David Ackles
Subway To The Country

It doesn't seem bad to me to waste, for the second time, a bit of my time talking about a great and, unfortunately, forgotten name in the world of American singer-songwriters: David Ackles. In a society increasingly enslaved by empty pantomimes and hysterical egocentrism, the humility of this singer-songwriter seemed precious to me right from the start, the need to make music quietly, attracting as little attention as possible. In short, I immediately felt empathy for this misfit and honest craftsman of the world of music.

His career began in 1968 with the release of "David Ackles" - an album with inspired content and an underlying melancholy that made it an anomaly in the hippie era - where the psychodramatic "The Road To Cairo," the funereal "His Name is Andrew," and the nostalgic "Down River" stand out. Commercially speaking, it was a terrible start, despite praise from critics and many industry insiders. In 1970, it was time for "Subway To The Country," the subject of this review.

Compared to the debut, it does not constitute a dramatic change; however, a certain stylistic versatility begins to emerge, thanks also to the presence of a large group of session musicians. I avoid the pedantic "track by track" and do not hesitate to say that the pinnacle of the album is "Candy Man," a disturbing elegy (as much as "His Name is Andrew," if not more) led by the harpsichord and with a delicate orchestral accompaniment, where Ackles' icy voice tells us of a war veteran with a devastated psyche who ends up molesting children. And I would add that listening to such a song in 1970 must have been like taking a punch to the jaw. Equally unsettling is the "brechtian" tirade of "Inmates of Institution," in which a series of surreal images flow through a meticulously arranged backdrop. "Woman River" seems to emerge from a thick fog, within which the baritone voice floats dreamily and the brass serve as beacons. "Out on the Road" (which seems almost like a rewrite of "The Road To Cairo") is a testament to ordinary despair where the initially depression-laden singing unexpectedly turns to anger in the song's final part, reinforcing the notion that serenity is not at home on this album. Episodes that don't stand out but don't fall into mediocrity are the honky-tonk of "Cabin on the Mountain" and the cocktail-jazz of "Mainline Saloon" (here it feels like listening to the early "nocturnal" Tom Waits a few years in advance). "That's No Reason To Cry" tells the end of a love without descending into pathos thanks to the discretion of the arrangement (by the way, the instrumental coda with which the piece fades out is of rare delicacy) and the feeling of serene resignation that permeates it. The eponymous ballad - culminating in a splendid romantic chorus - closes the album with its retro fascinations.

David Ackles does not climb the charts with this album, nor will he with the subsequent "American Gothic" or the final "Five & Dime," after which he will retire quietly, having learned the hard way that in the world of "pop music" the louder you shout (it doesn't matter what), the more attention you get. It's a cynical, incontrovertible, and "infamous" law that has claimed countless talented victims. David Ackles is among them.