country

The first time I heard Son Volt’s Trace, I thought, “Ah hell, here it is: Uncle Tupelo’s divorce decree, notarized on reel-to-reel, filed away in some Missouri courthouse basement where the plaster peels and the janitor drinks Falstaff or Bud Light out of a Styrofoam cup.” Jay Farrar stomps out of the wreckage, lugging his guitar like a busted-down jalopy radiator, and instead of screaming, he sighs, drawls, lets the words leak out slow like oil seeping into gravel. This isn’t rock and roll as firecracker catharsis; it’s rust-belt requiem. It’s the sound of gas stations going dark one by one on Route 66 and every half-drunk loner still praying the neon sign will flicker back to life.

See, Farrar isn’t interested in saving your soul or even giving you a hook to hum while you brush your teeth. He’s interested in reminding you that America has grit and grime, and the old idols, they are rotting.

Listen to “Windfall.” That harmonica doesn’t soar; it wheezes like your uncle’s lungs after three decades underground in coal mines. Yet it lifts you anyway, like catching a breeze on a road you know dead-ends in thirty miles. Farrar’s voice is carved from stone, immovable, half-asleep but never indifferent. He sings like he’s standing in the ruins of the sixties, looking around and muttering, “Guess this is what we’ve got left.” And dammit, what we’ve got left sounds gorgeous.

Trace isn’t alt-country. Alt-country is a marketing gimmick, an excuse for journalists to pretend they’ve discovered a new continent when really they’ve just found the same sad barstools Willie and Merle already angry because they don’t recognize the place. Trace is country with its skin peeled off, electrified and nailed to a telegraph pole. It’s Neil Young after the hangover, it’s Gram Parsons without the messiah complex. It’s the hum of America when the AM station fades out and all you’ve got is static—and suddenly the static is more moving than the song that was playing ever was.

Take “Drown.” Farrar growls it like a prophecy for people already underwater. The guitars crash like waves on cheap levees, the kind that always break. It’s furious and exhausted at the same time, the way you get when you’ve fought too long and realized the fight was fixed from the start. Then there’s “Tear Stained Eye,” where he asks if seeing a river run dry will make you start crying. Spoiler: it won’t. You’ll just stare and keep driving, and that numbness is exactly what Farrar’s documenting—he’s the archivist of our collective shrug.

But here’s the trick, the brilliance: instead of despair, Trace gives you dignity. The dignity of standing in a field that used to be a town, looking at the weeds grow through concrete and saying, “Okay, maybe this is freedom.” Farrar doesn’t want your hope. He wants your honesty. The honesty that says America’s dreams are boarded-up diners and broken jukeboxes, but inside those ruins, a few songs still rattle around like sacred relics.

And maybe that’s why Trace still matters. Because it’s not trying to sell you redemption. It’s not asking you to believe in the comeback of some mythic heartland. It’s just holding up the Polaroid of what’s gone and saying, “Here, take a look. Doesn’t it hurt beautifully?”

In the end, Trace is a ghost road record. It takes you down highways that don’t exist anymore, past radio towers that no longer transmit, through towns that can’t even hold onto their own zip codes. But by the time you get to the last track, you don’t feel lost. You feel found—because someone finally put into music that vague ache you’ve been hauling around, the one you thought was just your private sorrow. Turns out it’s everybody’s sorrow. And Jay Farrar, God bless his gravelly heart, sang it so we could all drive through it together.

In November, we wrote a review of Van Plating’s excellent “Orange Blossom Child.” The record is not only one of our favorites of 2023 but carries an important legacy forward. Honestly, that review still expresses some of the reasons that her record spoke to us here at Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative. It was a real, authentic record made by a true original.

Place, Music, and Family Matter: Van Plating is an Orange Blossom Child

Authentic country music is more than just a genre; it’s a soulful narrative that weaves together the threads of everyday life, love, heartbreak, challenge and the “ups and downs” and occasional sideways glance of the anything but simple, human experience. Rooted in the rural landscapes of America but over time about far more than bucolic existence, this musical genre emerged from the folk traditions of the 19th century and has since evolved into a distinct and influential form of artistic expression while exploring the problems of place. One can become too rooted. However, for Van Plating that is not a dilemma without solution. Her music answers the mysteries of place and self in a language that does not speak down to the listener. That authentic puzzle solving is part of what makes Van Plating’s music so damn powerful. Through this record we come to see ourselves and wonder about the places, spaces and home that made us.

At its core, authentic country music resonates with credible, truthful and genuine storytelling. The lyrics often mirror the struggles and triumphs of ordinary people, reflecting the joys and sorrows of life. Artists like Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Loretta Lynn, and Dolly Parton have become iconic figures, not only for their musical talents but also for their ability to capture the essence of the human condition through their songs. And equally important is the characteristic of real country music that all too often becomes a punch line of a bad joke — a sense of place. This idea of place, town, community, neighborhood, or area becomes part of the music. Whether the lyric is focused on an effort to escape the clutches of being held down because of where you come from or a reflection of the myriad influences of the place you once called home. Those experiences — in that place — made you who and what you are as a person. Home is inescapable because it lives within you. These musicians, and we count Van Plating among them, have played a pivotal role in shaping of modern country music and contributing to its enduring appeal.

One hallmark of authentic country music is its connection to the roots of lived experience and culture. With influences from folk, blues, and gospel music, country songs tell the stories of hardworking individuals, the beauty of the countryside, and the complexities of human relationships. The twang of a steel guitar, the melancholy of a fiddle, and the honesty in the lyrics create a unique and evocative sound that speaks to the soul.

Furthermore, authentic country music serves as a reflection of one’s cultural identity. It often embraces regional nuances, providing a snapshot of life in that place, that home. Whether it’s the dusty trails of the Southwest, the rolling hills of Appalachia, or the vast expanses of the Midwest, country music paints a vivid picture of the landscapes that have shaped its artists and their stories.

In a world where musical genres continuously evolve, authentic country music stands as a timeless sacrament to the enduring power of storytelling through song. Its ability to connect with listeners on a deeply personal level transcends generations, making it a cherished and enduring form of musical expression. As long as there are stories to tell and emotions to convey, authentic country music will continue to resonate, carrying the rich tradition of music into the future. And Van Plating with her spirited and vibrant “Orange Blossom Child” carries that tradition forward.