1) S.G. Goodman, “Planting by the Signs” / I’m not sure any living songwriter but S.G. Goodman could write “Snapping Turtle,” the fourth song on her latest. The Kentucky artist’s narrator observes a passel of kids whacking at a turtle with a stick; the narrator asks for a turn, then unleashes some holy/unholy fury.
When I raised my hand I brought down the wrath of God himself
Beat those kids 'til they were crying out for help
I couldn't help myself
Then threw the turtle in the truck
Ooh, that small town is whеre my mind gets stuck
Thing is, Goodman’s catalog—and this record—fold in staggering moments just like that one, making her one of our truly exciting artists.
2) McKinley Dixon, “Magic, Alive!” / The Virginia MC might just be hip-hop’s most artful dodger of the moment and, in a catalog of great records, this might just be his best. Each song builds on and outdoes the next, creating a satisfying and swelling listening experience.
3) Oldstar, “Of the Highway” / This country-leaning rock outfit brings jukebox electricity and today’s grit to a set of songs that enjoys subtly thrilling twists and turns.
4) Ione Skye, “Say Everything” / Like many who watched the Cameron Crowe classic Say Anything in their youth, I wanted to be John Cusack’s Lloyd Dobler and be with Ione Skye’s Diane Court. Skye caught my attention in that wonderful film and never let it go. Here, she rewards such attention with a smart, amusing, often tender look at her Hollywood life, loves and tangled family relationships. Skye is a conversational writer, but never sacrifices depth of feeling or detail.
5) Jenny Molberg, “The Red Negligee” for Cincinnati Review / Jenny Molberg’s poems always land emotionally and refresh our sense of language and what it does; here, she steps two paces outside a honeymoon to consider what we remember, forget and how we cling to each other in the little things.
When the honeymoon was over,
a woman called us from the hotel
to say that she found, tangled
in the white sheets, my red negligee.
Then we got a text from the oyster
bar, who discovered my sunglasses
tucked in a window-side cushion.
We are nearly forty, still tearing it up.