For longtime fans of Justin Townes Earle, his current release, The Saint of Lost Causes, will produce a rather uncanny effect. The music sounds familiar, but it’s a different kind of song. Over the course of his eight previous releases, since his 2007 debut Yuma, Earle has charted a remarkably consistent and fascinating career, with not a bad album to his name. The Saint of Lost Causes continues this trajectory. The rhythms, melodies, musicianship, characters, and lyrical quality are all sparkling in this most recent effort, as they were in his 2017 release Kids in the Street.
Looking back, that album seems to have marked a change for Earle. Along with Kids in the Street’s ramped-up playfulness and sense of fun, one former thematic obsession was conspicuous by its absence: the ever-present struggle with “the Father” that dominated Earle’s previous work. Kids in the Street largely abandons such concerns and it marks an important transition in his career.
The Saint of Lost Causes introduces a new spice to replace parental anxiety in the recipe: an angry political imagination. Where much of JTE’s previous artistic output emerges from the psychological battle of escaping his father’s (Steve Earle) formidable shadow, this album’s songs burst forth from a vigorous engagement with contemporary populist politics.
Justin Townes Earle is one of those artists for whom the term “Americana” was invented. As his career has developed, his music has incorporated various, distinct American traditions: country, blues, jazz, folk, most prominently (with a Replacements cover thrown in). This new album continues that established trajectory while adding a few subtle variations. For instance, electric bass lines play a somewhat more prominent role in this album, while the lively horn sections of previous albums like Kids in the Street and Nothing’s Gonna Change the Way You Feel About Me Now are noticeably absent. Overall, however, this album’s style is neatly consistent with Earle’s previous work. What makes the record distinct is the subject matter.
Born to a legendary troubadour, alt-country pioneer Steve Earle, and named after Townes Van Zandt, a certain degree of anxiety of influence is more than understandable and even fully expected in an artist like Justin Townes Earle. Stylistically, the young artist quickly moved beyond his father’s influence after the somewhat derivative Yuma, which finds the young singer stepping firmly into his father’s tradition. Beginning with The Good Life (2008) and particularly with Midnight at the Movies (2009) however, Earle sounds nothing like his father, in voice, style, or subject matter.
Yet like in Hamlet, the father’s ghost haunts the landscape from which he is absent. Like stars circling a black hole, so many of Earle’s characters find themselves resisting the invisible father’s gravity. The classic “Mama’s Eyes” is perhaps the best example of how Earle’s music contends with the specter of Steve Earle; while he admits he is his father’s son, ultimately claims the clarity of moral vision in his mother’s eyes. This vision led to the artistic achievements of the albums that followed. Each focused on people born into troubled relationships with their fathers, yet who were wise enough to resist, or at least resent, those tyrannical figures.
Earle crafted a string of albums in which the feminine influence pushed back against the masculine. As if to emphasize this theme, in an unbroken string of six albums from 2008 to 2015, each of Earle’s albums feature him (or a version of him) with a woman on the cover. And the final two are, surely not by accident, titled Single Mothers (2014) and Absent Fathers (2015).
Where the dramas of those previous albums spring from psychological conflicts of a most personal kind, The Saint of Lost Causes finds a new tyrannical force to rail against: American politics. The result is a feisty, angry album that speaks directly into the structural injustices and inequities of contemporary America.
Earle’s characters have regularly been in crisis or on the move. In songs like “Wandering,” from his 2010 breakthrough album Harlem River Blues, the personal crisis is usually a response to strained parental relationships. Here, characters are thrust into desperation not by the personal, but by the political, giving the album a distinctly Springsteenian feel. The drug dealing, cop-killing main character of “Appalachian Nightmare” is not driven to a life of crime because his father left; he grows up bad because of the poverty caused by his father’s unemployment at the hands of a greedy corporation. The narrator of “Don’t Drink the Water,” (which has a neat partner on the album, the bouncy yet equally furious “Flint City Shake It”) angrily lashes out at the lies spewed by a corporate executive testifying about pollution and environmental destruction in the name of profit, ultimately issuing a threat. “So that man on the stand, he’s still talkin’. No one’s listenin’. Everybody’s watchin’. I swear he just might not make it home tonight.” This is but one of many truly radical political stances this album takes, and it comes as a pleasant development in Earle’s already impressive career.
The title track which opens the album sets the tone for its class politics. Earle’s Saint proclaims, “It’s a cruel world. It ain’t hard to understand. Got your sheep. Got your shepherds, got your wolves among men.” The classes he divides the world into here are pretty straightforward; victims, victimizers, and the good institutions that stand between the two. This understanding of the world fits neatly into the dominant postwar liberal consensus, but Earle does not let it stand for long.
