Pearson may be broken by life and deserted by his god but, like the best purveyors of grim, can turn out a mordant couplet that suggests that there is a hint of sunshine behind the clouds.
Pearson may be broken by life and deserted by his god but, like the best purveyors of grim, can turn out a mordant couplet that suggests that there is a hint of sunshine behind the clouds.
In which Pearson, formerly of Texan John Peel favourites Lift To Experience, stares out from the CD cover like Sébastien Chabal in a cowboy movie and you’re unsure whether he’s about to down a quart of whiskey or preach a fire-and-brimstone sermon. Thrillingly, he does both. At once. But sotto voce.
Let’s get the context out of the way. Yes, vocally he does bear a passing resemblance to Jeff Buckley and lyrically he shares a garden wall with Nick Cave and I’ve no doubt that they lend each other their lawnmowers and their Johnny Cash bootlegs but Josh T. Pearson is in nobody’s Neighbourhood Watch group but his own. What astounds about this brutally honest record, a simply recorded hour of voice and guitar, is how the listener feels like a snoop, earwigging on Pearson’s tales of drinking and infidelity like an intruder in a confessional box. It’s an uncomfortable experience, magnified by the fact that you must strive to pick up every line, every strum. It’s a bravely quiet album, requiring active listening and is best appreciated through headphones without any distracting ambient noise.
But it certainly repays the investment. Pearson may be broken by life and deserted by his god but, like the best purveyors of grim, can turn out a mordant couplet that suggests that there is a hint of sunshine behind the clouds. When he admits, for example, that one of his transgressions is “fucking up my fucked up life” you know that the only way is up. This is a stark but beautiful piece of music that will resonate far beyond any alt.country pigeonhole.