Two new excellent Americana tunes that I’ve been listening to on repeat, and you’ll want to get right on: A first release from a new band, and a new release from an old band.

1. Wild Feathers

A Nashville five-piece that shares their spotlight a la The Band, from whom they cull mucho inspiration, along with ’70s Stones, Zeppelin, Ryan Adams, Allman Brothers and that ilk. It’s not revolutionary, but it’s authentic; something sorely lacking in American-inspired music these days. (Thanks, Mumfords). That truism got them noticed while they were still bumming around Nashville a few years ago (they formed in 2010) by none other than Willie Nelson, who invited them to open. Not bad for a band with no album and no record deal. Since then they’ve signed to Warner Bros and cut an eponymous album, released in summer 2013, that’s the kind of all-in rock ‘n’ roll played by their predecessors: Many-part vocal  (each band member has, at one point, been a lead singer of former bands) and acoustic harmonies that show their strength as collaborators, rich and slow riffs, a touch of organ and harmonica here and there. Perhaps a bridge between the many-member, radio-friendly, indie-folk bands and the music they’re trying to emulate? Maybe. But if not, that’s fine—Wild Feathers are content to just play. As it should be.

2. Blitzen Trapper’s seventh album release, VII

The prolific band has its ups (2008’s Furr, 2011’s American Goldwing) and its… not necessarily downs, but let’s say less cohesive, slightly stranger albums. Or, the albums that not everyone likes (I like them all, but that’s just me). Their brand of Americana has been around long before it was cool, paving the way for bands like aforementioned Wild Feathers to be able to sign to a label. With VII, singer/songwriter Eric Earley finally got down and dirty. It’s the most down-home of all their albums, simultaneously soulful and hick—the BEST type of country/blues. The first song, “Feel The Chill,” opens with electronic blips, record scratches, and white noise, scissored in between with a electric riffs to prep you for the madness, then unleashes into that recognizable twang with “I used to stay down South of town where the road runs crooked and the lights are down.” There’s a lot of finger-pickin’ (“Don’t Be A Stranger”), and the amazingly named “Neck Tatts, Cadillacs” with the lyrics “Neck Tatts, Cadillacs, the girl’s got style/ When I walk up from behind I just gotta smile” in a  near-indecipherable clip. Add floating, haunting organs and plentiful banjo and you’ve got yourself a very diverse and fantastically Southern album. While everything Blitzen Trapper does is, to some degree, “American” or “americana” or whatever you want to call it, they’ve never felt quite so regional—not that VII is place-specific, but rather that they finally sound like a band born in bayous or backwood porches. There’s a very rustic sentimentality here that they’ve never owned across a whole record before, only in (well-done) fits and spurts (ex: Wild Mtn. Jam, Black River Killer). It might be their best effort yet, if only because it all, finally, fits together.

TFNH_HOOKY_COVER_HIGH_RESYou can find a lot —really, too many—of musicians in Brooklyn. At least half the people I know are in bands. Which is great! Unfortunately, a lot of these talented folk all… kind of play the same thing. Or iterations of the same few genres: Shoegaze, garage rock, electronic indie, indie folk. The one thing you can’t seem to find is pared down sounds. Gentle acoustic lullabies are rare in NYC’s coolest borough.

Which is why brother-sister team This Frontier Needs Heroes is a breath of fresh air in the local music scene. The two started writing songs and playing together—Brad on guitar, Jessica on tambourine—and toured all over the world trying to make a name for themselves with classic unplugged strums and endearing harmonies.

That didn’t quite catapult them to fame, and the siblings eventually parted—Brad now lives in Jacksonville, Florida (a city with a very vibrant burgeoning music scene of its own), while Jessica stayed in Brooklyn. Turns out getting out of this music-saturated city was all it took to really propel their sound forward.

