Little Red Rider, Kathleen Edwards (from the Dualtone Records release Billionaire)
The music world is a better place when Kathleen Edwards is writing and performing. It’s been said before, but Billionaire makes it worth repeating.
Edwards has never been one to mince words. Her storytelling carries a truthfulness built on specific details and brutal honesty, all wrapped in catchy melodies. On Billionaire, she’s as sharp and unflinching as ever—whether she’s delivering a bruising tell-off or crafting a ballad of devastating beauty.
“Save Your Soul” opens the album by taking aim at someone chasing money and status, trading authenticity for artifice. The tempo is relaxed, but the impact isn’t softened one bit. Edwards lays out the coming reckoning: And when the sun goes down / Who will be left / To pick you up off the ground?
“Say Goodbye, Tell No One” is a bruising tell-off with an insistent beat that hammers home every pointed lyric: Here’s the truth wrapped up in a lie / I never cared and I never tried / I don’t miss you and I never cried / It didn’t hurt me when you took their side. It’s the kind of kiss-off that leaves marks. Edwards doesn’t pull her punches here—or anywhere on this record—especially when she’s taking someone to task.
“Little Red Ranger” offers a moment of genuine tenderness. A beautiful, genteel ballad rich with imagery, it reflects on someone who moved from Toronto to Los Angeles to chase a musical dream: But you’ll always be that boy lacing his skates / You miss every shot you never take / Big old smile, you got a heart of gold / Channeling the spirit of Rick Danko’s ghost. And because this is Kathleen Edwards, there’s a perfect parting shot for the Toronto Maple Leafs fan: The Leafs still suck at playoff time.
“Little Pink Door” reflects on a relationship long past, recounting moments before arriving at a quiet revelation: Funny how you can feel so sad / Then one day it’s just a memory you have.
“When the Truth Comes Out” finds Edwards standing up for someone navigating the gossip and stigma of a difficult breakup. It’s a vivid character study wrapped in scruffy guitars and defiance, reminding her friend—and us—that when the truth comes out, time will be on your side.
The album’s emotional centerpiece is the title track. “Billionaire” is a moving reflection on a friend who passed away, and the grief that follows. Edwards’ voice conveys depths of emotion that build as the song unfolds, with strings joining in the second half to lift it into something regal and soaring.
The imagery hits hard: When I close my eyes / I go back in time when everything was fine / And you’re still here / There are a million people who will never even know / That sweet look on your face when you’re bounding through the door / The secret messages that you left behind / For us to find. The chorus captures what grief and memory feel like: If this feeling were currency I would be a billionaire.
Billionaire finds Kathleen Edwards at her sharpest and most vulnerable—an artist who knows exactly how to balance brutal truth with stunning beauty.
Rockland County, Brian Dunne (from the Missing Piece Group Records release Clams Casino)
Brian Dunne has mastered the art of the everyday anthem. On Clams Casino, he delivers a collection of meticulously crafted pop songs that balance catchy melodies with an honest, everyman perspective on life’s struggles and small victories.
The album’s strength lies in Dunne’s refusal to wallow. His songs tackle disappointment and frustration head-on, but there’s always a thread of resilience woven through. He’s not asking for pity—just a fair shake at something better.
That philosophy announces itself immediately with the title track, where Dunne captures the universal tension between ambition and gratitude. “I’ve been trying to have a good life,” he sings, “but no one wants you to be satisfied.” When his partner calls him out for constant complaining—“Everyone wants what they don’t have / And you really don’t have it half bad”—the moment rings true. It’s a conversation plenty of us have had. And when the chorus hits, that small ask—just a bit more, clams casino on a Sunday night—feels instantly familiar. Before you know it, you’re singing along—and taking his side.
“Rockland County” hits just as hard rhythmically, following a couple escaping the city’s plasticity only to find themselves reluctantly returning to their stagnant hometown. Dunne captures that sense of circular defeat, admitting it sounds sad but committing to the decision—they’re back where they started. There’s a resigned acceptance in his delivery that somehow feels both melancholic and infectious—no small feat.
