Corin Raymond calls his music “ear movies.” That’s a pretty accurate description of the images he conjures up to flicker behind your eyeballs as he fills your audio canals with his haunted dreams. But let’s just cut through the hoo-rah. The guy is running a cult, even calling his followers Hobbits. It’s mysterious, Canadian, and weird. You need a codebook to decipher this stuff. But that’s part of the attraction: it’s a riddle inside an enigma wrapped in Canadian bacon.
His newest manifesto, Hobo Jungle Fever Dreams, was named by Jonathan Byrd after Raymond had invited hm home and played fellow Canadian songwriter Raghu Lokanathan’s “Sugar Candy Mountain” for him, which Raymond had previously covered on his last release, Paper Nickels.
But these hobo night sweats all belong to Raymond. “Hard on Things” is a talking blues, a litany of how he don’t take care of stuff too good, including relationships.
Raymond is sometimes referred to as being draped in the same black cloth as Johnny Cash, but it’s a rather ill-fitting suit on this outing. Even though glimpses of Cash flit through the acerbic Prine-ish landscape on this one, on the other offerings he’s all over the place, stylistically and vocally.
For “I Only Drink a Little,” the punchline is the added “too much” after the “drink a little” part. It’s Jimmy Buffett fodder, but with a rockier punch to it.
“Under Belly of the Night” is the most most melodic tune on the record. Its as cryptic as Don McLean’s “American Pie,” a piece of rock and roll nostalgia sounding like its being rendered by Bob Seger.
Like any good hobo, Raymond survives by his wits and the kindness of strangers, or in his case, cultists, who supported his latest effort through the PledgeMusic campaign. For their support, his Claven received a cherry wood mug with “I Only Drink a Little” and “Member of the Hobo Jungle Fever Drinkers” burned into the sides and bottoms. Extremely dedicated followers apparently have the option to emblazon the logos on their own sides and bottoms as well.
And if there’s any doubt about his cult leader status, witness his own words, captured by a PledgeMuisc interviewer on the power he wields: “I’m imagining black robes in a meadow at the witching hour, a cabal in the dead of night at which we hoist our tankards and chant in a language only the Secret Society understands.”
He also alluded to the Tolkien-like undertow of these talismans, saying they would “Call to each other like the Rings of Power,” and was heard muttering the enigmatic phrase “Bless their little Hobbit hearts” to those acolytes who possessed the wooden talismans.
From all indications, Raymond’s hobo fever knows no boundaries, having already hopped the Northern Border and started spreading south. Be afraid; be very afraid.