, but what’s there hits hard. “I wasted my time on you” lands with the sting of clarity after heartbreak. It’s sharp, simple, and impossible to ignore.
“I Don’t Want to Move On” brings Tophouse back to their bluegrass roots. It opens in a hush of regret, the heartache laid bare, before bursting into a full-tilt, foot-stomping finale. The shift feels earned, like the only honest response to sorrow is to sing louder, play faster, and try to outrun it. The lyric “You don’t wanna be here / I can’t compete with your thoughts / You can’t either, dear” captures the emotional stalemate with unflinching precision.
Practice is a compact but potent collection. Tophouse honors their bluegrass lineage even as they reshape it into something weightier, richer, and entirely their own.
She’s Just Missing Me, John Howie Jr and the Rosewood Bluff (from the Schoolkids Records release The Return Of…)
There are some voices just made for country music. John Howie Jr.’s is one of them. Rugged, worn-in, and deeply expressive, it fits his songs like a pair of well-scuffed boots. And on his latest album, that voice finds a perfect match in a collection of songs that dive deep into the familiar country well of love gone wrong, but do so with a style and sincerity that hits just as hard as the heartache.
“Breakin’ Up” sets the tone early, injecting humor into heartbreak with the line: “You spend all your time breakin’ up with me / It’s hard to see how blind a heart can be until it breaks.” It’s a sly take on emotional whiplash, and it’s emblematic of the record’s ability to find personality even in pain.
Then comes “The Only Problem I Really Have (Is You),” a classic kiss-off dressed up with just enough wit to keep it from going dark. “I stick my neck out and take it on the chin / Now the only problem I really have is you,” Howie sings, laying the blame down with a shrug and a smirk. It’s the kind of delivery that says, “This ain’t my first rodeo.”
“She’s Just Missing Me,” by contrast, trades defiance for denial—wistful and convincing in its self-deception. “With her arms wrapped around him tight / It’s another trick of the light / Don’t believe everything you see / She’s just missing me,” he insists.
“How Can I Make You Love Me Too” brings a percussive jolt that begs for a spin on the honky-tonk dance floor, reminding us that heartache can come with a beat. It’s followed by the album closer, the ballad “My Memory (Ain’t What It Used to Be).” As the sting of a breakup fades, Howie finds peace in uncertainty:
“And I think I’m finally fine with whatever comes to mind when you think of me.”
Sonically, The Return Of… stays rooted in classic country—pedal steel shimmers, electric guitars twang and growl, and the rhythm section rolls steady like a two-lane highway through Carolina pine. It’s a reminder of everything great about country music: heartbreak you can sing along to, and truth wrapped in twang.
Technicolor Days, Pete Mancini (from the Paradiddle Records release American Equator)
Pete Mancini’s American Equator is a fiery mix of rock muscle and melodic punch. Produced by Drive-By Truckers’ Matt Patton at Dial Back Sound in Mississippi, the album leans hard into snarling guitars and pounding rhythms, drawing from Southern and classic rock traditions. But it’s not all volume; Mancini threads strong, purposeful melodies through the noise, giving the songs a power pop edge that cuts through the grit. It’s rock with teeth, but also with hooks.
Opener “Calamity People” sets the tone with jagged riffs and layered harmonies, taking aim at toxic personalities with sharp lyrical flair: “Wrong in the tooth, hard up for truth, caught on the tough side of fair.” The guitars cut and churn with purpose, propelled by a rhythm section that keeps the pressure on. It’s a brash, cathartic start that lays out the album’s sonic and lyrical intentions with clarity.
The title track dives deeper, turning its gaze toward a fractured America. “American Equator” seethes with unease, its dark, dual-guitar solo sounding like a nation splitting in two. Lines like “Hand to mouth and hand to hand” hit hard—simple but damning.
“Skid Row Skyline” zeroes in on the harsh realities of life on the margins, offering a stark portrait of America’s skid rows—places defined by homelessness, addiction, and neglect. The title itself carries a bitter irony: the beauty of a skyline contrasted with the harshness of skid row, bringing into focus the gulf between those barely surviving and those untouched by it. Southern-tinged guitars and simmering organ underscore the song’s slow-burning tension, while lines like “City of angels where the rich folks play / They never talk about where the devil stays” and “You’re in cuffs or a bag when you leave skid row” drive home the brutal contrast between poverty and privilege.
“Technicolor Days” offers a burst of nostalgia and a welcome shift in tone, tapping into Mancini’s power pop instincts. It looks back on childhood with warmth and clarity, captured in the line “scrapes, scars, and handlebars.” Two electric guitars weave around each other, riding a buoyant rhythm and leading into a big, harmony-soaked chorus. It’s one of the album’s most melodic and uplifting moments—a breezy counterpoint to the intensity that surrounds it.
The back half of the album reveals more of Mancini’s range. “Paris Hotel” shows the influence of his time performing with songwriting legend Jimmy Webb. Anchored by regal piano, the song reflects on a past romance with equal parts fondness and regret. “We’ll always have the Paris Hotel,” he sings, before adding a sharp twist: “Incidentally, you stuck me with the bill / Left a vacancy that can’t be filled.”
“The Signal” offers a hushed moment of remembrance, as Mancini sings about the lingering presence of a lost friend: “I know you’re here with us today / Because I’m picking up the signal.” It’s subtle and sincere, with the emotion carried more in tone than volume.
The album closes on a hopeful note with “Sun Comes Up,” a Beatles-esque pop track that feels like a sunrise after a long night. “The sun came up / It always does,” Mancini sings, embracing resilience without sentimentality. It’s a quietly triumphant end to a record that refuses to flinch, even as it searches for light.
Burn, Baby Said (from the Pal Records release BS)
One of my favorite discoveries at this year’s SXSW, Baby Said made an immediate impression with their blistering live sets—tight, fiery, and bursting with attitude. The London-based quartet, fronted by sisters Veronica and Jess Pal, channels that raw energy into their debut album. The studio polish smooths a few edges, but the record still hits just as hard in its own take-no-prisoners way.
The album title BS says a lot with just two letters. It’s a nod to the band’s initials, sure, but it also takes a playful jab at the noise and nonsense they’re pushing back against. That layered meaning sets the tone for the album: sharp, self-aware, and unafraid to call things exactly what they are. It’s a bold introduction to a band that doesn’t flinch when facing down exes, skeptics, or industry gatekeepers.
“Dead to Me” kicks things off, crackling with intensity and anchored by some downright nasty electric guitar work. It’s a high-voltage opener that makes clear Baby Said isn’t here to play nice. “Burn” follows, fusing indie-rock crunch with a sticky, melodic chorus that lodges in your head on first listen.
“Hate Me” throws punches at the doubters with gloves fully off. It’s a brash, cathartic takedown of anyone who tried to box them in. “You’re not special, just delusional / Living life like it’s fictional,” they declare in classic kiss-off fashion, before issuing a final warning: “And now I’m giving you the count of 3 / Move away, it’s your last warning / 1-2-3.”
“Sweet Talk” mines similar territory, as the sisters take down a shallow lover with cool precision, singing: “Empty promises, could get lost in it / Don’t believe it, for a minute.” And “Mean Girlz” sharpens the blade with one of the album’s most biting lines: “Thank God I’m not you.”
BS hits with precision and purpose, each track delivered with swagger and conviction. Baby Said has arrived—loud, confident, and with zero tolerance for BS.
About the author: Mild-mannered corporate executive by day, excitable Twangville denizen by night.