“Graveyard” and “Play the Hits” explore the weight of being overlooked in different ways. “Graveyard” slows the tempo while keeping the percussion alive, painting a picture of a graveyard filled with the brave hearts of art students and unknown bands, all singing that nobody knows who they are. “Play the Hits” keeps the upbeat energy while examining the sting of watching those kids who remind you of you: “a little bit younger with a little bit more hunger, and yeah, they look good in leather too.”
Things turn more introspective with “Some Room Left,” where a strummed electric guitar accompanies Dunne’s reflection on innocence lost and dreams unfulfilled. Things turn out so different from how we started, and it’s not magnificent at all. Yet he still finds that glimmer—he thinks there’s still some room left in his heart.
The emotional low point arrives with the acoustic “I Watched the Light,” a quietly devastating portrait of watching dreams fade. Dunne recalls someone slapping their sticker on a sign one night in June, then “watching it rot away slow and cruel, just like a dream withering on the vine”—until the light goes out of their eyes.
Clams Casino doesn’t traffic in grand statements or revolutionary sounds. Instead, Dunne has done something harder: he’s captured the specific frustrations of trying to get by and transformed them into songs that feel universal. The melodies are immediate, the observations sharp, and the emotional honesty cuts through any cynicism you might bring to the table. It’s the kind of album that meets you where you are—whether that’s stuck in traffic, stuck in your hometown, or just stuck—and reminds you that wanting something better doesn’t make you ungrateful. Sometimes it just makes you human.
Hell When You Come Around, kirby baby (from the No Hat No Cattle Records release Inside Man)
Kirby Brown’s new project takes a sharp turn from Americana into indie-rock territory, but the songwriting craft that defines his work has only grown stronger. kirby baby is raw and confessional, mining emotional depths with a sense of restraint even as the electric guitars push harder than before.
The album braids together two narratives that eventually become inseparable. One thread follows the low-grade panic of trying to figure out how to live in the world—those 3 a.m. questions about belonging, purpose, and whether love or ambition might be the thing that finally breaks you. The other traces a relationship from its first electric possibility through struggle and eventual collapse.
The relationship story begins with “Are You Coming Over Tonight,” which captures the delicate, terrifying early moments when you’re not sure what you’re feeling is reciprocated. The song builds from a strummed electric guitar into something more urgent as Brown confesses, “How is it so that I feel like I know you / But I still wanna know you more / ’Cause I can’t turn it off, and I can’t let it go?” The line “The fear of the fall and the thrill of this all / Are just dancing in such similar lights” nails that particular vertigo.
As the record unfolds, the relationship hits rougher terrain. “Only One” picks up the tempo while Brown tries to save something already slipping away: “Go on and bless these hearts, ’cause this love feels like a funeral march. But if I beat the closing prayer, will you still be standing there?” On “Hell When You Come Around,” he knows it’s going to end badly but can’t seem to help himself: “I know it’s gonna be scars after loving you / I know I’m gonna fall hard like I always do.”
The aftermath brings the record’s most affecting moments. “I Wish I Knew What You Were Going Through” moves with musical restraint—like waves crashing softly on a beach—as Brown picks through what he missed or ignored: “I guess we just can’t help it if that’s the way we’re made / We paint a pretty picture, then watch the landscape fade / The hand is tired, the frame is cheap. The colors run, the lovers leave.”
“How to Write a Song” finds him stuck in that familiar post-breakup space—knowing it’s over but not quite ready to accept it—while also calling out tired breakup-song conventions: “No one needs another song about New York in the winter / And no one asked for another song with a woman’s name in the center.” The self-awareness doesn’t make the song any less effective; if anything, it sharpens it.
Brown drops in Arthur Russell’s “In Love With You for the Last Time,” a song that fits seamlessly among his originals. The piano ballad marks the final moment—the last conversation on the last bench: “Now you’ve rejected me / For the last time, it’s the last time / I’ll sit on this fence for you.”
The parallel narrative—that persistent anxiety about how to exist in the world—runs throughout. “Panic Song” sets the tone early with pulsing rhythms and a chord progression that shifts like the ground dropping out beneath you: “I promise it’s a passing thing; I just get terrified that love will be the death of me / Or a terrible bomb, or a gun, or a rope, oh God, please come tell me.” The catalog of fears feels both specific and universal, the kind of spiral that happens when one worry unlocks all the others.
