Brooklyn-made art-country, long on the circuitous search for “home”, short on the sort of textural embroidery which can overwork such material.
Vocally, Merritt occupies space in the void separating Joni from Emmylou. Tucker Martine produces, Marc Ribot twangs, Andrew Bird drifts in like a ghost .… How you respond will depend on how you react to such gubbins being brought to bear on Merritt’s A-to-B-and-back melodic sense. No doubting its realness, though.
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