Tom Brosseau's threadbare folk is a tough pill to swallow. Whether you're a stock indie geek or the average Starbucks customer waiting in line, his no-frills, North Dakota born 'n' bred folk tunes will likely leave you wondering what's the twist here. Unlike his guest star-studded What I Mean to Say Is Goodbye and the almost fully band-backed Grand Forks, Cavalier recoils at the notion of the meek, solitary Brosseau growing too big for his britches, opting to instead strip the singer-songwriter down to the undergarments of his earlier, humbler material. Maybe Brosseau's an unfortunate folk relic, trapped in a time where the genre's most often appreciated when grafted to more chic styles.
Brosseau's tenuous saving grace is his likeness to Woody Guthrie or even Bob Dylan, though while he shares their sparse arrangements, he lacks their acerbic tongue and gravitas. Sure, themes of star-crossed love and suicide crop up, most notably on the forlorn chorus of "Brass Ring Blues" ("I've only known an empty gun underneath my bed"), but the stakes always remain small, the politics never extending beyond the path your surrey takes you. The music reflects this, with most songs featuring only Brosseau's voice and guitar, which frequently arppegiates the same predictable chord progressions. A few tracks break up this monotony, such as the loose guitar slides on "Committed to Memory" or the mystical Spanish vibe of "My Heart Belongs to the Sea", a number that dares to pepper in some piano lines alongside Brosseau's trusty acoustic.
The remainder of Cavalier passes by like a warm breeze, the start and finish of each track difficult to determine. Brosseau offers no new perspective on folk mythology. Unlike his concept album Grand Forks, a chronicle of the devastating flood that ravaged Brosseau's hometown in 1997, Cavalier relies on tried-and-true folk subjects like crossing paths with Satan and journeying downstream on a riverboat. Right down to his wholesomely parted blonde hair and enamel-filled smile (think Jack McBrayer's character on 30 Rock), Brosseau's a nifty last bastion of old-timey Americana, but his music sounds sadly obsolete in a country that's grown too world-weary and voracious for simple grassroots ditties.