“Shoot the Lights Out” and “Altar Call” both circle back to exhaustion and a desire to let go of whatever’s causing the pain. On “Altar Call,” Brown addresses both personal ghosts (“Your memory goes where I go”) and professional disillusionment (“This foolish, fickle game, the fucked-up thrill of fame / I sold it all on the road”), landing on a kind of resignation: “Tonight I’m gonna lay it all down / I’m gonna lay it all down at somebody’s feet.”
The record closes with “Inside Man,” a moving piano ballad about wanting to belong somewhere—both personally and professionally. “I’m always afraid that I’ll never belong / That I can’t tell the truth, not even in song. But give me your heart, I stand at the door / And if you hear me knock, then let me in, your inside man.” It’s a fitting end to an album that never quite finds solid ground but somehow makes that instability compelling.
kirby baby works because Brown doesn’t try to resolve anything. The panic doesn’t get solved, the relationship doesn’t get saved, and the question of where you belong stays open. What you get instead is the clarity that comes from putting all of it down on record—every moment of doubt, every misstep, every desperate attempt to hold on or finally let go.
Permission, Alex Wong (from the Shamus Records release Permission)
Alex Wong is a songwriter’s songwriter—someone with something profound to say, who says it beautifully. Over the past several years, I’ve watched these songs take shape in a series of live shows, and hearing the final versions is even more rewarding. Permission is deeply thoughtful and introspective, exploring identity, heritage, and self-acceptance with arrangements as uplifting as the songs themselves.
The album confronts cultural assimilation and the ways we hide parts of ourselves. “Show Yourself” is an intoxicating yet insistent pop song built on pulsing percussion and soaring verses: “I miss the sound of my father’s Chinese / Fading in the suburban breeze / Why do I run from what I used to be / Why am I hiding from my history.” It’s Wong asking himself the questions many children of immigrants carry.
“Second Generation” is atmospheric and brooding, grappling with the distance between him and his family’s homeland. The song has an interesting history: as part of an artist residency, Wong was paired with NYC poet David Glover, whose poem provided the lyrical foundation. Wong stayed true to the story and sentiment, but transformed it into a universal exploration of the immigrant experience in America: “All of your stories / Stuck in my bloodstream / Lost in translation / Second generation.”
The title track is a rousing anthem about giving yourself permission to speak out and be true to yourself. It starts with urgent piano and builds into a cathartic refrain begging to be shouted at the top of your lungs, driven by heavy, insistent percussion: “Scream it out loud / Let your voice crack / Cut through the silence / Take it all back / You can take up space / You don’t have to wait for it to be given / You have permission.”
“The Quiet Voice” is an enchanting ballad about confronting anger with restraint—a song about empathy and resilience. It’s both comforting and empowering, reminding anyone who’s felt overwhelmed that their quiet voice carries the truest power. The closing line is particularly poignant: “And just ’cause they shout it / Doesn’t make it true / ’Cause everyone gets the loudest / When they’re about to lose.”
The album closes with “If You Want To You Will,” an acoustic ballad that’s the quietest—and the most affirming—song here. It’s about confronting challenges and change with conviction: “If you think you can, if you think you can’t, you’re right.” The song keeps pushing toward self-trust and forward motion: “How do you fight for your heart / When they tell you it’s too late to start / How do you blow up a life that you’ve built / If you want to, you will.”
Wong’s time as a percussionist makes its presence known throughout—songs built on driving rhythms beneath orchestral arrangements and soaring choruses. Permission is an album of affirmation: finding yourself and then being true to what you find.
Pride Is a Gun, Bird Streets (from the Plastic Dreams Records release The Escape Artist)
John Brodeur has always had a knack for wrapping existential dread in irresistible melodies, but The Escape Artist finds the songwriter leaning harder into the darkness than ever before. Born from the pandemic’s forced isolation, this collection trades the occasional sunnier disposition of previous Bird Streets releases for something moodier and more introspective—yet Brodeur never abandons the pop sensibilities that make his songs so magnetic. Even at their bleakest, these tracks burrow into your brain and refuse to let go.
