Iron & Wine @ The Bijou Theatre, Knoxville, November 21 by Andrew Clayman Published in The Metro Pulse, November 2008
What’s left to be said about Sam Beam’s beard? At this point, the mere mention of the Iron and Wine singer’s substantial face-fuzz might be seen as nothing more than a lazy and short-sighted distraction from his far more remarkable work as an artist. But then again, is it wrong to be mesmerized by a man’s whiskers? This is a golden age for eccentric, soft-spoken folk singers with crazy chin-locks, and we should appreciate it. Once upon a time, great American Presidents like Hayes and Garfield used to sport these suckers. Today, that legacy has been passed down from our nation’s highest office to its most critically acclaimed indie-rock troubadours—and Mr. Beam, along with Devendra Banhart, Ray LaMontagne, and many others, have heeded the call.
Lest cheek-muffs become the sole topic of this piece, it should also be noted that Iron and Wine is coming to the Bijou on November 21, as Sam Beam continues to promote his third full-length record, The Shepherd’s Dog. Widely noted for his intimate and highly literate acoustic musings (as well as the occasional Postal Service cover in an M&M’s commercial), Beam opened up the playbook on The Shepherd’s Dog, mixing in a fleet of new instrumentation and putting a little extra bounce in his step. Still, it’s hard to deny that the beard is at its best when it’s cooing longingly in solitude. This is why any newbie to Beam’s world should start with his nine-minute masterpiece, “The Trapeze Swinger.”
Visions of Joanna Getting Metaphysical with the Princess of Psych-Folk by Andrew Clayman Published in The Metro Pulse, November 2006
“Joanna is not available for interviews right now,” says the nice lady from Drag City Records. They are politely shooting down my humble request to share seven cellular minutes with Joanna Newsom—the harp playing, baby-voiced folk singer who carries more whimsy with her than a theater troupe in Narnia.
“Bummer,” I respond, clearly lacking Ms. Newsom’s knack for the quick, poetic turn of phrase. “I bet she’d have a lot to say.”
At just 24 years of age, Joanna Newsom is about to release an incredibly ambitious sophomore album, Ys (pronounced “ees”), which finds her plaintive harp plucking backed by a full orchestra and carried to its analog fruition by the legendary likes of Van Dyke Parks (orchestration), Steve Albini (engineering), and Jim O’Rourke (mixing). It sounds like a big deal, and it is a big deal, but at the moment, mum’s the word from Joanna herself.
According to most media sources, the real Joanna Newsom has little in common with the bizarre, pixie-like persona she inhabits on Ys or her acclaimed 2004 full-length debut, The Milk-Eyed Mender. A native of Nevada City, California, she has been a staple in the San Francisco rock scene, playing with far more modern sounding bands like Golden Shoulders, The Pleased, and Nervous Cop. In person, she is reportedly very approachable, plain spoken, and completely unpretentious. Unable to confirm any such information, however, I choose to believe that Joanna Newsom is, in fact . . . the half-Elven harpist princess of the enchanted forests in the kingdom of Etheralis—a land born from a child’s Crayola rendering of a dream.
Listening to Ys at 2 AM only manages to reinforce such suspicions, so I do some Google mapping, summon up a luck-dragon, and hitch myself a ride to the one place where I might still nab that elusive Newsom interview.
Upon my arrival, a giant chickadee informs me that it was here, in the mystical valley beneath Moonlit Mountain, that the five lengthy tracks on Ys were mixed and mastered—rather than at boring old Abbey Road Studios, as initially reported. On my way through the cerulean fields to meet Joanna, I wave a hello to Devendra Banhart riding by on his trusty two-headed steed. In the distance, those silly chaps from the Animal Collective are canoodling in the treetops. It’s a lovely day in the imaginary world of psych-folk.
When I finally find Joanna, she is playing her harp beneath the shade of a willow tree, with various friendly forest creatures dancing along to her tune.
“The meadowlark and the chim-choo-ree and the sparrow set to the sky in a flying spree,” she sings, which also happens to be the first line from “Emily,” the opening track on Ys. It might sound pretentious, or at the very least unusual, but Newsom’s exploratory poetry always seems to compliment her music and bring forth a genuine, playful innocence—rather than a forced quirkiness. This is even more the case on Ys, as her voice has become more dynamic, straying a little from Lisa Simpson toward the more expressive realms of Billie Holiday and Björk.
“Hello, Ms. Newsom,” I say with an out-of-place journalistic professionalism.
“Well, what is this craziness? This crazy talking?” she coos backs, conveniently quoting another of her new numbers, “Only Skin.” “You caught some small death when you were sleep walking.”
I scratch my head, feeling a tad foolish. “Um, yeah. I suppose so.” I have no idea what Newsom is talking about. In fact, most of Ys is pretty hard to make heads or tails of, literally or metaphorically. Yet the words are exceedingly lovely to listen to, almost like hearing a poem in a foreign language and still getting the gist of it.
I tell Joanna that my favorite song on Ys is actually the only track without the backing orchestra, “Sawdust & Diamonds.” She smiles and nods and begins playing the intensely beautiful melody.
“From the top of the flight of the wide, white stairs,” she sings. “Through the rest of my life, do you wait for me there?” The words linger like an ultimatum, and I realize that maybe it’s a good thing Joanna Newsom isn’t available for interviews right now. Sometimes, reality can just ruin a wonderful thing.
