Noah Saterstrom - "Buttermilk Hill"

Here's Noah Saterstrom atop Buttermilk Hill, crying at its summit like so many have before him. But Saterstrom brings a special understanding to his otherwise standard predicament, i.e. that his buttermilk tears falling down his buttermilk face turn a buttermilk mill that adds to the base of Buttermilk Hill. Naturally, this process (fueled by sadness) propels him ever further skyward, isolates him more profoundly on the world's y axis. What else does Saterstrom bring? It. Also, he brings the nontraditional to the traditional (a gift), and the labyrinth to its centre (a favour); he brings the absurd a kind of coherence (a thank you). He brings the shoo to the shoo and the shoo-la-roo; he brings the shoo-la-rack-shack to the shoo-la-babba-goo. He brings us an old troubadour's chiming guitar and a just-awoken voice, the daily murmuring of a lament for his missing love and a prayer for the soldier's return. [Buy]

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Howard Tate - "Chain Gang"

Bravery can be defined as the willingness to faithfully cover a song originally recorded by Sam Cooke. Under that definition (the most standard), I, unlike Howard Tate, am a coward. Tate is rewarded for his bravery, not only because he is a brilliant singer, but also because he has surrounded himself with a band consisting of several very bad dudes. The guitarist, for instance, has tone as warm as a perfect bath and as delicate as the bath bubbles that only a philistine would do without. The drummer, who plays a funk beat with brushes, is so gentle and tender that I imagine him playing with one hand and warming milk on the stove for his babies with the other. Or maybe he's a quadruped who drums with one paw, warms milk with another, writes cheques to the United Way with a third, and cuddles the elderly with his fourth. Listening to him now, he may even be an insect, or perhaps, an arachnid. In any case, after we hear from the chain gang for the second time, as the plodding rhythm is about to give way to the more fluid verse, Howard Tate starts to really blow. At the same time, our dreams are realized as the porcelain walls of the guitar-tub break, and the bubble bath becomes a babbling brook, a solo with which we are totally and finally swept away. [Buy]