Album opener “Bedhead” sets the tone immediately: mostly acoustic guitar draped in strings, creating an atmosphere thick with withdrawal and resignation. “I boarded up the window / And headed for the bedroom,” Brodeur sings, chronicling a retreat from the world that feels both absurd and entirely relatable. “I strapped my mask and helmet on / And waited calmly for the bomb / Pulled the covers up / And slept until the new moon.” It’s hiding, yes—but rendered with such vivid detail that it feels less like denial and more like a coping mechanism we all understand.
Lead single “The Mistaker” shifts the emotional register slightly—this isn’t apology; it’s acknowledgment. “Like a superhero in reverse / Don’t call me ’til you have tried everyone first,” Brodeur offers, owning his role as the person you call when everything else has failed. The song is brooding but undeniably catchy, its chorus hooking you even as the lyrics catalog personal shortcomings.
The intensity ramps up on “Fossil Eyes,” where insistent electric guitars and a heavy rhythm create urgency before the song eases back. It’s a clever musical framework for examining a relationship past its expiration date, told through prehistoric metaphor: “In another lifetime we were all the rage / But this dinosaur act we’ve been playing / Needs to change.”
“Exit Plan” finds Brodeur taking a more active stance against decline, though the song’s musical restraint and underlying unease suggest this newfound resolve isn’t coming easy. “I’ve been working on an exit plan / No more waiting for the other shoe to land / I’ll take the fire over the frying pan,” he sings, choosing action over paralysis even when the options all feel impossible.
“Pride Is a Gun” showcases Brodeur at his sharpest: a midlife inventory that refuses easy answers or redemption narratives. “It wasn’t always this way, used to be a good hang / Out all night and get home when the alarm bell rang,” he recalls, before acknowledging the dark humor in youthful bravado: “Do you remember that song, ‘Hope I die before I get old’ / That was the funniest joke anyone ever told.” By the time he reaches “Maybe in a few years I’ll look back on this and laugh / But there’s a poison pen writing my epitaph,” the lyrical intelligence is undeniable.
The anxiety reaches its apex on “Everyonewelovewillgoaway,” where isolation breeds spiraling thoughts: “The telephone, it never rings / And I’ve got so much time to think / About the end of everything.” Time collapses in on itself—“Every day is a year / And every year is a day”—as the ultimate truth announces itself in the title.
“Run For Our Lives” offers one of the album’s most fascinating contradictions: punchy piano and handclaps propel the song forward with an almost carefree energy, while the lyrics dissect a relationship limping toward its inevitable end. “Let’s hang on / The end is near and it won’t be long / But until then we’ll just play along / Until we run out of lies,” Brodeur sings, and somehow makes doom sound downright jaunty.
“Don’t Be a Stranger” provides something approaching solace—not through false optimism, but through the simple comfort of companionship. “A quiet conversation is all I can hope for these days / A temporary respite from the general malaise,” Brodeur offers, finding strength in small connections even when the bigger picture refuses to compute.
The Escape Artist confirms what Bird Streets fans already knew: John Brodeur understands that the catchiest songs often carry the heaviest truths. This is an album about hiding, failing, aging, and anxiety—but it’s also an album you’ll want to play again and again, proof that pop music doesn’t have to choose between darkness and accessibility. Sometimes the most honest thing you can do is make the unbearable sound irresistible.
I Leave Everything To You, The Swell Season (from the Masterkey Sounds/Plateau Records release Forward)
The reunion of Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová arrives as a long-overdue gift, bringing together two distinctive songwriting voices that complement each other with striking power. Forward plays to both artists’ strengths: the intoxicating beauty that defines Irglová’s compositions and the raw emotional intensity that courses through Hansard’s work. Together, they’ve crafted an album that digs into the complicated depths of relationships—the messy, unresolved kind that resist easy answers.
Hansard opens the album with “Factory Street Bells,” a moving ode to his young son that serves as a reminder of the tether between father and child. No matter how far he travels, the shared experience of listening to those factory street bells becomes his anchor to home. The song unfolds as a string-laden lullaby, the kind of sing-along that wraps around you with warmth and longing.