The song immediately proceeds to deconstruct this conventional hierarchy, telling us, “It can be hard to tell. Might find a wolf in shepherd’s clothes. Now and then your gonna find sheep in amongst all those troubled souls.” Here a much more complex picture emerges and begins to throw our political world into chaos. It’s a world in which the line between cop and criminal blurs, forcing us to look with suspicion upon those society deems “good.” Yet it also requires us to look with mercy upon those considered criminal and dangerous. Earle describes a world where the lines around which we define justice have been obliterated.
Driving the point home, the Saint raises a damning rhetorical question: “You know the folks that’s most afraid of the wolf. If you really stop and think, throughout time between a wolf and a shepherd, who you think has killed more sheep?” Here the song (and the subsequent album) abandons a political perspective based on individual virtue and bootstrapping ideology and draws our attention to a fully corrupted system. The victims are victimized not by “bad actors,” but rather by the very authorities that purport to serve them.
This is in no way a conventionally liberal politics, but rather a radical one. Falling in line, the album’s second cut, the toe-tapping blues “Ain’t Got No Money,” rejects the remedies of inspirational liberalism, repeating “Ain’t got no money, baby. Give me some money. Don’t want your honey, I can make my own.” Here, grand notions of hope and change are rejected for simple wealth redistribution.
The systematic critique extends into race relations as well in “Over Alameda.” Here the desperate poverty of the characters is rooted in a distinctly institutional form of racism. The family is not poor because of individual bigots but economic inequalities, and the class divide that holds them back from the pleasant life in Alameda, “where the white folks live.”
Politics permeate this album. So much so that even in songs like “Frightened By the Sound,” which would have sounded perfectly at home on Absent Fathers (that mournful, pining steel guitar!), both thematically and in instrumentation, one finds a deeply political motive. The refrain, “Storm comin’. No way it’s gonna miss us now,” might have referred to the consequences of a wayward life on Earle’s earlier albums. In the context of this record, however, one cannot help but see politics hovering just out of frame. The line “Last time the rain come down like this, so much was lost, we’ll never know the true cost,” eerily brings to mind to the financial crash of 2007 and its human toll. The lamented coming storm, therefore, represents a hard lesson unlearned, not by a flawed individual this time, but by society as a whole.
The Saint of Lost Causes finds Justin Townes Earle embarking on a bold and unexpected new direction. Earle has found a way to take his many gifts as a singer, guitarist, and songwriter and aim them finally away from the personal and toward the political, as the poets of America’s traditional music always have. It leaves the listener in great anticipation for where this might lead.
Justin Townes Earle’s new album, The Saint of Lost Causes, is out now on New West Records.
Willie Nelson’s “Sad Songs and Waltzes” and the Art of Alienation
The hard-won wisdom about the human toll that capitalist alienation extracts is what makes Willie Nelson’s “Sad Songs and Waltzes” so beautifully devastating
Someday, when the world finally loses Willie Nelson, there will be an eruption of sadness. He is an icon, yet many people will still be shocked at the depth and profundity of his body of work. At this point already, the unbroken length and quality of his career is almost without precedent in American music. He has simply been here so long it seems he has always been here doing what he does. And his music has defied easy categorization, slipping seamlessly between wide varieties of country music, jazz, and American standards. He is probably the artist for whom the term “Americana” was most properly invented.
Yet his career can be divided into rather neatly-defined stages. For many people, myself included, his most interesting stage is probably his brief stint with Atlantic Records in the early 1970s. Atlantic had just begun a Country division and Nelson was brought in as a cornerstone for that new endeavor. The experiment was not long; Nelson ended up recording only two albums under the Atlantic label, Shotgun Willie and Phases and Stages, but the two albums worked out to be an essential bridge in Nelson’s gradual transformation from a fixture of the Nashville establishment to an iconic Outlaw and the singular artist we know and love today. Without these works, there is no path to Red Headed Stranger or Stardust or the collaborations with Waylon Jennings and Merle Haggard that would come to define Country music in the decades to come.
Here I want to discuss the simple, singular genius of one song from this period, “Sad Songs and Waltzes” from Shotgun Willie. The song perfectly embodies the artistic maturity gained by Nelson’s long breakup with the Nashville machine. And the hard lessons learned by that process show up in the song’s spare production, which works with its deceptively simple lyrics to show how market economies alienate human beings from themselves and one another.
“Sad Songs and Waltzes” and Willie Nelson’s Career
Nelson was pushing 40 when Shotgun Willie was released. He was a longtime fixture in the Nashville music business, mainly as a songwriter (he was a hit maker for many other artists, writing songs like “Crazy” for Patsy Cline). As a solo artist himself, however, Nelson was constrained by the producer-centric power structures of The Nashville Sound. His ambitions were too large to be contained for long, however.
