The Mayflies are a party—a delightful mess, a crazed amalgam.
Electric and acoustic, fast and slow, a bewildering explosion of
hectic elation and angry loss. They’re the rock end of roots and the
country end of rock, and as such, they’re hard to describe, but
impossible to forget.
The Mayflies are a band you walk away from after a single hearing,
humming the chorus and wondering, “I could swear I’ve heard that
What ties it all together, what unifies their songs and their
sounds—is a quality of movement. Movement in Stacy Webster’s
frenzied sweat-flinging guitar that owes as much allegiance to Django
Reinhardt and Willie Nelson as it does to Jerry Garcia. But also
movement in the skittery picking of traditional bluegrass.
In infinite ways, The Mayflies jump and race, slow and sway. They
never stand still.
And although their music is unquestionably Americana—a distinctly
Midwestern mix of blues and country guitar, folk and rock lyrics,
fiddle and banjo—The Mayflies are also a firm bridge to that rabid
universe of live music, that head-bobbing, crowd-shouting, young and
wild world of jam and jazz.
They Mayflies allow themselves to improvise, but as fiercely talented,
serious musicians, they never lose themselves, or their songs, in that
experience. With the nuanced, livid, jazz drumming of James Robinson,
and the undeniable backbone that is Dave Lumberg on bass, The Mayflies
translate as few jam bands can, from the live stage to a tight
A Thousand Small Things preserves some of the frenetic quality of a
wild live show, but these songs never alow themselves to be
untethered. They don’t noodle or wander too far. They come back,
always, to their lyrics, their melodies, their roots. Artful and
purposeful, devoted to storytelling and tradition, with a clear sense
of pathos and place, The Mayflies take jam rock to the edge of
energy. Then they pull back a little, to leave a listener wanting