A few months back, I caught a ride from a friend of mine, a fellow musician I’ve known since I was in college. A terrific player and singer, too, a multi-instrumentalist and accomplished audio engineer. He’s someone from whom I take music recs pretty seriously. So when he said he was putting something new on the car stereo, an artist a friend of his had been raving about, I figured I should stop talking and listen closely, too. A modern-day soul/R&B singer with retro ‘70s vibes, my friend told me. Live instrumentation with spot-on period production. That’s what my friend was told by his friend, who had added the music had an almost addictive quality to it.
The production struck me at first. I heard a full band – acoustic drumkit, electric guitar, piano, all that. The band clearly got the assignment, matching the grooves and licks you’d hear on some classic early ‘70s soul LP. Then I zeroed in on the singer – a knockout vocalist, note-perfect, with remarkable command of dynamics. “The breath control,” I murmured after hearing one masterfully phrased half-verse. And the whole bag had what music heads call “the dust” – the elusive atmosphere that registers the recording as “vintage” in the listener’s mind.
Then at one point, seemingly somewhere in the middle of a song, the instruments all paused and the singer held one high note for multiple measures. One note, soloed, hanging in midair, a crescendo and a decrescendo. Bonkers technique. And then the band came back in, and… well, it felt kind of strange.
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