Jacksonville's Bright Nights

After a solid seven days of listening, my review of Ryan Adams's latest, "Jacksonville City Nights," is ready. Jacksonville is up, down, left, and right, a country album; rather, it is a VERY country album. The late 90's experimental genre of "alternative country" has rightfully passed allowing Mr. Adams to dig deep into his southern roots. Surprisingly (at least to me), these statements don't automatically imply that the music is bad. Until recently I would have rather decorated my bean burritos with toenail lint than listen to a country album. But that highlights the genius of Ryan Adams, or at least his effect on me. Somehow, if HE does it, I give it a fair listen. I suppose a part of this reasoning is because I respect his omnidiretional -- if not schizophrenic -- talent. Not even two years ago the man released an album titled, "Rock N Roll," a three chord tribute to...well, rock n' roll. Yes, the irony is even ironical. But if you can swallow his irony, you'll see that Ryan Adams can write music. A lot of music. So when Ryan Adams writes a country album, I sheepishly put on my earphones. And listen I have. Week one: "wow, this is REALLY country -- GULP!". Week two: "Damn It! I'm at a stop light and I have country blaring...and "dude" over there is looking at me." Enjoying "Jacksonville City Nights" is like enjoying being a horrible bowler: the game gets way more fun once you accept that you suck. There is no doubt that Jacksonville is a good album, possibly a great one. The challenge is ditching the insipid expectation and letting yourself enjoy the album.

In addition to the music, there is the aesthetic to appreciate. Being a roots country album, the recording is rough. VERY rough. There are stray vocal harmonies, piano seat scuffles, guitar mistakes, et cetera. But all of these qualities (or lack of) are the difference between those green bananas loitering above your sink and Grandma's fresh banana bread. The magic is in the "how," not the "what". Furthermore, if there are any of my myriad albums to own on vinyl, it is "Jacksonville City Nights". The aesthetic is as warm as a 1960 Marshall amplifier tube; it is the kind of record that requires a glass of Cognac, a smoky fire, and a beautiful girl. The only disappointment I have are some of the songs' brevity. A great hook or slow dynamic build will tantalize, but then recede back out to sea as though it really did notice that zit on your nose. Songs like "Silver Bullets," "September," and "Withering Heights" are all excellent songs that seem to enjoy watching you beg for a kiss. Yet, others like the evanescent Norah Jones duet, "Dear John," the CMT blip "The Hardest Part," and the opener "A Kiss Before I Go" jump into your arms before you have a chance to know their name. Those points aside, there isn't a single song I skip on the disc.

Among the modern radio montage of musical inebriation, Ryan Adams could be the most sober musical icon out there. "Jacksonville City Nights" is about more than music, but at the same time it isn't not about the music (just say that one more time and it'll make sense). But it doesn't really matter anyway. Ryan has never been one for labels and will record whatever music his guitar sings him, whether country or rock n' roll. So I aptly give the album the a rating of an "H".