In June, Jason Isbell released his 9th solo album Weathervanes (the sixth with his band The 400 Unit) and I’m ready to talk about it. Actually, I’m going to use this as an excuse to say some things I’ve been trying to tell people about for a decade now, ever since I heard Southeastern. This is going to meander quite a bit and it is not a record review, but Weathervanes will be the center everything else revolves around.
The “New South” is a term that’s been around since 1874, but I’m not sure it has always had the same meaning. Obviously, following the Civil War, it meant rebuilding a society and economy without one of the foundational pieces when slavery was abolished. Ninety years later, it meant taking that even further with desegregation and voting rights. I remember in the 90s Dodge advertised their Ram model as “the truck of the new south” as cities like Atlanta, Charlotte, and Nashville were booming economically, in population, and in changing political attitudes. It seems like the south is always changing, but not necessarily because it wants to. As the greatest of all southern authors, William Faulkner, stated: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
The American South is simply put, weird. Seriously, how many other regions in the U.S. have an entire sub genre of literature named after them? Yes, you can find examples of romantic literature in other regions, but there is only one Southern Gothic. Faulkner was one of the masters of it. In short, it’s a literature that explores what happens when people live in a region that refuses to acknowledge the sins of the past or, maybe even worse, attempts to romanticize them. It’s full of grotesque and damaged characters who serve as avatars and metaphors for ideas that should have been gone a long time ago. The “peculiar institution” still hangs over the region like a chilly morning fog in August promising a snowfall in the months to come. The drama ramps up when the modern world comes crashing in, promising to leave behind anyone who can’t keep up. See, when the South evolves, it’s because it’s forced to and that affects people differently. Southern artists of every medium have attempted to deal with this tension for over 100 years and no one has a definitive answer.
This is where Jason Isbell comes in – Isbell makes southern music. I didn’t say country music or southern rock even though both of those were born below the Mason-Dixon Line. Critics, audiences, and the music industry have always had a difficult time figuring out just how to market Isbell’s music, which can be a blessing and a curse for any artist. On the one hand not being pigeonholed gives you great artistic freedom, but on the other it means you probably won’t achieve the success of your peers. Granted, in the world of “alt-country” or “americana” or whatever it’s currently being called, Isbell’s sits at the top; he’s even had a few albums get to number one on the country charts (for whatever that’s worth in the world of streaming), but I don’t think he’s ever had a mainstream country hit. The reason for that is simple: Isbell makes music for grown-ups.
I am drawing a distinction here between grown-ups and adults. Adulthood is determined by age, but being a grown-up implies a degree of maturity, thoughtfulness, and self-reflection. It requires you to look around and see where you fit into the world in which you exist and what responsibilities you have to make it better. That is not what modern radio country is about. We need to pause for a moment and discuss country music. I am not necessarily a country fan, but I am fascinated by its history. I’m not going to bore you with much of that here, but I do think it’s useful to look at what was popular in the genre at any given time. For the last decade or so, mainstream country music has been dominated by artists who seem to be selling a version of the south that doesn’t always feel real. Jason Isbell sings about truth.
You have to be careful when trying to determine if art is “true” or “real” (I refuse to use the dreaded “a” word here; it’s become meaningless.) Much of mainstream country does not feel true. I’m not exactly plowing new ground here; the criticism of bro-country and the seeming pandering of country hits have been fodder for critics, comedians, and other country musicians for a while now. The whole kerfuffle reminds me of hair metal in the 80s. Hang with me here: the country music sold today does not feel true because the (mostly) kids listening to it don’t live the life presented. They’re not out partying in barns all night and walking around in super short cut-offs and boots on a regular basis. Very few of them are actually farmers or cowboys. I know because I live in one of those places this music is supposed to be about. I teach the kids who listen to and sing this stuff, and pretend it’s about them. But there’s no truth in it. Here’s where you throw the hair metal hypocrisy at me. Wasn’t I doing the same thing? For example, I didn’t spend my money on women and wine and I knew exactly where I had slept the night before (“Nothin’ but a Good Time” Poison). Here’s the difference: I knew I was pretending, and I didn’t try to dress like the artists, the characters in the songs, or the people in videos. As a matter of fact, had I tried I would have been mocked unmercifully by my friends and classmates. The current crop of country artists have tossed out their nudie suits and try to dress like their audience. It’s pandering. Jason Isbell does not pander.