The duo comes together for “People We Used to Be,” tackling the deterioration of a friendship at its breaking point. Two friends face a decision: let it end or fight for renewal. The song builds with symphonic intensity, Irglová warning that standing by while everything burns will only fuel the flames. Tellingly, the track never reaches resolution—it simply builds and lingers, leaving the outcome uncertain.
On “Stuck in Reverse,” Hansard captures the paralysis of a failed relationship’s aftermath. He’s trying to move forward but finds himself trapped, circling back to what was lost: “Can we go backwards / Back to the days before the wheels came off / I know there’s no going back now / I tried to move on, but I’m stuck in reverse.” The emotion in his voice amplifies the song’s desperate quality—the ache of wanting to rewind time even while knowing it’s impossible.
Irglová’s “I Leave Everything to You” stands as one of the album’s most powerful moments. Her piano opens with quiet restraint, its beauty enhanced by what it holds back. The song becomes a meditation on dying and letting go: a narrator’s final attempt to pass on everything—memories, regrets, lessons, mistakes, love—to the person left behind before fading completely. It’s profound in its intimacy.
“A Little Sugar” finds Hansard in the midst of relationship tension, offering a reminder that sometimes all it takes is a small gesture of sweetness to keep things from escalating. Meanwhile, Irglová processes a breakup in real time on “Pretty Stories,” caught somewhere between expecting it and being surprised when it actually happens. Her piano, accompanied by shimmering strings, creates a delicate backdrop for the emotional reckoning.
The album closes with two songs that reach toward the light. “Great Weight,” punctuated by horns and fiddle, carries the spirit of old gypsy folk music. Hansard reflects on emerging from darkness with imagery of storms and tyrants, celebrating the lifting of burdens. The theatrical “Hundred Words” brings together both artists’ voices for an uplifting ode to perseverance, encouraging listeners to keep faith and continue the story.
Forward earns its title. This is an album about movement—sometimes backward, often stuck, occasionally onward—always with the understanding that relationships demand we feel everything deeply before we can move at all.
Blue, Malin Pettersen (from the Die With Your Boots On Records release Wildflower)
Over the past couple of years, Norwegian singer-songwriter Malin Pettersen has explored different corners of her artistry—a pop/R&B record here, a fully acoustic, stripped-down collection there. With Wildflower, she stops treating these as separate destinations and brings them all into the same room. The result is her most complete and confident statement yet.
The album moves freely between modes: the pop shimmer of “Cargo” and “Free,” the bare-bones intimacy of the title track, the country lilt of “Fold Out Chair,” and the pedal steel–laced Americana of “Carolina” and “Blue.” Rather than compartmentalizing these approaches, Pettersen lets them inform and strengthen each other, creating a showcase for both her versatile voice and her increasingly sharp songwriting.
“Carolina” finds Pettersen counseling a friend through heartbreak with uncommon insight: “And the bag that you’re holding is easy on your back / But the load that you carry is like a 20-pound backpack / And I call your bluff, I see through your disguise / And through the ash of your heart new life will rise.” The arrangement matches the empathy in her words—country-leaning Americana with pedal steel that knows when to speak up and when to let silence do its work.
“Blue” takes a different approach to struggle, wrapping genuine despair in an upbeat, poppy melody. Pettersen first sings about someone counseling others through grief with a false sense of knowing, then shows what happens when that same person encounters the real thing themselves. The contrast between the bouncy production and the lyrical weight gives the song an unsettling catchiness—you’re humming along before you realize what you’re actually singing about.
On “Break Things,” Pettersen turns the lens inward, acknowledging her own self-sabotage with disarming honesty: “I wish I was better / Better at love and life, generally / But it takes all I’ve got / To be something I’m not.” The melody sways gently beneath the confession, never milking the moment for drama.
“Free” pulses with intensity from its opening bass line, driven by the restless pursuit of freedom—however one defines it, whatever the cost. And “Number and a Street,” a standout from her earlier acoustic EP, gets reimagined here as a rocking Americana anthem, proof that great songs can inhabit more than one life.
