Joshua James
The Sun is Always Brighter

Sometimes Vanilla is the Tastiest.

Folk, just like rock, pop, and hip-hop, is obsessed with the idea of offering something unique within the genre. Iron & Wine's gospel dirt serenity, Josh Ritter's railman poetry, Conor Oberst's rapturous punk gaul, and Damien Rice's heavy-handed English sorrow are all prime examples of folk's submission to the human need for flavoring in everything (side note: this is not saying anything on the excellence of the aforementioned artists, or their personal authenticity). So, after waltzing through Joshua James' simple The Sun is Always Brighter, the question somehow remains; what is Joshua James' flavor?

Exactly.

Musicality that doesn't drag, clear, if a little repetitive, lyrical voice, instrumentation that never overpowers, and a cat-like voice that recalls equal parts Andrew Hull and air whispering out of a ventilation shaft; James' formula is (not so) deceptively simple. Strings, accordions, stand-up basses and electric guitar plucks fill out the album's white space that would be the negative focus of this review had James chosen to leave the instrumentation out. However, it wouldn't have hurt to have James strip it down for at least one song (personally, "Tell my Pa" could have been excellently soft-spoken prelude to "Brother's Band"). Speaking of, "Brother's Band" is the only song that has a slight lyrical bite. Not surprisingly, "Brother's Band" is also easily the weakest song on the album. James' whisper can't match the energized electricity of the music, and the song ends up sounding trite, if slightly contrived (however, catch the war-worn closer "Commodore" for a perfectly fitting James war tune).

After a while, James dum-dee-da-da waltz of strumming and keying wears weak, especially by the time he tries to change up the delivery in the piano ballad "Abbie Martin." "The New Love Song" comes the closest to the single, because the chorus bites at a comic/sad irony sadly absent from the 10 tracks that follow it. "Geese's" opening salvos of plucking sounds deceptively close to Damien Rice's "Delicate," and the resemblance helps the echo-laden tone carry an emotional weight it might not have had otherwise.

James' passive, observationalist lyricism is again a positive/negative consequence of the baseline folk soul the CD gets at. Songs like the bleak "FM Radio" catch on a cathartic resonance, but most of the other songs lack an emotional or spiritual connection (think M. Ward's powerful echo of a California troubadour). James could learn from Ritter's humor or Will Oldham's rich insecurity; an attached emotion to folk music is powerful thing. "Lord, Devil & Him" is a perfect example; there is a sinister undertone to the otherwise peaceful plucking and whisper-quiet vocal, and that tone could have carried the song to something infinitely more powerful. Or, if James were inclined to craft an album more suited to his voice, he might try veer along the path of a Rice/Oberst combo in "Dangerous," which expertly uses the slide guitar to echo further into the song, plumbing a saddening comfort of id, missing from most of the rest of the album.

James' lack of signature sound is probably the reason his baseline folk, with dashes of country, hasn't hit on the more mainstream indie (ha!) audience. Conversely, his lack of signature is also quite comforting. The Sun is Always Brighter is certainly enjoyable, because it is consistent in its namelessness. James' sound might be closely related to my mother's cooking; she knows the staples, but seems unwilling to take the risk on flavor (for fear of making a stinker). Like my mom, James certainly has the potential to be remarkable, and Sun is Always Brighter is quite delicious in and of itself. Unlike my mom, however, I suspect James can't make a helluva vegetable lasagna.

Overall: B-

Tracklist:
1. The New Love Song
2. Soul & the Sea
3. Geese
4. FM Radio
5. Today
6. Lord, Devil & Him
7. Dangerous
8. Abbie Martin
9. Tell My Pa
10. Our Brother's Band
11. Commodore