M.C. Taylor has been making music for more than 20 years, first as a member of the hardcore act Ex-Ignota and later as frontman for the California country-rock group the Court & Spark. He formed his latest incarnation, Hiss Golden Messenger, when he moved to North Carolina in the late 2000s, but only in the last five years has that band become a full-time gig for the folklorist and family man. During that relatively short time, he has not changed his approach or his subject matter: He still writes intelligently and insightfully about America as both a place to inhabit and a story to tell, about the trials of faith and the lure of doubt, about family and its incumbent responsibilities.
Taylor has not changed, but the times certainly have. Bridging two extremely different presidential administrations, Hiss Golden Messenger suddenly sounds all the more prescient in 2017 than it did even on the group’s most recent album, last year’s Heart Like a Levee. Taylor’s constant theme has been joy in the face of misery, jubilation during times of tribulation, hope despite the tide. As he sings on “Jenny of the Roses,” the first song off Hallelujah Anyhow, “I’ve never been afraid of darkness, it’s just a different kind of light.” With its burbling tempo and gospel piano, it sounds like a joyful tune, but the lyrics reveal gradations of regret and despair as Taylor celebrates the life of someone long departed. “Jenny of the Roses” is the very definition of bittersweet, as are the songs that follow.
There is something comforting in the contradictions Taylor explores on Hallelujah Anyhow, something that speaks generally to what it means to be a conscientious and compassionate citizen at a time when every day seems to introduce some new travesty. How do you find and express joy when the world is crumbling all around you? That’s been the subject of nearly every Hiss Golden Messenger album, but it’s especially pronounced on Hallelujah Anyhow, a record of fluttery soul-grooves and complicated insights. (The album title is perfect, the album cover not even close.) Taylor has said it’s not a protest album. Instead, it might be called a persist album. It doesn’t speak truth to power, but reassures and invigorates those who feel powerless.
That modest ambition supplies the music with a certain spark. Taylor recorded the album in a matter of days, bringing his road-hardened backing band into the studio to flesh out the songs quickly, as though any hesitation might lessen their urgency. Replacing longtime drummer Matt McCaughan (out on tour with Bon Iver) is Darren Jessee, best known as one-third of Ben Folds Five. He brings a staunch backbeat to these songs, moving “Lost Out in the Darkness” along at an almost martial pace and punching up the AM country groove of “John the Gun.” While there’s nothing quite so experimental as the jagged stomp of “Like a Mirror Loves a Hammer” off last year’s Heart Like a Levee, the arrangements on Hallelujah Anyhow are intricate without being showy, borrowing from various regional folk and blues traditions to imply a sense of movement across the map. Taylor has always made good use of reed instruments going back to 2012’s Poor Moon, and here Michael Lewis’ saxophone tugs at the edges of “John the Gun,” fraying the seams until the song unravels in a long, beautiful coda.
Music—and the joy we might find in our favorite songs or albums—is perhaps the dominant theme on Hallelujah Anyhow, which see Taylor referring but not deferring to his heroes. That wheezing harmonica solo on “Lost Out in the Darkness” sounds like a nod to early Dylan, just as the title of “Gulfport, You’ve Been on My Mind” echoes “Mama, You’ve Been on My Mind.” There’s a strange reference on “John the Gun” to the infamous goth act Sisters of Mercy and more than a few toasts to Van Morrison, most obviously on “Domino (Time Will Tell).” That song, which shares its title and its general tempo with a song from Morrison’s 1970 album His Band and the Street Choir, might have been corny if the band didn’t convey such excitement in the tribute.
Not that you need to trace every footnote or easter egg to enjoy this album. Rather, the allusions thrum just beneath the surface of these vivid songs, as if to suggest that specific moments of music can get us through hard times or even just move us a little further down the road. Taylor does not seem to harbor the ambition to join those ranks; he’s too much of a fan himself, down here in the pits with the rest of us. “Give me a fiddle and a flattop guitar, give me the gospel of the jukebox in the Lost Horse Bar,” he begs on “Domino,” sounding weary but not beaten. “We’ll be alright tonight.”