Their latest album, Hooky (released Aug. 27), is an intricate composition recorded in Philadelphia with a full band. The two-man folk sound is elevated to something more akin to Andrew Bird meets The Decemberists than Woody Guthrie. Most notable is the use of haunting violin and winding organ—take the climbing intro to “Down on the Farm” followed by introspective lyrics “When I turned 21/ my grandpa showed me how to shoot a gun/ At first I thought that it was fun/ then I heard that the sun would die/ and so would I.” Also worth a mention: The sad and vaguely funny, ode to loneliness that is “George Clooney” (below). It’s richer and more elaborate but polished to leave you wanting more, not borne down by skittering instruments. The best use of a full band to emphasize a small outfit when recording is this exact kind of subtlety. Many, many current artists could take note. Especially in Brooklyn.

Unfortunately, the siblings geographic differences means no tours are currently planned outside of Jacksonville. Until then, keep Hooky at the top of the playlist—it’s reminiscent of (and a prefect soundtrack for) long walks in early fall dusks.

I thought I was ahead of the curve when I stumbled upon this Australian 5-piece band the other day. With hand claps and coed back-and-forth sing songs, they’re spot on the nostalgic ’80s radio sound that’s become popular lately. (Ok, let’s just get it out of the way—they sound a lot like Haim, who borrowed a lot of Fleetwood Mac. We over that? Cool.) But, alas, Pitchfork caught on to them about two weeks ago, which means I’m woefully behind. Whatever; back to the music.

Attention is being paid currently for the shiny new single, “Is This How You Feel?” (of the same-name, just-released EP) which is the definition of groovy. Lots of bops and more hand claps and repetitive, car-singalong  lyrics. It really does sound like something pulled from the end credits of, say, Never Been Kissed. And definitely not in a bad way.

But the Sydney-based band has a lot more going on than reductive comparisons to bygone coed bands or girl-group contemporaries. Their first EP, Shaking Hands, has a shadowed moodiness that’s palpable even on the first listen, and deepens after multiple runs—note that tonal belly-drop singer Isabella murmurs on the choral pause in “Pale Rider,” the menacing chords punctuating behind the chorus in “Threat”, the Iggy Pop waver to male vocalist Gideon’s opener in “Take A Car.” A little bit country, a little bit soulful funk. A lot of new rock goodness.

Take a listen to a perfect mix of their old and new songs on Soundcloud—perfect late summer listening. And cross your fingers they’ll make it out of Oz for a tour some day.

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I found these bracelets in a bar.

Specifically, on the arm of my bartender, Lindsey, at Skinny Dennis in Williamsburg (the ‘hoods best—and only—honky tonk bar).

While having a few beers with a friend, I noticed Lindsey’s seriously cool bracelets made of screws and shackles not unlike the gold ones I had just been eyeing at Bird down the street. But the ones dangling from the wrist handing me a Shiner Bock were way, way cooler—where Bird’s are solid gold and pretty and shiny, which is nice, Lindsey’s were badass, made from hardware store goods but in a way that I could never hope to DIY. Looking up, I noticed her necklace was a bib of black iron washers. I needed to know where they came from.

I asked, and I received.

“I make them!” was the delighted answer. Under the moniker White Goods Design, Lindsey crafts her unique, steampunk-meets-western pieces from a studio not far from her day job in Williamsburg. Railroad ties and gold spikes dangle from thread and chains, gold and silver nail heads wrap around wrists to form contrasting-metal cuffs, and thin nails welded to washers dangle quite prettily as earrings.

No online shopping is available at the moment, but you can email her at info@whitegoodsdesign.com for prices. Way cooler than the same gold bangle as half of Brooklyn, no? I’ll certainly be picking up a few.

These were my favorites—see her site for the full lookbook of necklaces, earrings, and bracelets

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533573_334972496600115_430792457_nIt’s really rare that you find an excellent band from your home state when that home state is Maryland. Outside of Baltimore’s rap and psych-electric scene, there aren’t many well-known new acts who hail from the land of crabs and football. That’s fine—I’d made my peace with it.

Until I found The Brothers Osborne (not to be confused with ’60s band The Osbourne Brothers) courtesy of Paste’s recent The Best Of What’s Next issue. Just a tiny blurb on these two brothers, T.J. and John Osborne from Deale, MD, near the end with no sample track—probably because the brothers are, like much of farmland Maryland, not very plugged in and have provided very few ways to listen to their songs online. But the half-page of praise was enough to make me seek out their sound on YouTube, through a handful of live shows in their adopted hometown of Nashville and one excellently-shot teaser for their upcoming album.

