Neither a sequel nor a satellite to this year's The Wild Hunt, the Tallest Man on Earth's new EP, Sometimes the Blues Is Just a Passing Bird, is a statement in its own right. While many post-LP EPs round up same-session tracks or studio experiments for diehard fans, these five austere folk songs were written on the road and recorded during a recent break from touring. They're unmistakably Tallest, marked by the vulnerability in Kristian Matsson's croak of a voice, the strident complexity of his guitarwork, and his thoughtful, often fractured lyrics inspired, ostensibly, by his native Sweden-- specifically the mountainous region of Dalarna, northwest of Stockholm. And yet, despite the same elements, Blues has a very different character from The Wild Hunt. It's slightly darker, more wounded, muted, and meditative, lacking the fanfare of the album's more heraldic moments. While limited in scope and tone, the EP allows Matsson to explore one particular mood: a primary color in his palette, a bluesy melancholy that defines and permeates every song here.
He is, however, never dour or grim. Matsson's songs fashion hooks out of stones and branches and whatever else he encounters along the trail. Opener "Little River" bends on a melodic curlicue, a wish tossed into a well: "Is it honest like a falling log to dream of things like a little river to the golden ground?" Similarly, "The Dreamer", whose lyrics give the EP its title, turns on a modest yet elegant upsweep of melody. It is, perhaps, more notable for being the first and so far the only Tallest Man song to feature electric guitar, and the punch of those resonant strums is abrupt and startling. This isn't Highway 61 Revisited revisited, but rather introspective folk simply plugged in and reverbed.
That song especially broadens Matsson's stark sound, which emphasizes the nuanced interplay between voice and stringed instruments. The splintering notes that open "Like the Wheel" (which has been closing his live shows lately) give way to some of his tenderest vocals, while closer "Thrown Right at Me" is so quiet it sounds like it might slip away at any moment, and his playing is so hushed and hesitant that the song is practically a cappella. Start to finish, Blues is as thoughtfully and carefully constructed as either of Matsson's albums, revealing the nuances of his sound and subtly putting the lie to the notion that he needs anything besides his weathered voice and beat-up guitar.
