Like the panoramic scope of Joshua Tree, the album’s sonic textures capture wonder and immensity while keeping both bootheels on the ground. ![]() Like the lacerating kiss-offs in Blood On The Tracks, Muchacho’s lyrics map continents of separation and wandering to represent the distance between ex-lovers. ![]() ![]() By the last reverberations of Muchacho’s closing hymn, my scribbled notes were buried beneath books by Malcolm Lowry and Barry Hannah and I’d pulled an entirely different pile of discs off the shelf: Blood On The Tracks, Joshua Tree, Grievous Angel and Robbie Robertson. Sitting down to listen to the latest from Phosphorescent, I armed myself with a blank notepad and a stack of CDs: Richard Buckner and Bonnie Prince Billy, American Music Club’s California and some early Chris Whitley.
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