In the electronic-music world, inserting humanity into the coldness of a kilowatt ether is a challenge. Without vocals, things get even trickier. Yet for Houston’s Joe Corrales Jr., who records under the name Yppah, personality is all a matter of knowing the right knobs to tweak. His debut, in 2006, had a lush, orchestrated beauty, but for They Know What Ghost Know (Ninja Tune), he clearly had something else in mind. Fat, melodic bass lines percolate above a pounding rock beat, and electric guitars add a swirling, My Bloody Valentine—like edge. Yppah assembled a touring band to perform his material between albums, and he’s coy as to whether they’re on this one, but the sound is of a rock group’s, albeit one that pushes lots of expensive instruments through cheesy nine-volt-battery phase shifters. Catchy and minimal at first, the din then increases, and soon the clattering is like that of a capsizing pallet in a sheet metal factory. Through it all, the beats never stop. Small wonder the producers of the CSI series and House have banged on Yppah’s door; his music may be inch-deep, but it’s seriously infectious.
Not much in life has proved more reliable than Delbert McClinton. Like slipping into your favorite old T-shirt, you know what to expect with a new album of his, even if both the shirt and McClinton’s roadhouse-weary voice have started to fray a bit around the edges. The Lubbock-born singer cut his teeth backing the likes of Sonny Boy Williamson and Howlin’ Wolf, and though he dabbles in everything from pop to country to jazz, the blues have never left him far behind; an indelible R&B vibe brands his work. Acquired Taste (New West), McClinton’s first studio recording in four years, is completely predictable and frequently enjoyable. Though produced by Don Was, the album shows no high-dollar polish. It has more of a one-take feel: The mix goes askew at times, and some vocals really should have been done over. Worse, the sequence of songs seems to have been determined by drawing the titles out of a hat. Still, McClinton can transform ordinary material—“Mama’s Little Baby,” “Cherry Street,” “Do It,” “People Just Love to Talk”—into something magical. Few singers have ever been so sure of their way.
Guy Clark
Somedays the Song Writes You
Dualtone
He’s got a bit of a rep, yet while Guy Clark is every inch the crusty, ornery cuss he’s always been, there’s a sad sense of resignation on Somedays the Song Writes You (Dualtone). After his wry 2006 triumph, Workbench Songs, this tone is a surprise from the Monahans-reared songwriter: As events conspire against him, a what-are-we-going-to-do attitude seeps in on several of his spare songs. And elsewhere, such as on the writer’s block—inspired “Hemingway’s Whiskey” (“Living one word to the next”) and the regret-filled “The Coat,” there’s a sense of defeat (“I walked out and left my coat / The weather’s turning cold / Now I don’t feel so smart, I don’t feel so bold”). Yet sad or no, there’s magnificent work here: the pitch-perfect fable of “The Guitar,” the piercing character study in “All She Wants Is You” (“Everybody’s got some baggage / But she knows how to travel light”), and the illusory optimism of his finale, “Maybe I Can Paint Over That.” Clark uses co-writers for his songs, many of them much younger, to give him inspiration, but it’s likely these collaborators got a lot more than they gave.
Kris Kristofferson
Photograph by Marina Chavez
The Brownsville-born Rhodes scholar and son of an Air Force general left his Oxford education and military career behind in 1965 to try his hand as a Nashville songwriter. He succeeded at that and more, becoming a star performer and a film actor. At 73, he’s had a recording renaissance with a couple of bare-bones sessions: This Old Road, from 2006, and Closer to the Bone (New West), out September 29.
You had a nomadic existence as a military brat, but what do you remember about Texas? I remember that Brownsville was my favorite place on the planet. We moved around, but we always moved back to Brownsville, until we left when I was eleven. Brownsville is at least as Mexican as it is Texan. They tell me I spoke Spanish before I spoke English.
You’ve had your share of classic hits—“Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down,” “Me and Bobby McGee”—but many of them were songs performed by others. That’s what I was trying to get to happen. I could cut any of mine, but to have Janis or Johnny Cash or Willie or Jerry Lee Lewis cutting—that was the greatest satisfaction, to see how different people would transform what I wrote.
Did you ever feel when you heard them doing your songs that you could do better? [Laughs] I have rarely heard something I didn’t think was done in the right direction. In general, I like other people’s versions of my songs better than my own.
Why’s that? They’re better singers. I love being able to perform my own songs and earn a living at it. But if I were going to choose to listen to somebody, it would be somebody like Hank Williams or Ray Charles.
Your list of films far outnumbers your list of albums, yet you consider yourself a writer first and foremost. If I hadn’t been known as a writer, I never would have been asked to perform. And if I hadn’t performed, I wouldn’t have caught the eye of somebody who wanted to put me in a movie. It’s all based on the writing.
The new album follows the model of This Old Road. They’re very spare sessions, produced by Don Was. This is very much a bit farther down “this old road.” When I’m out on the road now, it’s easier for me not having a band. While it was scary at first to go out by myself with a guitar and a harmonica, I’ve come to appreciate the freedom it gives me to be thinking on my feet. It’s a closer relationship between you and the audience, because you don’t have a band to hide behind. And the lyrics are clearer. I don’t think I realized that back when I was still feeling my way around.
“Good Morning, John” made me think of Johnny Cash. That was written for him. John was unlike anybody I’ve known, in that he was such an inspiration to so many of us. He always seemed larger than life, and my respect for him over the years continued to grow. He was a great man.
Talk about [guitarist and songwriter] Stephen Bruton, who worked with you on the album before dying of cancer, in May. I suspect these were some of his last sessions. Yeah, that was a blessing. Stephen has been my soul brother for so many years. We did a two-day back when he could still do it, when his head was all shaved; he loved it so much. I chose to think that he was not dying, but that wasn’t to be. I got to see him hours before he died, and he said, “I got to go to sleep now.” Stephen had a sense of humor that had us laughing from the first day. We were over in Russia and caused an international incident one night because he was playing his mandolin right in the face of one of these big Russian policemen. They were big enough to eat all of us. We saw each other through a lot of good times and bad.
Is the song “Closer to the Bone” about him? It’s about all of it. There’s a couple places about Stephen, but it’s really no different for all of us. We’re all heading for the same finish line.
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