Considering his career, Kevin Morby’s own shift from buzz band sideplayer to existentially peripatetic frontman is an interesting one. Once upon a time, the Kansas City-bred musician was based in Brooklyn, playing in groups like Woods and the Babies. Now, he lives in Los Angeles and has written Harlem River, a love letter to New York City that transforms its eponymous subject's long stretch of water into a metaphor for a wandering heart.
Within Woods’ discography, Morby's bass-playing wasn’t necessarily meant to suggest the existence of a richly detailed interior. Meanwhile, the Babies were formed from an inside joke and have been self-described as a party band. Harlem River has the same emotional looseness as those groups, but its instrumental texture is more focused: it’s made up of intricately plucked acoustic guitars, shimmering organs, and electric guitars cutting through the negative space like a foglight. And, given the proper room to breathe, Morby’s voice reveals its lazy-day Kansan cadence, sounding not unlike Cass McCombs, Kurt Vile, or any guy with a guitar who’s got something to tell you.
What Morby has to say is unspecific, but no less true. On “Miles, Miles, Miles,” he alludes to the darkness the song’s protagonist has come from, while offering a wishful portrait of the place he’d like to be. The title track is slow and ponderous, Morby’s voice reduced to a muted creep as he seeks answers from a path showing no end. On “Slow Train”, he sings of not wanting to be destroyed by his temperament while wondering if he’s already missed his chance at redemption. That title, borrowed from the most spiritual of Bob Dylan albums, is surely no coincidence. The song features Cate le Bon, a similarly-minded singer who on her most recent album offered the mournful admission: “I forget the detail/ but know the warmth.” That, more than anything, functions as an explanation of Morby’s creative ethos.
Harlem River is mostly concerned with different shades of subtlety, which makes the rare overt moments stick out like an anarchy patch on a wedding dress. This is an album which references Easy Rider and Bob Dylan and has the temerity to sing a song called “Wild Side” (which is largely concerned with walking) in a recognizably Reedian drawl. That also means Morby’s perhaps quixotic intent to refashion himself as a 60s-era nomad is sometimes undercut by the limitations of his arrangements: the repeating breakdown in “Wild Side” is rhythm-disrupting brittle, and the cowpoke shuffle of “Reign” is a little too on-the-nose in its attempt to tell a modern outlaw tale. But those moments aren’t too distracting. Morby largely succeeds at taking us on his journey, imploring that the big "Where am I going?" question isn't so daunting so long as you keep collecting suggestions.
