 About 15 years ago, Texas troubadour Guy Clark (working with Rodney Crowell) wrote a song that, better than any other articulation you’ll ever find, conveys the way his ardent fans feel about his music. “Stuff that works,” he sang, “stuff that holds up / The kind of stuff you don’t hang on the wall / Stuff that’s real, stuff you feel / The kind of stuff you reach for when you fall.” Like an old favourite sweater, ragged and worn and unquestioned, each new Guy Clark record seems like it’s always been there, like you’ve known it forever. I don’t know how he does it, and I don’t think he does, either. At least, I kind of hope he doesn’t. There’s something about the mystery of genius that begs to be left alone.
The Texas singer-songwriter thing that emerged in the late 1960s behind a shared fascination with Hank Williams’ rambling darkness and Lightnin’ Hopkins’ spooky honesty is, arguably, the strongest current that’s been running through acoustic music ever since. Think of the pillars of that fabled scene: Townes Van Zandt, Jerry Jeff Walker, Billy Joe Shaver, Guy Clark. Think of the second generation of the scene, the folks who studied at the feet of the first wave: Robert Earl Keen, Rodney Crowell, Lyle Lovett, Steve Earle, Nanci Griffith. You’ll be hard-pressed to track down a more accomplished, more dominant, or more storied body of interconnected musicians over the past four decades. And, if its heart was Townes, I believe that its hands belonged to Guy.
The most overused term for Guy Clark is “craftsman”, an expression once employed as the title of a double-CD reissue of three of his records from the mid-‘70s and which seems to have stuck. While a bit of a vague moniker—what is a songwriter if not a craftsman?—the implication of handiwork, of moulding and sculpting and refining and finishing, does seem to fit. Clark’s best songs are so wise, so sneakily didactic that they can seem to blow on the wind of fable. His storytelling carries a depth of character and breadth of emotional vision that has always set them far apart from the rest. A list like “Desperados Waiting for a Train”, “The Dark”, “Texas 1947”, “The Randall Knife”, and “The Cape” seems comprised of required listening for any pretender to the craft. And that voice, that lazy drawl, that raspy swagger, like some weary preacher at home, alone, confronting his demons. Rain battering the old soggy roof....full text |
| Texas singer-songwriter Guy Clark has been a patriarchal figure to many in the Nashville songwriting community for decades. Artists like Rodney Crowell and Steve Earle studied under the watchful eye of Clark during their early years. Like friend Townes Van Zandt before him, Clark is a master storyteller, a dream weaver blessed with the ability to match ear-catching melodies with poetic lyrics that aim for the deepest part of the listener's soul. Somedays the Song Writes You, Clark's eleventh studio album, is a well-crafted collection of compositions that rank among some of his best. Clark's tobacco-and-whiskey-stained voice has never sounded better than it does on such tracks as "The Guitar," a fiery number about a wayward musician and the pawnshop guitar that causes an unexpected awakening in him, and "Hollywood," a slow-grooving cut that takes a sideways look at the world-famous district of Los Angeles, CA. Clark, as he has on previous albums, covers a Townes Van Zandt tune on Somedays the Song Writes You. This time around the singer turns out a dry-throated reading of Van Zandt's graceful "If I Needed You.," Not one to parrot anybody, Clark makes the song his own. "The Coat,," one of many standout tracks on the disc, is a simple reflection on a bad morning -- that comes after a night of drinking and no sleep -- and turns into an even worse day when rain and cold threaten to muddy the main character's mind even more than it already is. Somedays the Song Writes You is another choice album from one of the greatest songwriters to ever come out of the state of Texas....full text |
| If you Googled the phrase “grizzled survivor,’’ you’d half-expect Guy Clark’s name to pop up. Like Bob Dylan, he’s been on the road so long that his voice sounds like sonic sandpaper. Clark has penned some classics through the years - “L.A. Freeway’’ and “Desperados Waiting for a Train’’ - but this new album settles for too many dirge tempos and not enough inspiration. There is a weathered wisdom to Clark’s writing, but also too many distractingly easy references to the whiskey and wine that have clearly kept him going down the anti-hero path of his bygone friend, Townes Van Zandt. Clark covers Van Zandt’s “If I Needed Someone’’ here in a beautiful version (it’s the third straight disc on which he has done a Townes tune), but there is concern when the best song is a cover. The rest of this release consists of co-writes as Clark seeks a spark from young and old lyricists (from Patrick Davis to Rodney Crowell), but too many songs fall into a spare, almost narcotic numbness. This is tough music to listen to during a recession. There’s a touch of hope in the final tune, “Maybe I Can Paint Over That,’’ but let’s hope Clark finds a few more touches in the future. ...full text |
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