My Morning Jacket

Z

(ATO / RCA)

Record Review by Adam McKibbin

Put simply, My Morning Jacket are one of the best bands around, regardless of geography or genre.  Z is another triumph, and a serious contender for year-end lists.

Having lost two founding members to burn-out (touring ain’t easy), the band left the cozy confines of Kentucky for the unfamiliar environs of upstate New York, bringing veteran producer John Leckie along to help guide them into their next chapter.  The result, Z, is a departure, but a natural one; any fans who are alienated by the first or second listen would be wise to give it more spins, because there is plenty of vintage Jacket on the record.  For starter, there’s the reverb.  Always the reverb.  It’s been toned down some, perhaps by the hand of Leckie, but it’s still swirling around frontman/songwriter Jim James as he sings in his unmistakable, fractured croon.  “Lay Low” taps into the accessible classic rock that the band channeled so effectively in previous albums, while “Knot Comes Loose” has the gentle gallop of Chocolate and Ice’s “Sweetheart.” 

New keyboardist Bo Koster immediately leaves a fingerprint on the band’s sound on the opener “Wordless Chorus,” which grooves and tweaks like an R&B song built for the dance floor.  As the song builds to a close, James lets out a howling falsetto “hooooooo!” to the rafters.  It isn’t the last glorious note he uncorks; Z is full of similar heights.  The slow burning and beautifully structured closer “Dondante” is one of the band’s strongest epics to date.  The reggae super-pop of “Off The Record” is the other big jump, and it’s a straight-up good time, a slightly deceptive but deliriously contagious entry point for new fans, unsuspecting radio listeners, etc. 

People write stupid things about a lot of bands, but My Morning Jacket provoke some especially big swings and misses.  They’re often mentioned as indie rock favorites, even though their label boss is Dave Matthews, whose corresponding food chain runs straight up to RCA.  If anything, Z is a ringing endorsement for the majors and the various forms of support and patience that they can provide.  MMJ are described as quintessentially Southern rockers or as embodiments of the Louisville sound—the former is fiction, the latter is essentially meaningless (can the average fan even name another band from Louisville?).  Ridiculous reference points are used—the slicker elements of Z are obviously an ode to The Raveonettes?—and important elements like the band’s sense of humor are often bypassed entirely.  On “Into the Woods,” for instance, James makes his feelings about a “night of surrender” known by comparing it to kittens on fire and babies in blenders.  He later, in the same song, pulls off a memorable and oddly romantic verse about masturbation.  All of this is set against a slightly creepy, slightly operatic backdrop that suggests it wasn’t just the title that had roots back to Stephen Sondheim.  But it never veers toward novelty or gimmickry, instead finding grace in small and surprising moments, always tethered to poignancy by James, who can fill and break hearts with the simplest of lines.