Nelson had already experimented musically. For example, he released a beautiful yet enigmatic concept album in 1971 called Yesterday’s Wine, which began the process of pushing his way out of the mold Nashville had formed him in. Eventually, he would leave RCA and Nashville altogether, moving to Austin, Texas and, in that strange mix of bikers, cowboys, and hippies, Willie Nelson as we now know him began to invent himself.
This is the world into which Shotgun Willie, and its third song “Sad Songs and Waltzes” was born.
With only a single guitar, alternating bass notes between plucky strums to create a (you guessed it) waltz, and backed by a distant steel guitar, the song begins “I’m writing a song all about you. A true song as real as my tears. But you’ve no need to fear it, ‘cause no one will hear it. ‘Cause sad songs and waltzes aren’t selling this year.”
This utterly simply, yet devastatingly powerful opening tells the whole story. A man, an artist, is betrayed by his love and longs to express it through his art. The power of the marketplace makes this an impossibility. He is left both without a woman and without a song to mourn her absence. This is the purest tragedy.
Essentially the song, like many country songs, tells a story about a man who has lost a relationship with a woman. This is a rather normal part of human life, but human relations are flexible and people typically have the ability to craft new relationships in the wake of these breakups. The speaker in this song is deprived of that opportunity. The purpose of his art, the song he sings about writing, is to forge a relationship between him and his audience. His artistic expression is an extension of his humanity, his self. Sadly, this self does not exist outside the controls of the marketplace. His song will remain unsung because “sad songs and waltzes aren’t selling this year.”
The chorus puts it in even more starkly economic terms. “It’s a good thing that I’m not a star. You don’t know how lucky you are. Though my record may say it, no one will play it. ‘Cause sad songs and waltzes aren’t selling this year.” Perhaps if our singer were more famous he could escape the cage built for him by the music industry, but he is not. Therefore, any effort to make art from his pain — art that might forge a relationship between him and an audience — is in vain. No one would play it in the first place as it is not marketable.
One particularly interesting feature of this song is its meta approach to songwriting. It is, in simple terms, a song about a song. This is not a particularly novel concept in itself, with the supreme example probably being the first verse of Leonard Cohen’s ubiquitous “Hallelujah.” “Sad Songs and Waltzes” provides a fascinating twist on the genre, however. This is a song about another song that no one has heard, nor will they, for economic reasons that we will get into in a bit.
This is not merely clever, it is a formal feature that contributes to the song’s meaning. “Sad Songs and Waltzes” is a song is about alienation. And the singer of this song is so alienated from his personal art that he can only sing about it at a distance. It represents an ultimate form of alienation.
Alienation and Markets
Alienation is a devastating consequence of life lived under the control of markets. This is a central point in the writings of Marx and other critics of capitalism. The moving around of money in the quest to extract profit makes us all, in one way or another, cogs in a capital-producing machine, and Nashville certainly was and remains one of those.
Like many talented artists working in Nashville, Nelson had been alienated from the fruit of his labor. He was put to work writing songs for other people to sing to create income for his record company. And when we was permitted to record his music himself, it simply wasn’t Willie Nelson as we know him. Seriously, look at his early album covers and try not to laugh at how uncomfortably not Willie Nelson he looks.
And just as Nelson had been forcibly removed from his authentic self, alienation extends beyond our relationships with the products of our labor. It also emerges as a barrier between individuals, interfering with proper relationships among human beings. Forced to sell our labor for wages, other people lose their individual identities and become mere competitors, making human cooperation difficult to achieve. We become, above all, alienated from ourselves and other people on a natural, human level when subjected to the demands of money-making. We lose our status as fully embodied people, having been reduced to a figure in some equation to determine the bottom line.
Its hard-won wisdom about the human toll that capitalist alienation extracts is what makes “Sad Songs and Waltzes” so beautifully devastating. The betrayed singer is alone and must remain alone because he cannot spin his pain into enough profit for the bean-counters.
When Shotgun Willie was produced, Nelson had only recently emerged from the Nashville money machine. He had spent years conforming himself to the demands of that industry, stifling his creative self in service of its products. This professional history provides insight into the source of a career frustration that finally exploded into songs like “Sad Songs and Waltzes.”
The move to Austin, a place that was weird and incomprehensible to the logic of the Nashville scene helped break him from his binds. Hanging out with the hippies and hillbillies of that unique and idiosyncratic music scene allowed him to develop something closes to an authentic artistic self and it set the stage for his many career reinventions. He became, in many ways, country music’s best answer to Bob Dylan in this way.
When he eventually returns to Nashville it is as a bonafide “outlaw” with the rest of that movement largely founded on its rebellion against the Nashville Machine. Waylon Jennings’s “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” is a good example of how the Outlaw movement wore an open animosity against how Nashville’s system stifled individual creativity and forced it back down the throat of that very system. Capitalism being what it is of course, Nashville eventually found a way to coerce profit out of the artistic forms that rose up against it, bringing the enemy into the fold as it were. Outlaw Country became the defining sound of 1970s Nashville.
