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Twenty years ago, Grandaddy’s banged-up future was wrapped up in heavy production… now that has been stripped out, leaving only Jason Lytle, his songs, his piano, and his characteristic keening on inevitable observations.
On background listening, it’s a charming bedroom pop masterpiece filled with enticing musical details and catchy melodies. If you pay attention though, you’ll notice the lyrics transcend sarcasm and irony and go straight to sardonic, a rare treat.
With close harmonies, tapped rhythms, and a wistful tone, this is music for a sunset porch, or a long drive, or a morning walk, or any situation where a soundtrack gently reminding you that everything is all right with the world is appropriate.
If you love Neil Young as much as Scott McCaughey does, you’ll be able to grin at yourself on recognizing each and every one of these deep, deep cuts, delivered in McCaughey’s enthusiastic yelp rather than Young’s grizzled whine.
Of course, when it’s Sir Paul doing the pandemic recording, it’s old hat to play all the instruments, this being his third such truly solo album. Like the others, it exists in the McCartney continuum of eternal rock and roll.
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