Jason Isbell writes about vulnerability. If you want to know the truth about southern (and rural) men, know that that cocksure arrogance they usually display is an act. The bluster is a mask they wear to hide the fact that they don’t know everything they’re supposed to and they’re afraid of being less manly. If you want proof, look at the unwritten dress codes they follow. If you dress too nicely, you’re considered “unmanly”. All this flows into the themes and language of current country music. The only time those artists show vulnerability is when they admit to needing the love of a good woman; everything else is all certainty. Not Isbell. His songs are full of men questioning who they are and who they’re supposed to be. They admit not knowing the answers to every question. This is rare.
Back to Faulkner. Much of what he did was explore the south of his day and ask questions. He challenged the myth of a “lost cause” and refused to stick his head in the sand when it came to how people were living and why. At the same time, he wrestled with his own racism and how he and others like him were supposed to behave in a new world. He never shied away from exploring the darker side of the society from which he was from and disturbing ideas to which he himself was sympathetic. All this makes Faulkner’s writing complicated and thought provoking; he’s not a fun read. With the exception of the personal racism, all this could be said about Isbell’s lyrics.
Jason Isbell makes art. Here I have to pause lest I come off as some musical snob. I’m not: I love both art and entertainment and rarely try to separate them, especially in music. One of my favorite songs ever is “Sugar, Sugar” by The Archies and I have no issue listening to Prince’s “Sign of the Times” immediately after. I think maybe there is art that is entertaining and entertainment that is artistic; if you can’t tell the difference, that’s fine – I’m not sure I can either. (Side note: in a student evaluation of teachers I once had a student say, “Mr. Ward was kinda odd and kinda cool”. I’ve spent years trying to decide if I’m oddly cool or cooly odd.) I think some of this comes down to audience. Entertainment is made for the audience; art is made for the artist.
I’m going to simply throw out some examples from songs on Weathervane to prove my points:
Subjects:
- A song about a couple scared to send their kid to school because of school shootings.
- Songs full of sage advice.
- Lots of characters with drug addictions.
- Racists.
- A man questioning why his best friend died and he lived.
Here are some specific lines to demonstrate Isbell’s literary ability:
- Yes, I’ve tried To be grateful for my devils and call them by their names
- I ain’t used to this, seeing everybody’s hand; I was raised to be a strong and silent southern man
- Swear you’ll save the world when I lose my grip
Here are some southern gothic characters and guilt:
- Jamie found a boyfriend with smiling eyes and dark skin; And her daddy never spoke another word to her again
- The old man at the Quick Stop, lying to the county cops; and laughing like his soul was without sin
- Raised in the church; washed in the blood; And we were saved before we even left home: I thank God you weren’t brought up like me; With all that shame and certainty
Now none of this matters if the music isn’t good. In fact, it’s rare that I care this much about lyrics at all, but I’m not finding much satisfaction in modern American poetry. I have a theory that American poetry withered after WWII because all the good poets learned how to play guitar. Isbell and the 400 Unit are reminiscent of the classic combos where a band does more than just play what the artist with the name dictates: they feel as indispensable as Crazy Horse, the Heartbreakers, and the E Street Band were to their respective frontmen, and I didn’t choose those bands by accident. I dare you to listen to any song on here and find a wrong note or a moment where you think someone could have played that better. (BTW: If you get an opportunity to see them live, don’t hesitate.) The strength of the music is even more striking when you realize that for the first time, Isbell’s not relying on Dave Cobb; he produced Weathervanes himself. Maybe that helps create the feeling of cohesion between the words and music. At any rate, if this is the result, Isbell should keep doing things on his own.
I’m just going to close with the line that should have started this essay: Jason Isbell is the William Faulkner for the 21st Century.
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