Fingerpicked acoustic guitar is a hit-or-miss proposition: When it works, the rolling, repetitive figures it produces can be hypnotic. But it’s easy for even a great player to drift into auto-pilot. The antidote seems pretty simple—pause, stretch, slow, or otherwise disrupt your habits—but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Muscle memory is hard to kick.
In all of his work so far, guitarist Daniel Bachman has avoided the traps of robotic fingerpicking. But on Daniel Bachman—his eighth solo album, and second self-titled one—he does so with a new level of sophistication. It’s his most thoughtful release to date, filled with mindful reflection and confident patience. Even during his snappiest songs, Bachman takes time to consider where he is and where he’s going. When his pace starts to rush, he pulls back, ringing out a long chord or even stopping completely to avoid just going with the flow.
The two clearest examples are the tracks that open each side of Daniel Bachman, both called “Brightleaf Blues.” In each, he uses sustained tones rather than flurries of string-picking to build atmosphere. The first half of the album’s opener is a high-pitched drone, followed by gradual strums and plucks that are more about exploration than exposition. Drone is the also backbone of the second “Brightleaf Blues,” humming in the background as Bachman feels his way through open-ended guitar figures. He achieves the same effect without drone in “A Dog Named Pepper,” progressing and retreating at intervals so well-timed they seem elemental, as if his fingers were guided by the moon and the tides.
An album of only halting, measured music would likely make Bachman’s thoughtful playing seem flat, so he wisely includes some tunes made in a more traditional early-blues style. The raga-like “The Flower Tree,” the twangy “Wine and Peanuts,” and the chord-bending “Watermelon Slices on a Blue Bordered Plate” all fit this bill well, creating lively swing while still allowing Bachman room to contemplate and reset.
Most song titles on Daniel Bachman include images from nature, suggesting this album is environmentally aware—not in the eco-activist sense, but in the sense of Bachman taking stock of his surroundings. He’s almost literally stopping to smell the roses, and the result is an album about growth and development, about the virtues of taking your time rather than the crutch of constantly sprinting forward. In the process, it advances Bachman’s oeuvre significantly.
