Fourth
album from the shine-eyed Mister Zen of the acoustic slide guitar,
and it marks a notable step forward from his former (gloriously realised)
works of solo bluesy introspection. Progress and change can be a tricky
thing in contemporary blues - witness Alvin Youngblood Hart's boldly
eclectic Beefheartian advances, or Eric Bibb's rather less successful
experiments with electrification - but Phelps manages to stay true,
move forward, keep the faith and sow the seeds for further future development
with rare comfort and ease. So, here he is subtley augmented by the
pluck, pull, putter and stomp of Tom Waits sideman Larry Taylor on
string bass and Morphine drummer/percussionist Billy Conway. With the
further addition of cello and Hammond organ, it makes for a tenderly
expressive sound - perfectly suited to Phelps's husky, emotive drawl.
No more the doff of the cap to Dock Boggs or Skip James, Blind Lemon
Jefferson and Mississippi Fred McDowell, this is pure Phelps. A git
up, lay down, moonlight throb. A hip shake boogie. A long desirous
backyard moan of busted hearts, greased-up good and bent down low.
Fourth
album from the shine-eyed Mister Zen of the acoustic slide guitar,
and it marks a notable step forward from his former (gloriously realised)
works of solo bluesy introspection. Progress and change can be a tricky
thing in contemporary blues - witness Alvin Youngblood Hart's boldly
eclectic Beefheartian advances, or Eric Bibb's rather less successful
experiments with electrification - but Phelps manages to stay true,
move forward, keep the faith and sow the seeds for further future development
with rare comfort and ease. So, here he is subtley augmented by the
pluck, pull, putter and stomp of Tom Waits sideman Larry Taylor on
string bass and Morphine drummer/percussionist Billy Conway. With the
further addition of cello and Hammond organ, it makes for a tenderly
expressive sound - perfectly suited to Phelps's husky, emotive drawl.
No more the doff of the cap to Dock Boggs or Skip James, Blind Lemon
Jefferson and Mississippi Fred McDowell, this is pure Phelps. A git
up, lay down, moonlight throb. A hip shake boogie. A long desirous
backyard moan of busted hearts, greased-up good and bent down low.