Backbone > Ear Whacks
CD Reviews

Shannon McNally: Jukebox Sparrows
Capitol Records, 2002

Driving on a Woodstock back road with my windows down, an exquisite sunset invited me to pull over and gasp. There we were—me, a delicious summer meadow, and Shannon McNally blaring from the speakers. Yep, life is good.

It’s McNally’s task in life to provide that on-the-porch-in-a-hammock-swing-with-a-Mint-Julep-on-a-balmy-evening kind of mood. Or here’s a drink for you: two- parts Bonnie Raitt, two-parts Sheryl Crow, one-part Edie Brickell, and one-part Rickie Lee Jones. Shake. Serve with potato fritters under a Cajun moon. Okay, so Shannon McNally is an ex-model, but big whoop. There’s nothing particularly precious about her and she doesn’t deliver 20-something pop crap. With her smoky voice and a laid-back bluesy vibe that’s slithery, gritty, and gutsy, this 27-year-old Long Island native is a coffeehouse owner’s dream. Check out her newly released 11-song debut, Jukebox Sparrows, for some good ole blues abandon.

Apparently, some industry goons think this singer-songwriter should be doing the Alanis Morrisette thing with her all-American, white-girl good looks. Figures. But McNally feels more at home with the J.J. Cale/Ry Cooder crowd, and her music should be played in a dimly lit bar with a sticky floor. Loudly. She uses seasoned players on this recording: James Gadson (Bill Withers, Marvin Gaye), Jim Keltner (John Lennon, Ry Cooder), Bob Glaub (Linda Rondstadt, B.B. King), Benmont Tench (Tom Petty), and Greg Leisz (Joni Mitchell), and the result is mid-tempo slide-guitar tunes, piano ballads, and earthy roots-rock that is easily digestible and hard to dislike. There’s nothing too complicated about the way this album feels, and even though production is slick, it’s funny how it still winds up sounding organic. These ultra-strong melodies and ample hooks will no doubt provide McNally with wide appeal and great success (and those appearances on “Letterman” and “Conan O’Brien” probably didn’t hurt either).

“There’s nothing wrong with a good hook,” says McNally. “There’s nothing wrong with a three-and-a-half minute song that you can’t stop whistling or humming.” Amen to that.

McNally is in the midst of a summer tour with John Mellencamp but was benevolent enough to stop at Woodstock’s Colony Cafe on July 19. We sure needed it. No beer or hammocks required; her music provides it all.

—Sharon Nichols

Wooden Rope: Wooden Rope
Not Your Daddy’s Records

Metaphysics has a curious place in rock. Morphing time and space into lyrics is a challenge best left to seasoned shamans like Jon Anderson of Yes or the iconic Sid Barrett. Even the venerable, metaphysical outfit Led Zeppelin still leaves fans quizzical with its Tolkien references (“I saw a lion he was standing alone with a tadpole in a jar”). See you when you cross that confounded bridge. But the trick lies in making your lyrics rock. Wooden Rope, reigning alpha-males of the New Paltz music scene, collide acetylene guitar riffs, big beats, and lyrics from the playpens of their minds on Wooden Rope, their first CD on Not Your Daddy’s Records.

For a debut CD, Wooden Rope cautiously avoids the production quagmire. Vocal stylist Tim Sutton’s rap-a-lese rings through, even if you don’t always get his drift. The self-production truly uplifts their sound, from the deep bottom bass of Mark Beaumont, to biting guitar work by Johnnie Wang (pronounced Wong) and rock-steadiness from drummer Matt Senzatimore. When you catch them live, you’ll smile when you realize those kickin’ background vocals come from behind the drum kit. All the fellas contribute, but Sutton and Senzatimore remain the classic songwriting duo of this outfit.

Like their live show, the Wooden Rope CD rarely lets up in pace and intensity. “Hippopotomaus” and “Leafenhausen” are driving rockers with buzzy guitar riffs like the drone of a hornet’s nest. Only on “Army Blankets” does the band trade attitude for atmosphere, displaying keen musicianship via minor chords and tasteful dynamics.

The sweat of live shows and endless rehearsals is apparent in Wooden Rope’s extra-tight arrangements. Even seemingly throwaway lyrics fit in odd ways. You never know if Sutton is just freestyling or spitting rapid-fire lyrics. Either way, Wooden Rope delivers, pulling the message out of the madness.

—Wavy Davy