By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Right. Right? Are we all familiar with that grimy, authentic LES feel? Does this carefully tousled utopia, designed to entrance the culture-starved denizens of, say, North Platte, Nebraska, actually exist? Does it reflect New York City as it is, was, will be, should be, might've been?
Nothing else to do but ask Steve Earle. He's in town, you know. Maybe you heard about it. If not, "Tennessee Blues," the first track on the new Washington Square Serenade, will set you very explicitly straight: "Bound for New York City/And I won't be back no more/Won't be back no more, boys/Won't see me around/ Goodbye Guitar Town." (When Steve needs an extra syllable, he usually reaches for "boys.") Thus does he draw a line straight from Guitar Town, the 1986 debut on which he'd already perfected his American Badass persona (actually doing the terrible things Springsteen only sings about, and then doing the time) to this, his New York Album. Steve's taken root in the Village; he knocked 'em dead several months back at the Blue Note, violently strumming his guitar and melodically croaking his eloquent odes to sentimentality and sedition, his head crowned by a magnificent tsunami of a comb-over, trying to remember which ex-wife (out of five possibilities) he wrote which song for, with Wife No. 6, the bright-eyed singer-songwriter Allison Moorer, his opening act. He gleefully described their cramped new apartment, their respective workspaces way too close together. Sacrificing square footage for that grimy, authentic feel, just like the rest of us.
By Serenade's second track, "Down Here Below," just like the rest of us, Steve is bitching about real-estate jargon.
Now Hell's Kitchen's "Clinton"
And the Bowery's "Nolita"
And the East Village is creepin' 'cross the Williamsburg Bridge
Hey, whatever happened to Alphabet City?
Ain't no place left in this town that a poor boy can go
His gruff but inviting speak-sing is as gruff and inviting as ever, a cheek-to-cheek hug from your coarsely bearded, half-lit but nonetheless beloved grandfather. But Serenade was produced by one of the Dust Brothersit should be someone's full-time job, with benefits, to keep people like the Dust Brothers away from people like Steve Earle. Super-slick, Beckian, urban-aesthete flourishes do such a raw and volatile talent no favors. Steve's appeal lies in his potential to croon a heartbreaking ballad, recite the Constitution backward in under 60 seconds, or smash his guitar over your head at any given momentlive, his demeanor is still laced with equal parts danger and delight. Too much of Serenade makes him sound just pretty enough but overly polite, his more provocative urges papered over with shiny good cheer, as suspect a Giulianian makeover as befell the renamed neighborhoods Steve now mourns (this is the man behind 2002's "John Walker's Blues," which chillingly humanized John Walker Lindh back when most were in no mood to humanize, much less sympathize with, The Enemy). His political barbs still expertly jerk knees as his soft-focus, lovelorn laments do tears. And "City of Immigrants," with NYC's own party-minded Brazilian troupe Forro in the Dark, has an appealingly folksy "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard" bounce to it as Steve spells it out: "All of us are immigrants," the harmony softening the hectoring a bit.
Perfectly good, but a touch self-satisfied and complacent: a tough sell in the big city. Meanwhile, creeping 'cross the Williamsburg Bridge in the opposite direction is a better record: Brooklyn sextet Oakley Hall's I'll Follow You, a bone-deep and breathtaking psych-country epic with the range and muscle and wistful transience of Steve's best work, the crabby, craggy distorto-guitar dirges harking back to harder-edge Earle benchmarks like "Taneytown." Twin leads Patrick Sullivan (late of the outstanding Brooklyn avant-pop outfit Oneida) and Rachel Cox (currently of the booming, mesmerizing voice) bellow beautifully, as though struggling to make their lilting lullabies heard through gale-force winds that could be blowing anywherethe band's rustic but raucous sound, bewitching on record and pulverizing live, doesn't desperately try to sound Southern, or Appalachian, or North Platte, Nebraskan, and thus effortlessly evokes all three. It doesn't particularly signify "New York," either, but its confidence, its strength and finesse, does. Sullivan starts off crooning tenderly on opener "Marine Life," but is soon swiped at by crunching guitars and yearning violin; Cox thunders through the anthemic "All the Way Down," building unstoppable momentum but never losing focus. Follow's lyrics are a poetic mishmash from which emerges the occasional resonant one-liner ("I'm gonna love you more than your mother"), but they avoid cliché as calmly as the backdrops do, alternately sweet and sweltering.