Wildflower gathers up everything Pettersen has been working on and shows how naturally it all fits together—an album that sounds like an artist who’s figured out she doesn’t have to choose.
The Book of Love, Ferris & Sylvester (from the Archtop Records Songs That Saw Us Through)
Sometimes a covers EP transcends mere tribute to become something profoundly personal. Songs That Saw Us Through is one of those rare projects—a collection born from the solace UK husband-and-wife duo Issy Ferris and Archie Sylvester found in other people’s songs during an impossibly difficult time.
The backstory is harrowing. While touring the U.S., Ferris—pregnant at the time—was hospitalized with preeclampsia. Their son, Lucky, arrived prematurely via emergency cesarean. He spent the next two months in treatment, including three weeks in intensive care, before the family could return home.
“We found it hard to write songs after Lucky was born. I couldn’t access that part of myself,” Ferris explains. “Instead, I became immersed in the writing of others. I fell in love with music all over again, like when I was a teenager.” Sylvester adds: “These songs helped us get through that time. If somebody else going through a similar experience can feel comforted by listening to this, that’s a really positive thought for us.”
The resulting five-song EP strips everything down to voices and acoustic guitars, and that intimacy becomes its greatest strength. Their set moves from an opening take on Paul Simon’s “Still Crazy After All These Years” to Dolly Parton’s “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind,” Jim Reeves’ “Welcome to My World,” and the Magnetic Fields’ “The Book of Love” (famously covered by Peter Gabriel), before closing with the Carpenters’ “We’ve Only Just Begun.” Each performance feels gentle, steadying, and quietly uplifting.
There’s a clear honesty here—heartfelt emotion delivered without artifice. Pure, simple, and beautiful.
The EP is being released in support of Tommy’s, a UK charity that conducts research and provides services in support safer, healthier pregnancies.
Far Away Place, Jon LaDeau (from the Adhyâropa Records release Chateau LaDeau)
New York City singer-songwriter and guitarist Jon LaDeau proves himself a restless creative spirit on Chateau LaDeau, an album that refuses to settle into any single groove. Across seven tracks, LaDeau showcases both his songwriting range and his considerable guitar chops, moving fluidly between waltzes, bluesy pop, and retro rock with the ease of someone who’s absorbed decades of influences without being confined by any one of them.
The album opens with “Take Me Away,” an intoxicating, swaying waltz that captures the escapism promised in its title. “I wanna go far away / Where there’s no trouble to get in our way / Where there’s no sorrow and all is ok,” LaDeau sings, and the gentle 3/4 time makes that fantasy feel both inviting and bittersweet.
The sense of escape continues on “Far Away Place,” though this time it’s driven by heartbreak rather than wanderlust. Set to a fun, catchy rhythm, the song finds LaDeau processing a breakup: “Something different caught your eye / Took you out of here to a far away place.”
“East Tennessee Wrecker” kicks things up with a percussive, insistent beat and a bluesy but poppy melody that lodges itself in your head. The “wrecker” in question isn’t a tow truck, but a romantic infatuation that’s got LaDeau on the move: “East Tennessee Wrecker / You’ve been on my mind / I’m gonna chase I gotta catch her / I’m moving double time.”
“This Town” channels the spirit of Magnolia Electric Company at a more upbeat tempo, with LaDeau’s electric guitar taking center stage. It then gives way to “Shoot the Moon,” a one-minute instrumental that offers a brief respite—its retro 1960s vibe feeling timeless rather than dated.
“Heartworks” delivers a soothing, uptempo love song that blends 1970s classic rock with the warmth of that era’s jam-band sound, while album closer “Memory in Mind” circles back to ’60s pop-rock with a splash of reggae woven through the verses.
The real charm of Chateau LaDeau is how comfortably LaDeau moves between these different sounds, never treating them as costumes to put on, but as natural expressions of his artistic reach. His guitar work is equally varied and accomplished throughout, making this a showcase not just of songwriting versatility, but of instrumental prowess as well.
Aquila, Williamson Brothers (from the Dial Back Sound/Well Kept Secret release Aquila)
Some days call for nuance and subtlety. Other days? You just want some good ol’ rock ’n’ roll cranked to eleven. Alabama’s Williamson Brothers understand this instinctively, and on Aquila, they deliver exactly what you’re craving: fiery guitars and bruising rhythms from first note to last.
