1972, the latest outing from Nebraskan-gone-Nashvillian singer/songwriter Josh Rouse, actually signals a jump forward in time for him, despite its retrofitting. His last effort, 2002's Under Cold Blue Stars, made a flailing attempt to paste together the story of a Midwestern couple's liaisons, circa 1950s, within the context of his straightforward, warm-blooded pop and permissive sensibilities. His latest is twice as cohesive and markedly easier on the intake. Despite a few aberrant wince-worthy moments, which I'll generously chalk up as acceptable losses given that he's chosen throwback 70s strains as this album's vehicle of assault, 1972 finds Rouse winding a tight ball of earnest, insouciant pop balladry. It just may be the most obvious-- even contemporarily fatuous-- listen I've encountered all year. But you know what: It works.
Rouse starts off in his lowest key with the title track. Most akin to his early, late-90s material, the song tosses off a dreamy narrative of utopian imperfection about life in its titular year: marooned, unemployed, getting high, and shooting pool. Comfortably sprinkled with subtle percussion and light strings, it's the most acoustic-based track on the record-- and though it might be aimed at a generation three or four removed from his own, it speaks in timeless divulgence.
The rest of the album is more exploratory, but also more compartmentalized within each of its sonic domains. The single, "Love Vibration", bounces a nostalgic eight-track beat with some synth work and light horn arrangements before giving way to a sax solo (!). Which speaks to one of the record's best traits; In each song, 70s-tinged red flags (flute solos, vibraphones, background singers, disco string loops, etc) find a place to settle in, but Rouse minimizes any potential damage by using them sparingly, squeezing highly effective hints of earnestness and atmosphere from them before sending them hurtling back into whatever vintage hellhole spat them out.
"Slaveship" might be vintage Jackson Browne on his birthday, with sparkling piano and handclaps; the shoreline tango "Flight Attendant" fits somewhere between Summerteeth's "How to Fight Loneliness" and something from former Rouse collaborators Lambchop; and "Sparrows Over Birmingham" employs a gospel choir to fill out its period soft soul swing. "James", meanwhile, is a veritable lost 70s soft-rock relic, and one of the only tracks to showcase Rouse's mercurial falsetto. Although not utilized to its fullest here, his voice transforms to fill the needs of the song, showing that, while sometimes the least compelling aspect of his songs, it can be made the centerpiece when necessary.
Lyrically, Rouse takes it easy throughout the album, finding fortune mostly in his simple reel-to-reel personal sketches, though he does occasionally cause facial contortions when traversing groovier territory and crooning gory, anachronistic lyrics like, "I wanna be your baby daddy." He ends the album on a fine note, though, with the symphonic "Rise", calling to mind early Damien Jurado (if he could sing) and some of the Pernice Brothers' more lightly conceptualized moments. All told, it may be the best set of songs Rouse has yet to offer; I'd be curious to hear his take on my 1980s.
