Jack Rose started his career with drone-folk oddballs Pelt, whose 2001 LP Ayahuasca is worth checking out for fans who lie anywhere on that spectrum – it’s a bizarre but involving record, overlaying wavering fields of drone with Rose’s nimble guitar. Be warned: it’s two hours long, but there’s plenty of wonderful music in there. Despite his fascinating work in a full band, I first heard of Rose with his 2005 album Kensington Blues, which saw him delve back into old Appalachian song forms and turning them into haunting, hypnotic laments that hummed with dread. It was a dark, beautiful record and a stunning showcase of the sounds Rose could wring from his guitar. It was one of those records that seemed to be a perfect match of technique and feel, right up there with Blind Joe Death (this counts as high praise, comparison fans).
Rose’s star was definitely in the ascent: in September last year he signed to prominent indie label Thrill Jockey to release his new album, Luck in the Valley (the title comes from a verbal code used to procure old time hookers in old time St Louis). Tragically, Rose passed away of a heart attack in December at the age of 38 before the album could be released. This means that Thrill Jockey will release the album as Rose’s first posthumous release, and we should be glad they did. Luck in the Valley sees him delve deeper into old time Americana. It’s lighter and more playful than the bulk of Kensington Blues; the most logical jumping off point in terms of sound is that record’s “Flirtin’ with the Undertaker.” The album feels like a love letter to these musical forms, a way for him to pay tribute and also to cut loose. These tracks were recorded live in a single take, sometimes solo and sometimes assisted by previous sidemen like the Black Twig Pickers, Glenn Jones and a guy who goes by the name “Harmonica Dan.”
As spirited as the bulk of the record is, the opening track isn’t light or playful. It stretches out over a full seven and a half minutes, curls of lap steel floating upwards to be carried away on the wind. Mysterious and haunted, it manages to fill in the gaps between droned-out raga bliss, African desert blues and midnight folk spiritism. It’s also a tribute to Percy Danforth, a man whose claim to fame was popularizing (relative term here, I assume) the playing of the “bones” – if there are any bones being played during the track, however, they’re buried deep beneath the humming guitars. All that lovely darkness out of the way, Rose then gets down to the business of kicking out the old time jams.
As soon as we hit “Lick Mountain Ramble,” we see Rose drinking from the same wellspring that Harry Smith was sampling, via a strange and circuitous path. A lively fiddle riff gets dragged under this oscillating guitar figure only to burst free again, skimming lightly over the surface as the guitar thrums thickly underneath. “Woodpiles on the Side of the Road” is a bluesy figure that threads a country lament through the middle and “When the Tailgate Drops, the Bullshit Stops” hails from the time before country and rock ‘n’ roll were separated, with piano and harmonica dancing amongst the ashes of Rose’s guitar. There’s a strong melodic sense that runs through all these tracks, these half-heard snatches of old folk tunes that are distorted and frayed by Rose’s guitar colouring around the edges, smudging and smearing. It’s a wonderfully vivid effect, like looking back at photographs stained and obscured by the passage of time. “Tree in the Valley” almost has a Morricone flavour, the opening guitar flourishes feeling appropriately cinematic before the raga guitars unwind in a seemingly endless spool, the path to the West still lit by the glow of the setting sun.
Although all these tracks are memorable, the very best things here are Rose’s covers (which could be more correctly termed his re-interpretations). His version of W.C. Handy’s classic “St Louis Blues” renders that memorable brass riff into slurring guitars with saloon piano rattling along behind it. It plays the track out into the last drunken moments of the evening, these delicious flourishes (Harmonica Dan strikes again!) belying how bad they’ll all feel in the morning. The tempos may lurch and their eyes may droop, but they never lose that swing. His take on Blind Blake’s “West Coast Blues” is no less inspired, giving the riff an extra shake and stomp and teasing out an almost funky undercurrent. It sounds like he’s saying “Well, I may have had the blues, but with money in my pocket and the love of a good woman (or, at least, some luck in the valley), I’m doin’ just fine. Maybe it’s not forever, but for now it’s good enough.” Rose plays up a storm, but it never sounds like he’s having anything less than a blast, letting that tune roll out into the warm evening air while everyone else is heading home.
While the album as a whole may not be as revelatory as Kensington Blues, it’s a lovely, warm and lively recording that transcends the solo guitar tag and shows off not only Rose’s always brilliant playing but his skills as an interpreter. Rose will be missed, but this is a wonderful way to remember him, and it makes me wonder how long it will be before some new guitar prodigy comes out with an album that opens with a track entitled “Blues for Jack Rose.”
