The logical next step for Sam Beam (aka Iron and Wine) was to create a band around his intimate Drakean crooning. On the “Shepherd’s Dog” he has fulfilled the promise alluded to on the a few of his latest EP’s where he actually almost seems to be “rocking.” From the very first tune “Pagan Angel and a Borrowed Car” he spins a kind of Americana groove, filled with strings, guitars and drums somewhere between The Band and his sometimes partners Calexico. All of this is accompanied by his silky vocals, but infused with a sense of wonderful sense of urgency that makes these songs such a sensible evolution of his unique brand of alt-folk.

It would be hard to think of a song more satisfying than “Lovesong of the Buzzard” an earnest organ driving romp through the open fields of your life or the kind of hypnotic tone set on “Wolves.” Ultimately this record represents a step perhaps towards the big warm sound of Wilco, but still drenched in something smaller and personal

Certain very specific kinds of records take only a few notes to draw me in. Mostly they are serious sounding, minimal, and impeccably produced records that tend to have a rather subtle groove built into an almost goth folk sensibility. Gravenhurst, the Bristol England band, is a kind of like Red House Painters on Joy Division, lead by the sweet but hypnotic vocals of Nick Talbot who mixes a kind of darkness with something that oddly optimistic. This is the kind of hidden gem that tends to pop up occasionally on labels like Sub Pop or Matador, but this time was released oddly on the genre defining ambient electronic label Warp.

A bit like the short lived American band Spain, “The Western Lands” alternates between slow methodical jaunts and almost pop songs like “Trust” to grittier more guitar driven instrummental moments. Most of the magic here lies in the layered guitar work that injects everything from almost spaghetti western soundtrack strumming to spacey restrained almost winter beach music to highland sounding guitar anthems. This record is about moods and the specific geographic places that inspire them. This is a very big, very small record, and one of the best I have heard this year.

Far too few people will ever hear this record, I know it. This is Americana balladry in its most modern finery, sung with the earnestness of a Springsteen or Tweedy, but thinner slightly warbling more like Bright Eyes, with music as authentic and warm as “The Last Waltz.”

On “The Stage Names,” the Texas band’s third critically acclaimed album, the band has peppered their onetime sparse flavor of alt-country with billowing strings and piano on tracks like “A Girl In Port,” more upbeat and danceable tracks like “A Hand to Take Hold of the Scene” that feel like they could be opening tracks on the latest record from Spoon, and precious orchestral ditties like “Savannah Smiles” cut from the same clothe as Magnetic Fields or The Ladybug Transistor.

Don’t get me wrong, this record isn’t so much derivative as it is conscious of all the great under-appreciated music that has informed it. This is a minor masterpiece, accessible yet specific enough to charm indiephiles and Coldplay fans alike.

I’m a sucker for 60’s laced indie psychedalia. From the fragile pop of England’s The Clientele to the trippy guitar heroism Sweden’s of Dungen, the sense of time and place elicited by this sort of well executed genre bending is more powerful than that of almost any other era. Enter Caribou, a one band whose extraordinary second effort “Andorra” accessorizes the sing song ballad template from bands like Love, The Byrds and Brian Wilson, with a warm and well integrated dose of pseudo electronic.

“Andorra” breezes along adapting curiously familiar retro stylings into an organic and complete full album oriented experience. Although the songs are all individually compelling “Eli” being my favorite, mixing vocal melody with joyous sprinklings of flute, string and keys, this is not a series of songs meant to be downloaded and listened in isolation, but more a record to settle into. The Summer of Love is alive and well, here. This is a good thing.

Last night I indulged my wife and took her to see some music. I was a bit peaved that tickets at the Fillmore could possibly cost $65 and that she spent another $35 on a tee shirt, but as I stood there, not quite sober, I couldn’t help but flash back to an earlier time. So much earlier in fact that as I ran the numbers it occurred to me that the last time that I had seen this guy was 23 years ago at the Agora Theater somewhere in Cleveland. Ohio. 23 years, ughhh. Back then I remember the singer being much younger, more brooding and affected, but in 1986 his songs were as familiar as anything, except perhaps the English Beat, given their aggressive overplay throughout the dorm rooms of my small private boarding school in Northeast Ohio. I also remember being absolutely bleary-eyed on Goebel or some premium 24 pack weekender, but can’t remember who else I was with. I still have the tattered stub for the show that I keep with all the other remnants of my musical past.

In any event if any of you do get the chance to see the slightly less fit and graying, still youthful 48 year old who at one point removed his sweaty black button down and launched in into the crowd, you should. His voice is still warm and distinctive and to hear him bust out a more psychedelic version of “How Soon Is Now” or “The Boy With the Thorn in His Side” or “Everyday is Like Sunday” is a real treat. This was not a Smiths reunion tour, Morrissey was backed by a cadre of young, buff dudes wearing tight back t-shirts and matching yellow slacks, but the man is still a myth, and one probably more capable as a live performer and more intested in entertaining than he was back in the day. Oh well, it was nice to step back in 80’s again, you all should too, if not to just shock yourself back into your youth for a few hours. I’m sure he’ll be playing in a town near you very soon.

I do my best not to write too much about art than will have no doubt gather its fair share of mainstream press. I try to pimp the small stuff, little gems shared by a secret society of seekers looking for diamonds. But as a lifelong Wilco/Uncle Tupelo fanatic, I feel compelled to say a few words about “Sky Blue Sky.” This is an Americana classic rock record built for sunny summer days and stony starry nights. There is something so organic going on here that it feels as if the CD should be stickered with a circle reading “there were no computers used in the making of this record.”
This is largely a guitar based rock record, lead by the earnest vocals of Jeff Tweedy and his band of rock historians who are able to graft sections of perfection from the forty years that have elapsed since that fateful summer of 1967. A song like “Side With the Seeds” is a beautiful love song but without the sappy preciousness that tends to scald similar sentiments. In the end after a record after record of raising the bar, the simplicity and straightforwardness of “Sky Blue Sky” just kind of stuck with me, as I’m sure it will for you.