Brian Lindsay & The BootLeggers

It may seem hard to believe that an artist can convey sincerity even before he’s uttered a word, but that’s exactly what happens within the album’s opening seconds, when a harmonica calls out against soaring acoustic guitars that paint a convincing, three-dimensional backdrop for Lindsay’s unpretentious entrance. It’s the kind of music-as-scenery move that would sound utterly hackneyed if it had been at all calculated.

When Lindsay’s voice comes in, it’s strikingly warm, reassuring, and ultimately human. In the tradition of Neil Young, he creates more melodic space for himself -- and the listener -- by pushing the boundaries of pitch. Which is not to say his notes are sour. Quite the contrary, his voice is immediately distinctive, and his unwavering assuredness ensures that spirit and emotion prevail in each of his performances. From there, Lindsay’s earnest, vulnerable lyrics and the striding confidence of the other players converge with the material to create a mood that feels down-to-earth and accessible until the album concludes.

Lindsay and his back-up cast play confidently, but without swagger. They also play hard-knuckled rock and roll -- the way it was intended to be played. With heart. Nowadays, it seems the country world is littered songs that set macho posturing to flaccid electric guitars trying to sound tough. That may make good, disposable fodder for truck commercials -- and for a good laugh -- but you’ll recognize the real thing when you hear it all over The Crossing.

A far cry from sanitized radio-friendly country, Lindsay’s work is still resplendent with savvy arrangements which make The Crossing a rich, textured listen with touches of R&B (the back-up vocals of “It’s All About You”) subdued, Elvis Costello-styled blues rock (the sweet saxophone on “Forever Yours”), doo-wop (the haunting atmosphere of “The Night is Long”), bar-room blues (the slide guitar on “Unconditional”), and other flavors.

Lyrically, Lindsay is a classic example of the artist who is able to dig into his own sensitivity and find strength. And he possesses that rare knack for not coming off as self-absorbed. By extending his gaze to include the world around him, his music resonates with conscience. With a flair that’s often gentle and fleeting but deftly poetic, Lindsay acknowledges tragedy in this country’s past, (the once proud Native American country from “The Crossing”), captures the pain of being disapproved of for his background by his lover’s father (Now your daddy don’t know me/said someday I’ll walk away from “East Side of the River”), and soberly questions violence both nationally and abroad (Now we build weapons/to arm rebels overseas/I’m not sure I want any part of that from “American Justice”).

Mostly, his approach is admirably straightforward. But occasionally he makes great use of ambiguity (whispers in the dark/knocking at the door/strangers in the night/voices I ain’t never heard before, a final verse that casts a dark uncertainty on the otherwise devoted tone of “Unconditional”), and even wry irony (I never wanted to be no rock star/there goes the last of the true believers, from “The Last of the True Believers”).

Lindsay embodies the new American values of conscientiousness and social introspection. Rock-country music is a better place now that he’s around. Once you hear him, you’ll want to ask, “where you been all this time?”

Band Members:
4/5 piece band.

Pictures:
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