Drag City has long been home to present-day troubadours chronicling the dusty crevices of America’s physical and psychic landscape. Their catalog – composed from the likes of David Berman, Will Oldham, Joanna Newsom, Jim O’Rourke, Bill Callahan and more – culminates in an imposing, star-studded cast of singer-songwriters; for newcomers, standing out lyrically is no small task.
Having put out solo material on the label for nearly a decade, though, Cory Hanson has matured into another distinct voice among the aforementioned torchbearers. On I Love People, the Wand frontman increasingly abandons the psychedelic inclinations of his prior work for a 70s-inspired soft rock palette. While replete with careful arrangements featuring smoothed-out horns and strings, the record’s jaded (and wry) narratives simultaneously work to dispel any sort of auditory mirage. The result resembles a deadpan Steely Dan cast out into the transitory deserts of the U.S. west, groping at forms of meaning which often slip through Hanson’s fingers like sand.
“Joker”, the album’s second track, exemplifies the tracklist in this regard. Vaguely dipping into countrypolitan inspirations while maintaining a slightly detached delivery, Hanson’s clear – if not hesitant – pronunciation ensures a story is shared regardless of his apparent fatigue when telling it, ending with a sax solo that blows by like a lonely breeze.
The aforementioned affinity for the 70s is seemingly mined for a musical response to the 2020s’ corresponding forms of social and mental upheaval. Opener “Bird on a Swing” melds retrofitted acoustic licks with piano as its bedrock while Hanson defeatedly admits that “I rode on the darkest range / I worked a thousand graveyard hours / I have no blood left in my veins / I gave it all up to the empire”. Any overt resemblance to bygone, sidelined musical movements is cleverly reinvigorated with the sense that, correspondingly, both Hanson and the land are already spent: the song concludes with him surmising “that’s the cost of being free”.
Amidst these tales, Hanson nonetheless manages to proffer bizarro nuggets of humor, even as one’s disquietude often accompanies the intended bemusement. The oddly touching title track lists off – you guessed it –the disparate categories of people Hanson loves (including people who teach children to swim and those with incurable diseases), beginning most of his lines with that titular declaration. Its anthemic, glossy sheen makes for an uplifting number before the lightly trippy yet delicate melancholy of “I Don’t Believe You”, which is subsequently sandwiched with “Santa Claus is Coming Back to Town”. The latter’s deceptive title subverts small-town coziness to instead describe a soldier’s silent return from Afghanistan. A vague eeriness behind the instrumental’s overt, Hallmark-esque wholesomeness makes for a semi-pastiched soundscape, lurking with unease that likewise marks “Bad Miracles”. Cumulatively, Hanson understands the nostalgic appeal of his sound while demonstrating a refreshing, informed desire to play around with its constitutive tropes.
At his best, then, Hanson also articulates a fresh comment on the indie-country-folk-rock smorgasbord style increasingly occupying our musical zeitgeist. Personally, it is not entirely well-rounded; despite the strength of some slower tracks like the resonant “Final Frontier”, the balladry of “Old Policeman” feels limp. While the album is a little front-heavy, later gems such as “Texas Weather” provide a feel-good, windows-down sound, soaring towards the end of the LP – despite describing surreal scenes involving power lines swaying like snakes and a friend being arrested for murder.
The tension here almost zips by passively, a moment which vanishes if you are too relaxed to observe your surroundings. It all produces a “duh” response when one takes a moment to absorb Hanson’s lyrics. In an era where the recycling of culture appears particularly sped-up or pronounced, the vehicle for this message almost reaches a similar endpoint if you are too distracted while streaming to observe his commentary. Spotify be damned: The customer is always right, but the listener can still be indicted. Despite outwardly looking to the past, Hanson silently has his crosshairs set on the present.
