Grab a bottle of Jack Daniels, kick off your boots and head out to the dusty porch: Ryan Adams is here to help you drown your sorrows. The ridiculously prolific alt-countryman has gone all the way: this is pure country, plain and simple. There’s a comfortable quality to Jacksonville City Nights that reveals Adams’ confidence in carving out this niche, and there’s a barely detectable defiance about his approaches to music making of late. Gone are the days of pumping out hits for the record company, and the critics appear to be lapping up the express-lane manner in which Adams is strengthening his back catalogue (we’re up to number seven now, folks).
All of the essential elements emerge within album opener A Kiss Before I Go: tinkles of piano, Adams’ sharply pleading vocals and lethargic slide guitar. As with much of Adams’ recent material, this is a track that most likely sounded like a classic even at first recording. The End pays homage to the man’s hometown and album namesake, working up to a heartbreaking chorus that disappears far too quickly. Adams’ storytelling skills are brought to the fore and it’s difficult to avoid being immersed in the narrative. Delicate ivory flourishes link the saloon atmosphere to Hard Way to Fall, in which the vocals pivot from endearing hopelessness to knowing determination. A heavy bass sound plonks satisfyingly under a richly textured mix of guitars and soft cymbals that are buffed and polished to crystal clarity in the production room.
Norah Jones helps out with Dear John, and her vintage-quality, sultry vocals contrast interestingly with Adam’s honky phrasing in the background. Jones acts as Adams’ fictional partner and they retell another tale of hard times amid minimal instrumentation. Although the vocals are great, there’s not much else going on, and Dear John slides precariously close to snoozeville. Perhaps aware of this fact, the track is followed by the gentle jitter of The Hardest Part. Guitars are strummed with fervour and the rhythm section is pushed up a notch. Violins sing quaintly in places, providing an accent for the truncated chorus, and the tempo gradually skitters towards a controlled mess before the track subsides altogether.
Mid-way through the album’s fifteen tracks, the songs seem to hit somewhat of a lull. It’s not a particularly bad lull – but it’s definitely the point where most people would be likely to lose interest, and then the music becomes wallpaper. There are some beautifully lush sounds in Silver Bullets, but no amount of vocal attention-to-detail or gentle violin arcs will render this a particularly ensnaring number. Luckily, Peaceful Valley will see your interest restored indefinitely. A collision of instruments provides unending warmth, and the track is anchored by a rock solid tune you will be whistling for days. Violins engage friendly competition with slide guitar while Adam’s tarnished voice floats overhead, throaty and breaking occasionally, displaying the man’s enviable ability to jump from one timbre to another effortlessly.
Adams channels Gram Parsons with My Heart is Broken. With such a succinct summary of the country genre for a title, you’d expect this one to be a real moaner. But in fact, it’s one of the slightly more upbeat numbers, lilting in ironic happiness with slices of ivory keys and an upward-faced chord progression. Female vocals add a nice contrast without ever becoming overtly noticeable. Meanwhile, Trains will get you scooting across the old floorboards and swinging your partner round and round. Some (somewhat taboo) optimism creeps into the proceedings and Adams sounds like he’s enjoying it immensely.
Withering Heights sees some beautifully tiered vocal arrangements coupled with a strong focus on the keys, and slows the pace of the album somewhat. Don’t Fail Me Now continues this mood, infused with croaky vocals and minimalist, deliberate instrumentation. You can tell Jacksonville is closing up for the night, but it’s not a particularly sad affair. Although the material on this album is nothing short of brilliant, it’s an experience that demands emotional expenditure. It’s not the kind of record that makes you hit repeat immediately as you hear the disc grind to halt. It’s also not the kind of album you’d necessarily whack on while a party’s in full swing. That’s not to say that Jacksonville is one extended misery fest. On the contrary: it’s actually a nice mix of positives and negatives. It’s the perfect soundtrack for a plethora of moods, whether that includes drowning yourself in a series of stiff drinks while wallowing alone in heartbreak, or dancing up a storm at your local barn dance. Much like the ups and downs of real life on the ranch.
