If you're a fan of Will Johnson's prolific output-- the folk-rock of Centro-matic, the diaphanous balladry of South San Gabriel, or the somber alt.country the darling of Denton, Texas, records under his own name-- and you want to maximize your chances of enjoying The Carlton Chronicles, you'd do well to avoid all reviews of it except this one, which will elide an ostensibly central aspect of the record: Its concept.
Yep, it's a concept record-- sort of. Johnson's imagery is circumspect and oblique, his lyrics often indecipherably garbled, as if he were backing off from the concept even as he committed it to tape. It'll only be apparent to listeners who've read reviews that harp on it, and once you know, it's tough to give the record a fair shake: The somber seriousness of the music is hard to reconcile with the absurdity of [CONCEPT EXPURGATED].
But these good intentions are already gut-shot and staggering; now you're direly curious: What could it be about? The square dude from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air? Nah, way off. And my fingers are hovering over the three keys that would irrevocably reveal it all, as reality limps in on silent paws (hint hint): Beyond the imperceptible concept and some perfumed adjectives regarding beauty and ethereality, there isn't much to say about The Carlton Chronicles.
It is beautiful, that's certain: Check out "Charred Resentment the Same", with its two movements of lazing guitars and double-tracked vocals (one high and clear, the other low and husky, recalling Iron and Wine's technique on "Upward Over the Mountains") bridged by a dual-guitar conversation and a distantly shimmering organ. Or "Predatory King Today", with its melancholic M. Ward-ish warble, gently accumulating arpeggios, and perfectly positioned slide guitar accents. Shuffle these descriptions through various permutations to attain a sense of the album on the main, or imagine Sufjan Stevens ghostwriting for Neil Young.
But here's the crux: Do you like golf-course beauty, the unbroken idyll with everything in its right place? Or flowers-in-the-wreckage beauty, flawed and exotic, becoming beautiful in its deviation from the ideal? Fans of the former will enjoy the procession of homecoming queens, winsome but somehow artificial, that comprises The Carlton Chronicles, but fans of the latter might feel they've depleted its charms after a couple spins and begin pining for the cute punk girl with the overlarge eyes and obnoxious laugh. Either way, you're better off not knowing that it's supposed to be about a sick cat. Oops!
