Eric Bachmann

Eric Bachmann

Like his 2006 album To the Races, this latest effort from the Archers of Loaf frontman is as acoustic and quietly introspective as Archers of Loaf were electric and noisily extroverted—North Carolina’s answer to The Replacements if you will. Bachmann’s only misstep this time is “Mercy,” an atheist’s insistence that he’s moral enough on his own, in which he protesteth too much. In the other 11 songs, he sketches moving portraits of people who believe in more than themselves whether they know that they do or not.

Second Love

Emmy the Great

Emma-Lee Moss’ nom de chanson connotes not hubris but a sense of humor, a humor, it should be noted, that does not extend itself to the interpersonal concerns that Moss thoughtfully addresses in her latest 12 songs. Not that her approach feels heavy. On the contrary, her gossamer voice and her gentle electro-pop settings float. They do not, however, float away. They possess a gravity that draws you in, engendering—then rewarding—a curiosity about both what she has to say and why she’s saying it.

God Don't Never Change: The Songs of Blind Willie Johnson

Various artists

Blind Willie Johnson was the most primally intense gospel singer who ever lived, and this homage comes so close to doing him and his faith justice that its ultimate failure to do so feels, if not tragic, then at least like a pointlessly blown opportunity. The blame lies not with Tom Waits, Sinéad O’Connor, The Blind Boys of Alabama, Luther Dickinson, or Susan Tedeschi & Derek Trucks. It lies with Lucinda Williams, who bungles the magnificent title track by referring to God as both a “He” and a “She.”

Man About Town

Mayer Hawthorne

Delete the two R-rated songs (for language and/or suggestiveness) and you’ll still have eight examples of exemplary blue-eyed soul worth adding to a feel-good playlist. “The Valley” could even qualify as an exemplary Steely Dan tribute. Hawthorne’s falsetto could be creamier, but it’s his perfectly acceptable vocal blend of Daryl Hall and John Oates that predominates, and it’s just fine. “Love Like That” could even pass for an exemplary Hall & Oates tribute—that is, if it weren’t one of the two R-rated songs.

Encore

At the risk of giving Robbie Fulks fans and James Taylor fans the wrong idea, it should be noted that Upland Stories (Bloodshot), Fulks’ latest album, delivers everything that Fulks and Taylor fans have ever desired from their heroes: poignancy, tunefulness, and roots-conscious instrumentation that serves both without shading into over- or under-kill. That Fulks has beaten Taylor to this goal says as much about Fulks’ superior sensitivity to the heart’s nooks and crannies as it does about his superior indifference to the demands of pop radio or its streaming-age equivalence.

Dip in almost anywhere, and common sense uncommonly expressed rears its head. “America Is a Hard Religion” renders both unto Caesar and unto God. Most of the rest render unto family, a fulcrum that Fulks, at 53, is more sensitive to than he ever was during the days of his wiseacre ascendancy, if only because he was so much younger then. He’s older than that now. —A.O.