Review Summary: I've seen parades and I've seen fire watching over this ole town like a bird on a wire
In lieu of doing the same old song and dance when it came time to promote her third album
Ashley McBryde Presents: Lindeville (it's important to say the whole thing, trust me), Ashley McBryde came up with a novel concept for her big concept album. Eschewing the release of any traditional singles, McBryde instead posted YouTube videos that are meant to act as 'commercials' for various businesses in the fictional town of Lindeville. The jingles are pretty damn irresistible, written with an irreverent and whimsical tone, but it was the videos themselves that really made an impression on me. In each one, the singer is elaborately dressed and the presentation lovingly retro, and McBryde is grinning ear to ear, practically bouncing up and down with giddiness. Two things are instantly apparent: McBryde is steadfast in her commitment to the concept, and she is having the absolute time of her life bringing it to reality.
I'll admit: I have no prior knowledge of or experience with Ashley McBryde. I say this because, as I believe
Ashley McBryde Presents: Lindeville will and deserves to be a huge hit, it's a damned bold move to make your biggest album yet a project in which a guest singer is brought in for all but four tracks, only one of which is actually a proper song. These aren't your typical cash grab guess spots either, as each singer fully embodies the character they are presenting. Each of them brings their own very distinct voice, fleshing out the community of Lindeville and
Lindeville. McBryde herself really is only the narrator in these stories, flitting through songs to present these lovingly crafted townsfolk and then more often than not cede the spotlight.
This begins in earnest with the raucous opener 'Brenda Put Your Bra On'. The singer lays out a tale that draws a throughline from a moment of sordid infidelity to a whole town of vibrant characters, all of them buzzing with indignation, loose tongues and prying eyes. From there we are trusted to be along for the ride, as the hilarious and delicately sad 'Jesus Jenny' makes a show of introducing a lead vocalist who is now very different. Nashville singer-songwriter Aaron Raitiere delivers a "bless your heart" ode to an old flame he sees about town, tossing out fleeting but distinct images of Jenny being fucked up on a Monday night and having her titties popping out of her turtleneck (go ahead and giggle class, his words, not mine) before dryly quipping "
all I can do now is pray, to Jesus Jenny". It ends with him theatrically intoning "
blah blah blah blah ", channeling Jenny's own dismissal of his haughty takedown disguised as concern. It might all sound a little too hokey and artificial, but the chorus is an absolute beauty, lolling along on aqueous slide guitar and a movingly crooned lament that "
I ain't sayin' I'm no Saint, but I'm living proof a heart can change". This shows off McBryde's authorial talent, her knowledge of the right cutting detail or sentiment to invest you in the lives of what come to feel like real people.
This authorial talent is liberally displayed throughout, and thematically, lyrically, and vocally, there are no missteps to be found. The music is also successful, if maybe a little too traditional for my tastes; the instrumentation and production are pleasingly full, and the songwriting is fluid and carefully considered. There can also be something said about the ambition of pairing very traditional old-school country with such writerly flair. It's clear, however, that the concept is and always was the star. 'If These Dogs Could Talk' is particularly inspired, finding McBryde and singer-songwriter Brandy Clark inhabiting various cherished Lindeville pets; from "
the three-legged Beagle laying spread eagle" outside Patti's trailer to "
the mean old poodle we named Cranky Doodle", both artists lovingly render these pooches and their cataloging of all the town's dirty secrets in quirky and journalistic detail. 'Gospel Night At The Strip Club' is another huge highlight: a moonlit ballad of vivid minutiae that impressively outlines a history of multiple characters in the span of a couple of lines each, before the track quietly surges with a richly textured and multitracked duet between McBryde and Louisiana singer-songwriter Benjy Davis. The album winds down with an effervescent cover of The Everly Brother's 'When Will I Be Loved' and the deeply touching last-call crawl 'Bonfire At Tina's'. Both tracks feature all of the album's female singers/characters finding shelter in each other, toasting a community that, for all of its realistic tragedies and eccentricities, is ultimately profoundly familial.
'Lindeville' is the proper conclusion though, and if you're able to find yourself the least bit invested in the grounded blue-collar existence of this place and those that inhabit it, it's enough to make you swoon. It's the only full track to feature McBryde and nobody else, and she knocks it out of the park. For one, her voice is a hell of an instrument, alternately strong and vulnerable, with a gorgeous knack for gliding into a slippery vibrato. It resides at ground level but can reach the rafters, and she is in full control at all times. 'Lindeville', and
Lindeville, are a eulogy for those still here, full of love, redemption and hard-earned truths. It's not a perfect place to reside in, but like life, there are still sights and sounds that will stick with you forever.
