27 August 2003
A spin on Ken Layne
Did you ever wonder what it would be like to rescue Robert Johnson from those hellhounds on his trail and drop him into the middle of a Brinsley Schwarz set? Me either, but the new Ken Layne CD, just arrived at this listening post, sets up exactly that sort of speculation: while Layne would have probably been very much at home in the lo-fi pub-rock universe, his mournful voice and weirdly-vectoring lyrics open the door to the spectre of dread at the very moments when you expect it least. It's probably not ideal driving music, if only because you shouldn't drink when you drive, but late at night with the shadows playing on the far wall and we're having a thunderstorm right now, so I get a two-hour jump on the sunset it's strange, affecting, essential stuff.
It's called The Analog Bootlegs. Get it. It's only nine bucks, fercrissake. The catalog number, says the liner card, is KL1517. I'd love to know the significance thereof.