*happy sigh*
I was all set to help the team set up some new equipment today, and my boss was like, "No, we have a ton of stuff to do, I have another project for you," so... while I'm waiting for that hammer to fall (in the immortal words of Freddie Mercury), I wanted to drop in and say that I got Jeffrey Foucault's new album last night (unexpectedly--it was supposed to SHIP on Saturday, and there is no way in hell it could have gotten here from Massachusetts by yesterday, so something awesome happened, clearly)! And, um, I am actually not totally loving it so far? He's experimenting with his sound and it is not quite working for me, on some of the songs at least. YMMV! But Ghost Repeater took a while to grow on me, too, so we'll see. YOU'RE STILL MY FAVORITE, JEFF.
HOWEVER, there was a thing on the back of the album that made me cry, I loved it so much; what a perfect summation of all the things I love about Jeff's music:
I listened to this album for the first time while at home during a Brooklyn blizzard, and I wrote down that Jeffrey Foucault's voice is like a snowstorm--soft and heavy, blanketing, pure. But I've listened to him on long sunny drives too, and I can tell you how well his songs mix with speed and heat. They fill every acre of a vast flat landscape.
Somehow Jeffrey brings us both the road and the home fire burning; triumph and hurt; memory and imagination; loneliness and crazy love. When songwriters are this good--that's rare--we tend to call them poets and old souls. Sure, but there's also a wild energy here. He can win you over with a grin, crack you open with his mind. Like all great writers, he gets inside and listens. You hear his appetite for people and places in the crackle of his songs.
I first met Jeffrey one September night in 2004 when he and Paul Curreri played the little basement stage at the old Knitting Factory in downtown Manhattan. I liked him right away. We were both in our twenties, both Midwesterners, both wandering around the country as much as we could. Back then it was especially cool to wear trucker hats. And I remember thinking that Jeffrey was the guy all those other guys wanted so badly to be: confident, masculine, rustic. He didn't wear a hat, and he didn't need to. He took out his guitar and told the truth for about an hour. It felt like looking out the window of a train.
Five albums later, and he still hits me in the chest. Each record has been a new amalgam of American styles and forms, yet unmistakably his. Horse Latitudes sounds like he's rounding third and coming home. His songs have gotten simpler and truer. He's in this for the long haul and I plan to ride along the whole way.
-- Matt Dellinger
Isn't that gorgeous? He took out his guitar and told the truth for about an hour. It felt like looking out the window of a train. Yes yes yes. That EXACTLY. I find it very hard to be articulate about Jeffrey Foucault, so I love it when someone else does it for me.
So that made me happy.
Ooh, my boss is back. TELL MY STORY. Hee.
HOWEVER, there was a thing on the back of the album that made me cry, I loved it so much; what a perfect summation of all the things I love about Jeff's music:
I listened to this album for the first time while at home during a Brooklyn blizzard, and I wrote down that Jeffrey Foucault's voice is like a snowstorm--soft and heavy, blanketing, pure. But I've listened to him on long sunny drives too, and I can tell you how well his songs mix with speed and heat. They fill every acre of a vast flat landscape.
Somehow Jeffrey brings us both the road and the home fire burning; triumph and hurt; memory and imagination; loneliness and crazy love. When songwriters are this good--that's rare--we tend to call them poets and old souls. Sure, but there's also a wild energy here. He can win you over with a grin, crack you open with his mind. Like all great writers, he gets inside and listens. You hear his appetite for people and places in the crackle of his songs.
I first met Jeffrey one September night in 2004 when he and Paul Curreri played the little basement stage at the old Knitting Factory in downtown Manhattan. I liked him right away. We were both in our twenties, both Midwesterners, both wandering around the country as much as we could. Back then it was especially cool to wear trucker hats. And I remember thinking that Jeffrey was the guy all those other guys wanted so badly to be: confident, masculine, rustic. He didn't wear a hat, and he didn't need to. He took out his guitar and told the truth for about an hour. It felt like looking out the window of a train.
Five albums later, and he still hits me in the chest. Each record has been a new amalgam of American styles and forms, yet unmistakably his. Horse Latitudes sounds like he's rounding third and coming home. His songs have gotten simpler and truer. He's in this for the long haul and I plan to ride along the whole way.
-- Matt Dellinger
Isn't that gorgeous? He took out his guitar and told the truth for about an hour. It felt like looking out the window of a train. Yes yes yes. That EXACTLY. I find it very hard to be articulate about Jeffrey Foucault, so I love it when someone else does it for me.
So that made me happy.
Ooh, my boss is back. TELL MY STORY. Hee.