Gram Parsons, Another Side of This Life: The Lost Recordings of Gram Parsons 1965-1966 (2000)

 

Sure it’s archival demos, but it also sounds like good 90s lo-fi (instead of a Tascam, recorded on a Sony 500 reel-to-reel given to the teenage artist by a family friend who purchased it in Tokyo, according to Jim Carlton's liner notes). Young Parsons offers folkie chords done right on tunes like “November Nights,” but also a fair amount of proto-Darnielleian hard strumming, and the kid clearly has talent even as he cycles through identities, from jazzy nightclub crooning to grittier R&B growls. Harvard Square was a crowded place for young men with guitars in 1965, and even if Parsons doesn’t cut a fully unique figure, he sounds convincing invoking his miner daddy on “They Still Go Down,” with its nice Gordon Lightfoot tinge, and the early original “I Just Can’t Take It Anymore” is a genuine lost gem, a folk anthem by the numbers on one level, but the numbers fit perfectly, like when a mathematician marvels at the elegance of a proof for something we already knew. Sounds like he’s got a bright future ahead of him here. 

Dillard & Clark, Through the Morning, Through the Night (1969)

 

The ultimate hangout record. Aside from Clark’s elegantly sorrowful title track there’s not much songwriting, really not much songs so much as a sustained jangling hootenanny (he’d later revive “Kansas City Southern” with a harder rock edge on a solo album, but here it pleasantly blends with the Everly Brothers and gospel standards).  The sharing of the spotlight means that the greatest asset on hand, Clark’s soulful croon, goes underused, but low-key ambling seems to be the nature of the project here, so save that for later, I suppose. A closing Beatles cover makes no sense, but that’s part of the modest charm.

Chris Hillman, Desert Rose (1984)

 

Nobody’s ever going to accuse Chris Hillman of straining himself. This LP’s laziness runs clear down to the sequencing, where “Treasure of Love” is immediately followed by “Ashes of Love” as if everyone involved shared a common understanding that these songs were all mostly interchangeable. Still, bracket the consciousness of Hillman’s cruel, putrid rightwing politics and the album itself envelops you in bland, comfortable warmth, with “Somebody’s Back in Town” cozily recalling early-70s Burrito Bros and the aforementioned “Ashes,” covering a staple most popularized by Buck Owens, setting the stage for Hillman’s unexpected return to the (country) charts soon thereafter, re-recorded by his Desert Rose Band, some of whom appear here. Clearly the man runs in circles, or at least slowly strolls in circles, but he’s at his best when he doesn’t sound thirsty, and he’s rarely been more sedately sated.