Still, Willie Nelson’s Atlantic Records period serves as an inspiration. It is a moment when an artist well into his career finds the strength to reinvent himself and claim significant ownership over his own art, taking a career full of alienation and molding it into a new form of art that would indeed forge powerful human relationships with a new audience for decades to come. It might even be said that he took a share of the means of production, with the product being Willie Nelson.
A Night with Northlane
Josh Hockey went to go see Northlane in Melbourne and took photographer Albert LaMontagne with him to capture the night.
Settling in to 170 Russell would have been nice, but as we stepped in at the allocated 6:30 door time we were greeted with the start of Void Of Vision’s set. Sprinting down the stairs and into the room, it was clear that moving the door time forward half an hour had definitely affected the crowd.
A decent audience had streamed in, but nowhere big enough considering the year Void Of Vision has had. Releasing their magnum opus album, Hyperdaze, they have been on an absolute tear, and it was clear during this set that they were going to keep going hard.
Opening up by bringing the heavy early, Void had the room shaking from the world go. An impressive light show and an almighty wall of sound filled the room with layers upon layers of adrenaline. Vocalist Jack Bergin led this assault, bringing as much energy as he possibly could, whilst utilising his seemingly endless amounts of stage presence.
New songs like “Babylon” and “Hole In Me” showcased their new sound, while “Kill All Your Friends” got the pit going like it always does. They finished strong with “Ghost In The Machine” and left their stamp on 170 Russell.
International act Silent Planet were up next. A pretty much completely new band to me, I was immediately impressed by the connection they appeared to have with their audience. From the word go, the pit was open, and everyone in the front few row was singing along with all the passion in the world.
Spoken word vocals mixed with harsh screams ensured that vocalist Garrett kept the audience on their toes. The instrumentals kept up this pace as well, with their hard hitting dark tones unrelentingly assaulting the ears of all listeners (in a good way).
Silent Planet sounded incredibly large all the way through, and definitely would have made themselves some new fans on the night. Their music appeared to be full of themes of mental illness, and political issues, which is absolutely super important in today’s societal climate.
Counterparts were up next. Definitely a well known band, the heavy Canadians immediately made clear the tone of the set announcing themselves with a call of, “Counterparts Schoolies Week Motherfucker.” They launched into their first song and it was immediately clear why they are as acclaimed as they are. Ridiculously tight and sounding stupidly massive, they had fans moving from the second they started playing.
The shit talking between sets would have been the highlight, but the songs themselves made it hard to top. Playing the old classics as well as the new heavy-hitters, there was as much two stepping as there was singing along. Also this was perhaps the first time in history I heard a pitcall of “schoolies 2019 motherfucker open it up,” which was an experience that I’m glad I had.
Dedicating a song to Australia’s very own Trophy Eyes, their massive sound continued unrelentingly. Coming towards the end, the set closed with a wave of crowdsurfers all diving and climbing towards the microphone, trying to get ahold of vocalist Brendan so they could scream his words right back at him. This set was great, and I’m quite sad I personally am not a Counterparts super fan so I couldn’t join in the fun. Next time boys. Next time.
Finally it was time for the big dogs, Northlane. The lights went down and hands went up, ready to go and awaiting the bands arrival impatiently, the audiences cravings would soon be met. Northlane charged onto stage and belted into “Talking Heads.” The movement was huge from the start, and the audience was off their feet and jumping non-stop all the way through.
“Details Matter” was a definite highlight of the set, with the ridiculously massive sound of one of the better songs of 2019 running rampant through 170 Russell. Headbangers were aplenty and moshers were in surplus. This continued even into one of their softer songs, “Rot.” The first song released by the band with vocalist Marcus Bridge, “Rot” went down an absolute treat as always.
Northlane are a ludicrously tight live band, and this became ever more clear as they smashed through “Citizen, “Obelisk”, and “4D.” New party song “Eclipse” had the room shaking as everyone refused to stop bouncing. The set began to come to a close as massive Alien single “Bloodline” was the definite highlight of the show. It has been one of my favourite songs of the year, and this rendition locked that in even more. Cannons and lights were ablaze and firing everywhere, and made this even more of a spectacle.
Leaving stage momentarily, Northlane returned as Marcus came back wearing a big sparkly coat. “Sleepless”, the closing track of the album was incredibly effective and touching live. And was a nice sombre end to the show, right before they launched into the timeless heavy classic, “Quantum Flux.” And goddamn was it massive.
Northlane are one of the best bands out there, and this show only locked that in.
Check out the images from the Northlane show:
All photos by Albert LaMontagne. Copyright 2019 Albert LaMontagne / Sound the Sirens Magazine. Please do not use or distribute these images without the permission of Albert LaMontagne. If you use these images without permission, you are a terrible person.