Eric Bachmann and his longtime label Merge Records would have us believe that the Archers of Loaf frontman's first new album in five years is a radical reinvention. The truth is far less dramatic. The forty-something singer-songwriter can't really escape himself or the raw, unaffected sound, gruffly melodic vocals, and pointed lyrical approach that he adopted in the early ’00s when he started recording as Crooked Fingers. Instead, this short, engaging collection of tunes feels more like Bachmann getting a tighter grip on who is as an human and as an artist, and more deeply appreciating his past and the influences that got him to this point.
That idea is laid bare in the album's eponymous title and the cover art, which features a picture of Bachmann as a gangly, bright eyed Little Leaguer. And within the music itself, he introduces a broader array of sonic inspiration: the fizzy highs of ’60s pop, the glossy production style of ’70s country, and a hint of British post-punk fervor for good measure. Some songwriters who drink from those wells let their creations become busy and dense, but Bachmann leaves plenty of empty space, using small signifiers—the “Be My Baby” drum hits that kick off “Mercy,” the piano line of “Dreaming” that feels drawn from slow dance mainstay “Color My World”—to do big work. The only indulgence he allows himself here is the inclusion of gospel-esque backing vocalists, but even they only come when a certain lyrical phase needs to be driven home.
The decision to release the album under his own name is also connected with the more personal nature of these songs. It's a move he has made once before, in 2006, with To The Races, a plaintive collection that centered on his voice and acoustic guitar and lyrics that spoke to his wanderlust and his fraught romantic life. Both of those concerns have been, for the most part, quelled: Bachmann is married to his frequent collaborator and touring partner Liz Durrett, and the long-time North Carolinian seems to be comfortably settled in Athens, Georgia. That opens him up to take on some broader issues.
Primary among them is Bachmann's political frustrations. He uses the true stories of murder and ill-fated justice to opine, over a ska-like drum beat and a bouncing piano melody, that “what should be an old relic by now should never have been/the South is a ghost, a ghost is a lie.” Elsewhere, in the stormy “Mercy,” he relishes the irony of using a church-like choir to back him as he sings about his disbelief in a higher power and marveling that “I've got friends and I've got family/from Alaska to Miami/you won't believe the crazy shit they sometimes say.” These songs were likely recorded months ago, but they reflect current fractious political conditions, ones that have allowed his home state's legislature to pass a bill that overturns LGBT protections.
As frustrated as those songs are, there's also a ruminative quality to their lyrics that carries throughout the album. It feels like the product of a man finally settling down after years of travel and activity, and not liking what he sees. That goes for himself as well. For as much appreciation as Bachmann exudes with regards to life and love, the emphasis is really on regret. He reopens former emotional wounds on the noir-ish album closer “The Old Temptation,” and sounds surprised at his own panic in “Separation Anxiety.” And the album is peppered with references to the dead and dying. Bachmann, who knows more than ever that his time on earth is finite, is going to say his piece before he goes. Again, none of this signals a huge shift for Bachmann. But after spending a long stretch of time playing with his former band and as a member of Neko Case's backing band, it's good to see that he can return to the mold of singer-songwriter with a little extra fire in his belly.
Correction: The original version of this review stated that Georgia passed a "religious liberty" bill into law. It's been corrected to reflect that the governor vetoed it before it became a law.
