Josh Rouse
Nashville

THE REVIEW

Spatiotemporal Coordinates in Search of the “Perfect Pop Song”

The decidedly fortunate choice to part with a few euros and give them to the good Alessandro (for once not taking advantage even for a moment of his proverbial helpfulness) in exchange for Josh Rouse’s album, I owe to the lucid “Socratic” pen.

Who is Alessandro? Socratic pen?

Of course, sorry, how could you know... Alessandro is the owner of the blessed little shop near the office. One of the few left to face the stormy sea of a market overwhelmed by global downloading, a stubborn supporter of the music he loves, before anything else, a favored pusher.

But the other question is really bizarre if you’re not newcomers: it is Socrates, the DeBasico reviewer who has given us dozens of perfect pages. Gifted with a particularly effective instinct that allows him to spot pop talent among hundreds of faces, in the vastness of a babelic crowd. And a special predisposition to describe its fruits.

In short, in Socrates’ review of “1972” (2003), I discovered that the album dispensed “Ten songs of refined, imaginative, inspired songwriting...”. As if Rouse was plunging a probe into the title’s date to extract the spirit of an era and decline it into his personal style.

Tracing a temporal coordinate in the journey towards the eternal chimera of the perfect pop song.

Thus, I did not hesitate in front of the beautiful cover of “Nashville”: in which direction had that path unfolded?
The title seems to indicate a second dimension, this time spatial, useful for charting the course.

Nashville was Rouse’s adopted city for ten years, after wandering that led him to touch several states. Also the setting of a ended marriage.

But this album is anything but a predictable postcard sent from the country’s mother city.

It’s surprising to hear, rather, echoes of an English attitude: some traces of the Smiths, in certain guitars, (“Winter In The Hamptons” where even the voice occasionally leans towards a Morrissey-like inclination) the ethereal density of atmospheres that remind one of Prefab Sprout. While here and there, the long shadow, lightened into always crystal clear textures, of a rock with seventies roots is projected. A bit of acoustic Rolling Stones, as if they emerged purified from “Some Girls”, meeting indeed the Prefab (“Saturday”). A bit like the old Neil Young, in the piano’s stride sketching “Sad Eyes”, for instance. Before the tail explodes in choirs and strings that closes it.

But Rouse’s voice is capable of providing a personal and updated version of the hybrid it presents. It’s a measured voice that doesn’t shy away from becoming doleful and expressive, but eschews emphasis.

Traces “natural” and never banal melodies. One of the characteristics that run throughout the album and at times surprise for the apparent ease of so many, small, almost perfect moments.

As measured and attentive is Brad Jones’ production, which doles out the sonic substance in a balance that often touches the sought-after formal perfection.

A soft album, living on nuances. Destined for repeated listens that will reveal the details of a work at first glance homogeneous. Perhaps more than it should be.

Because if the goal that this wanderer songwriter (today residing in Spain) pursues is still the same, other coordinates will need to be charted.

The horizon on which the unreachable star of the perfect pop song shines brightly is indeed destined to continually shift as we push in its direction.

But ultimately the path is often the real goal of the journey.

And as far as I am concerned, there are many good, simple reasons in “Nashville” to travel it more than once.

Waiting for the next stop.