Graham Reid | | <1 min read
We live and we learn -- and I have been living and relearning by repeat plays of this exceptional debut by someone called Ryan Bingham of whom I know nothing. And in a way, I'm grateful he has lived whatever he has in my place.
The hard lessons he seems to have learned, I'm happy to just hear from this distance. I hear dark alt.country, brittle back-country, outsider art, folk-framed Springsteen livin' in a brokedown houseboat on the bayou, Hank Williams shaking hands with Bob Seger . . .
And, somewhat improbably, Steppenwolf's Magic Carpet Ride.
Pretty much everything I have ever liked in a dark world where cocaine, Jesse James and novocaine hitch a ride in pick-up truck driven by Tex-Mex desperados across the borderland into some imagined America.
Yes, this is an album of guttural emotions which exists beyond our darkest thoughts but is somewhere in those Tex-Mex novels you might have read.
No album for old men, if you get my drift.