Townes Van Zandt’s legacy cuts quite a swath through contemporary singer-songwriters; his compositions are becoming standards, and his restless, lyrical spirit holds considerable sway. Chris Buhalis is a case in point: You get the sense that without Townes, this Michigan songwriter might be lost. His temperament never quite connects with other possible mentors — Woody Guthrie (too experienced and bluesy), Dylan (too visionary), Guy Clark (too profoundly detailed) — but in Van Zandt, Buhalis finds the key to the highway.
Buhalis’ debut ultimately promises more than it accomplishes. What’s missing is what needs to be central: the lyrical urgency, the turn of phrase that reveals sudden wisdom rather than pleasant lyrical impressions. Images that should cut to the bone simply graze, leaving no permanent mark. There’s nothing particularly wrong with lyrics such as, “All the friends I’ve ever known/Run away and I don’t know where/But you say that you know me/So why don’t you show me/Instead of standing there.” But there’s nothing particularly enduring about them either.
And yet the two most compelling moments come from outside of Townes’ immediate influence. “Employee 1209” is a plainspoken and convincing story of auto plant union men and the violence of strike-breakers in 1932: “I’m out here on this picket line/Because I was there that day/I saw them throw Walter Reuther down/On that overpass in May.” Buhalis’ guitar drives the song, and Matt Combs’ hard fiddling is on the mark. Likewise, Buhalis’ cover of Blaze Foley’s “Clay Pidgeons” has a chiseled realism the singer would be wise to pursue.
That promise of a mature, lyrically focused songwriter is strong enough on Kenai Dreams to make the whole work in a modest fashion. With an enveloping, full voice, subtle but deft guitar playing, a flawless sense of arrangement — banjo, harmonica, dobro and fiddle are all foregrounded with eloquence — and an intuition capable of melancholic insight, Buhalis’ debut offers simple gifts. For now, that’s nearly enough.