Langhorne Slim : iSOUND.COM™

Biography

There he is, in porkpie hat and dandy thrift store suit, looking like a fresh-faced grifter bluesman. Langhorne Slim was born in the 80s but is the kind of man who routinely refers to his lovers as "mama." He is some kind of throwback to an earlier time. And yet he is clearly madly in love with the 21st century. And women. And dancing. And dancing with women.
Langhorne's songs come out of American vernacular music -- the race and hillbilly sounds that peaked in the '20s and '30s in what Greil Marcus so famously called “the old, weird America.” Well, Langhorne makes music for the new, weird America. It’s not like it’s political music, it's just that we live in intense times and Langhorne brings it all back home in the form of music. Deep feelings trump troubled times any day of the week. It's not like he's mining the allegedly tapped-out veins of Americana for authenticity, though; Langhorne just can’t say it any other way, at least for now. See, the music he comes out of has an innate, ineffable nature –the peculiar chords and rhythms of American roots music summon up feelings that no other music can produce, and they just happen to be the perfect vessel for what’s on his mind. In Langhorne's world (and yeah, it's his world, we just live in it), life is about hooting and hollering, sometimes for no reason in particular. Given that, what other kind of music would he play? Ambient thrash? Acid klezmer? Lounge- metal?
You can hear a few clear antecedents in Langhorne’s passionate vocal delivery: the Delta whinny of young Captain Beefheart, Bob Dylan's vehement squawk, late folk-blues king Ted Hawkins' gruff confessional (I Ain't Proud), the abrasive busker charm of the Violent Femmes' Gordon Gano. Those are all some forceful singers, but Langhorne can also turn on the high, sweet, boyish charm "By the Time the Sun Goes Down." He can be so sweetly candid in his offhand weirdness, a guy who can write a love song with a line like "Mary, are you the mother of my God?/ Mary, you're sweeter than corn on the cob it's scary Mary, I'm in Love with you." On "The Electric Love Letter," the song's gentle, good-natured swing captures the effortless joy of new love – sometimes it’s easier than falling off a log. "She tastes just like pumpkin pie," Langhorne exclaims, and you totally know what he's talking about, even if it makes you blush just a tad.
Sure, the music has an undeniable pastoral swing, but often it goes way past that and into the realm of the just plain manic -- "In the Midnight," with its two- stepping banjo, brims with punk rock energy. This is, after all, music of the city. Listen closely to Langhorne's music and you can hear the distant creak of wagon wheels, but it's easier to hear the screech of subway brakes. It's not just city life that's pervaded his music, it's just like there's no other way to convey the hysteria of falling in or out of love. On the last song, "I Love to Dance," he thanks all the ladies for giving him a chance; he might as well thank them for giving him plenty of material.
This album has an esprit du corps, a joie de vivre, and probably a whole lot of other French phrases which all translate roughly as foot-stompin' music. "I don't believe in believin' in nothin'," Langhorne proclaims on the triumphant "I Will." And that's the thing: Langhorne Slim's music does give a damn and so should you.