The album announces its intentions immediately with “American Original,” a sonic blast to the face that sets the template for what’s to come. “Medicine” continues the guitar fury, proving these guys aren’t interested in easing you into anything. “All These Years” kicks in with a Georgia Satellites vibe before the Williamson Brothers, true to form, kick out the jams.
“Twenty First Century” takes a power-pop song and throws it into a rock ’n’ roll blender, serving up melodic hooks with guitars and vocals that refuse to let up. The brothers finally cool things down (relatively speaking) on “Good Boy,” a more mid-tempo number with a bouncy, catchy melody enhanced by John Calvin Abney’s harmonica work.
The album closes with a pair of power-pop rockers—the title track “Aquila” and “All Light Up”—that channel serious Superdrag energy, marrying melody with muscle in a way that feels both familiar and fresh.
The Williamson Brothers ain’t pulling any punches on Aquila. And that’s just fine.
Cold Winds, Nick Leet (from the self-released Detours)
Ringo Starr famously sang, “I get by with a little help from my friends,” and it’s a sentiment Nick Leet—longtime member of Minneapolis rockers High on Stress—takes to heart on his solo debut. In fact, there’s at least one featured guest on every track, a testament to the stature Leet holds among his fellow musicians.
Lead-off track “Cold Winds” sets the tone: a mid-tempo rocker with a sticky riff and melody, powered up by guitarists Dan Murphy (Soul Asylum/Golden Smog) and Kevin Salem. They give the song a brawny edge without ever overwhelming it.
The acoustic rockers “Not Here to Lose” and “Playing Tricks Again” hearken back to Milwaukee greats—the former channeling Violent Femmes’ nervous energy, the latter recalling the BoDeans’ heartland punch.
Leet digs deeper into acoustic Americana on tracks like “Slowly Then Faster,” which leans on mandolin, and album closer “Goodbye Gravel Roads,” where slide guitar and a longing melody conjure a dusty-road feel. Billy Pilgrim’s Andrew Hyra lends his voice to both, adding extra character and depth.
Detours proves Leet isn’t just a player who keeps good company—he’s an artist who inspires his peers to bring their best. For someone who clearly plays for the love of music, that magic touch is evident throughout.
Bitch Year, Laney Jones and the Spirits (from the AHPO Records release Laney Jones and the Spirits)
Laney Jones wastes no time setting expectations. Her self-titled album with the Spirits opens with “Fun Fun Fun,” a minute-long acoustic ditty that channels the Violent Femmes’ scrappy energy—a mission statement promising grit, quirkiness, and a whole lot of attitude.
The cranky guitars of “Bitch Year” make good on that promise immediately. Chugging, ringing, and generally raising hell, the track chronicles the gritty reality of struggling artists in L.A., where the romance of it all isn’t always so romantic. “Be a dear, fetch me a beer, it’s been a bitch year,” Jones deadpans over the racket, painting scenes of “bad luck Hollyweird down and out on Fifth and Vine.” It’s unglamorous and unapologetic.
“We Belong Together” starts deceptively restrained before exploding into a cacophonous chorus, with Jones building to a full-throated scream that turns declaration into demand. The mellower “Live Wire” follows with bass-heavy reflection—“case of the Mondays, fearful of Sundays”—proving she can dial back the intensity without losing the edge.
Guitars and attitude return on “Waiting on You,” where Jones explores the friction between opposing temperaments: “I was born on Monday rockin’ ready to go / You were born on a Sunday moving way too slow.” No prizes for guessing which side she lands on. That theme continues with “Shelly,” contrasting a battle-worn soul who “fought the battle but forgot the war” against Jones’s sunnier disposition: “I got a feeling life will be just fine / I wanna lay outside in the sunshine.”
Throughout, Jones and the Spirits balance scrappy punk energy with sharp observations about ambition, exhaustion, and the characters who populate the margins of the dream factory. It’s messy, spirited, and refreshingly human.
About the author: Mild-mannered corporate executive by day, excitable Twangville denizen by night.