Rocky Votolato

Makers

(Barsuk)

Record Review by Daniel Brody

An article last year, in the New York Post all of all places, documented the rise of the indie-yuppie, an upwardly mobile young adult with lots of disposable income who nevertheless feels at home in the “countercultural” indie rock scene.  The music these scenesters listened to was referred to as “comfy music,” and included soft, emotional bands like the Shins and Arcade Fire.  Indie-yuppies will love Rocky Votolato.

Makers is a collection of wistful folky songs, channeling the drunken, salt of the earth vibe of Ryan Adams.  There are songs about mining towns and railroad trains, and songs about getting liquored up and pleading for a vague sense of salvation.  “Tennessee Train Wrecks” combines all of these elements into the most attractive package, a raucous boozy Westerberg bomb with slurry traces of pedal steel.  With its actual drumbeat, as opposed to Rocky just tapping on his guitar, it’s the most rollicking song on the album, and makes one wish that Rocky was a little more uncomfortable.  When it is revealed that Votolato is in fact a married family man with two children, leading a career encouraged by his spouse, you realize that this is the face of “comfy music.”  Try as he might, Rocky’s demons have already been vanquished by a very secure sense of satisfaction that permeates this record.

Which leaves the craft of Makers—and, on this score, it’s one of the best comfy records of recent months.  From the tense violin strums of “She Was Only In It For The Rain” to the ringing fingerpicks and raspy vocals of “Wait Out the Days” this is a gorgeous-sounding record, but you never get the sense that Rocky means it.  There are no goosebumps and no wrenching guts.  Comfy music ends up as emo’s better-dressed, more self-aware older brother, but shares the same problem: a lack of compelling drama and emotion.  When Rocky hits the skids, has a wicked mid-life crisis, and starts having a drinking problem for real, he’s gonna make a real sucker punch of an album.  And no indie-yuppies will hear it, because they will be too busy consoling themselves listening to Ben Gibbard’s latest concept album about unsatisfying parent-teacher conferences.