(Late 2021 note: This originally appeared in the November 2001 issue of The Record Exchange’s Music Monitor, likely the first issue with content written after 9/11.)
Has one changed skyline altered your aural landscape, too? Did a bunch of songs in your mental jukebox get reevaluated without asking your permission?
What once would’ve been a sure bet, a new Freedy Johnston record, isn’t so sure anymore. Do I have use for a no-frills purveyor of melody? Internal songwriting as comfy and autumnal as my old flannel shirts?
I just don’t know.
Sometimes, More Is More
“Broken Mirror” is no help, a Nonoffensive Opener in action. “Waste Your Time” threatens to be the same song, only sped up and amplified, until the pointed lyrics (“Do you still deny? / Shut one eye? / Then hit right between the promises?”) and a juiced solo confirm I still have a penchant for the well-done kiss-off.
The next four songs tour familiar neighborhoods, but in style. The chestnut “Love Grows” gets a nice, slightly swamped-up guitar foundation topped with sparse but spot-on backing vocals.
“That’s Alright With Me” recalls the Sensitive ’70s Guy Who’d Like To Score Ballad, a la “I’d Really Like To See You Tonight”. The flutter of a violin, the America-esque reassurance of a dumbed-down acoustic break, an annoyingly effortless harmony … it’s hard to resist. The brave among us will wallow in nostalgia, and feel no shame.
Before the pastoral “Arriving On A Train”, “Radio For Heartache” takes a detour around a folky, lo-fi hook.
The string ensemble, different drum and guitar effects, they combine to transport. If this is Freedy doing ethereal, he should do it more often.
Then, after an electric foray succeeding solely because it’s interesting to hear Johnston’s voice jump around to seven notes over the course of a single syllable, he closes with “In My Dream”. Cleverly, the track sounds like it’s Freedy, but in a parallel reality. The string ensemble, different drum and guitar effects, they combine to transport. If this is Freedy doing ethereal, he should do it more often.
It tails off with some sleigh bells as Johnston hears someone say, “Hey, baby, don’t worry …” — a more welcome sentiment than before.
And from the looks of this review, it seems my aural landscape hasn’t been reduced to the twin valleys of earnest social commentary and escapist pop fluff after all. That’s a relief.
