The distance between a man and the land he inhabits diminishes with the duration of his stay there.  He becomes the terrain; it becomes him.  This, I think, is a good thing.  By internalizing his surroundings and—if he is creative—harnessing art out of this confluence, the creator can transport the listener to a very specific time and place otherwise unavailable to the sedentary.  Listen carefully and you will learn a great deal more than simply songs.

Folks from New York’s North Country understand that the silence BETWEEN gusts of autumn wind, between the words in a twilight conversation, can communicate as much about loss as magic, about prophecy as adoration as what IS there.  Both geographically and sonically, Scott Shipley’s powerful new album Meaning What Exactly inhabits just such a liminal space.  The soothing, textured, skillfully-constructed sonic backdrops—rendered with key moments of quietude between the notes—gives the listener reflective pause to mull over the prophetic import of the lyrics and simply enjoy beautiful music.  Lest you think the gravity of singer/songwriter material has been lost to the blandishments of a limp marketplace, let me encourage a bout of deep listening with Meaning What Exactly.  A dialogue balancing warm, no-nonsense directness and austere rumination, this is my favorite album so far of 2009.   

Since Shipley’s previous solo album, the stripped down and marvelous Sentimental Fool, he has added a denser palette of sounds to the mix—a touch of percussion here, layers of vocal harmonies there, the shard of angular electric guitar and volume swells in surprising places—and this sonic care comes through on every standout track.  But for all of this seeming newness, the real strength of this material is that which has made Shipley’s other work so strong—an undeniable ear for hooks and a warm, strong, distinctive baritone voice. 

Be forewarned—this is not a musical world for the intrepid.  Despite an intimacy in production and vocal presence that makes the listener feel Shipley is performing on a chair in one’s kitchen, the songs pose the tough questions and demand as much care from the listener as the songwriter brought to bear in writing the songs.  Conjuring John Muir’s oft-repeated maxim "When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe,” Shipley opens with “Broken Strings,” a tune reminiscent of Richard Thompson’s Front Parlour Ballads.  We are “standing in the halls of nature / as the crumbling ensues,” unable to “back away as the viper turns to strike.”  The melody is so damned catchy and the tapestry evolves so quietly that you’ll find yourself singing along with the bardic voice signaling your imminent doom.  The chiming Calexico-esque Spanish guitar figure of “Faded Bloom”— featuring one of Shipley’s best vocal performances on the album—tells us “the glass is full of sour wine” and that “the bowl is full of bitter fruit / no slice of life could ever soothe.”   Mesmerizing, twining antiphonal voices at song’s end give the song a churchly beauty, though again the message is an urgent one: the work of being is difficult, be mindful, take care—

My favorite songs on the record capture its electicism.  “Aida’s Lullaby”—arguably the best encapsulation of Shipley’s merits as vocalist and songwriter—find him telling his intended sleeper/audience “let us rest here awhile.”  The madrigal-like “Waiting for the Rapture” features layers of sing-along voices on its chorus and some of the most baroque, enigmatic lyrics on the record: “If you make it / drop me a postcard from Elysian Fields.”  The anthemic “Killer”—despite its lack of drums—would not sound out of place in a packed stadium of Pearl Jam fans.  

It can be difficult to tell whether songs are intended as micro or macro-reflections; whereas the punchy “Mean Old Man” could well be a simple tale of a grouchy neighbor, it may well be political commentary on contemporary American’s penchant for xenophobia and self-interest.  “High Gear,” described elsewhere as a rumination on methamphetamine use, hits the listener initally as a relaxed country blues, some later cello-through-a-prism volume swells evoke languor in the midst of the darkness.  Even the album title speaks to similar ambiguities—a statement in the form of a question, an ambiguity in the form of lucid truth.  Is it a question or a statement?  Neither and both.  Like the music on this album, it demands your attention and asks the listener to actively participate in the process of meaning-making.  What a gift that the artist cares so much for his listener…

It’s an electic musical terrain within which Shipley roams—traces of John Hartford’s Twain-like wit, Richard Buckner’s hermetic poetics, Mark Lanegan’s gravelly melancholy, and Ray Lamontagne’s earnest romanticism often coexist within songs—yet the sound emerges with a specificity borne of its place and Shipley’s distinctive vocal presence. With consummate craftsmanship, relaxed yet insistent lyrics, and a voice that should be (at the risk of sounding hyperbolic) a national treasure, Scott Shipley’s Meaning What Exactly is one musical journey you’ll want to share with the female voyager in “Miles Away” who—despite being “miles away…and nowhere near her destination”—sounds pleased to be on her way.
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