And holy shit, am I happy I did.

It’s good ‘ol boy music—masterful finger-pickin’, both electric and acoustic, and the cornfield twang I grew up around that’s a little more authentic  than most region-less radio country. But what sets the brothers apart from Skynard or Hank Williams or other classic southern rock outfits are the Chesapeake particulars: The reference to “the sound of high-tide thunder and your hair blowing in the breeze” in “21 Summer,” which bay and shore folk can feel coming from miles away; T.J.’s drawl on “lonelay” in the deeply heartfelt “Let Me Love The Lonely Out Of You“; John’s ambling, simple but striking electric solos which smart of local bar bands and long summer nights; and reminders to keep it light, not get too melancholy (as country can very often do), and “top it all off with the sun and mix it with rum” in “Rum.”

Marylanders are in a strange position—called northerners by most south of us, and southerners by most north of us, we’re middle ground in more ways than just geographic. There are no “Sweet Home Alabama”-type anthems for Maryland, no cowboy legends to reference, no catalogue of songs praising our cities or beaches or hidden landscapes (though these are all beautiful). It’s a state quietly appreciated by those who call, or at one point called, it home. This is how the Brothers Osborne approach their music: No claims to genre or specific sound. Just repurposing of the bluegrass, blues, country, and southern rock that surrounded them growing up in small town, very rural middle East Coast America.

What results is across-the-board relatable, subtly exceptional, down-home beautiful country. The kind you could let play through a backyard barbeque, local bar soundtrack, wedding reception, or quiet night on the porch watching heat lightning streak across a starless sky. Needless to say, “best of what’s next” is an appropriate label.

Trying to date in New York is extremely exhausting. Anyone who lives here and is single will attest to that. Especially in the twenty-something range, where, frequently, prospects fall into undesirable categories of arrogant bro, douchey hipster, intellectual snob, or an even-worse hybrid. And these are not stereotypical labels. What I and so many of my female friends find is that the men in this city are repulsively condescending, aloof and noncommittal, or at times outright sexist—at least, until confronted about it, when we become either a) crazy, b) unable to take a “joke”, or c) overly sensitive. Or d) all of the above. Everything was said in jest. No one was serious about anything. Unless they are; the meaning of underhanded insults whose base lies in playground, “But you’re a girl” logic is contingent upon the male speaker’s unspoken intentions—not his tone. Didn’t you know?

This is part of the subject of a recent article in The New Inquiry by Moira Weigel and Mal Ahern entitled Further Materials Toward a Theory of the Man-Child, a redress of sorts to an article originally published in French radical philosophy journal Tiqquen. Though more workplace-themed and political in nature than my Williamsburg dating scene analogy, it’s an excellent long read if you take the time to sit down and power through. Among the gems, including an acknowledgement that women today are more frequently found in power packs of lady friends than on a date with someone who uses their gender as irony, is this paragraph, which struck a particular chord with a slightly disillusioned, working-too-young woman as myself:

Women’s long history of performing work without its even being acknowledged as work, much less compensated fairly, may account for their relative success in today’s white-collar economy. This is, at least, the story of the heroine that the new Mancession Lit has created. Call her the Grown Woman. A perpetual-motion machine of uncomplaining labor, shuttling between her job and household tasks, the Grown Woman could not be more different from either fat-year brats like Carrie Bradshaw, or Judd Apatow’s lady Man-Children. The Grown Woman holds down her job and pays for her own dinner. The Grown Woman feels like a bad mom when she sees the crafts and organic snacks that other moms are posting on Pinterest. She wonders whether feminism lied to her, but knows she will inherit the earth. Could this be because she is better than the Man-Child at performing what current economic conditions demand? She is certainly more practiced. Who among us hasn’t faked it, if only to make him stop asking?

I wonder if feminism lied to me. I will inherit the Earth. Say it with me now, ladies.