Bill Staines – The Second Million Miles

Bill Staines once appeared on an NPR folk music program and delivered a subdued but seemingly heartfelt version of Bruce Springsteen’s “No Surrender”. Then he abruptly apologized (“Well, we all have those kinds of feelings every now and then”) and segued into his honey-clogged ode to the joys of daddyhood, “Child Of Mine”. The implicit message was clear: Angst be damned, no kid of Bill’s is gonna grow up to be like that.

Staines is to folk music what Al Hirt is to New Orleans jazz: safe, reassuring, endowed with just enough musicianship to be listenable, and almost entirely devoid of emotional complexity or depth. In his world, friendship is an endless group hug; cowboys and hobos are sun-drenched dreamers, pure of heart and ever a-roving; and all highways lead back to the cozy sanctuary of home.

This disc, the latest in Staines’ series of Million Miles retrospectives, covers the years 1989-2005, and it’s a pretty representative sample of what he’s about. His grainy croon wraps itself around you like hands around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and he specializes in dreamy pop-folk melodies that he sometimes softens even more with wafting string arrangements.

He’s capable of adroit lyricism at times — his children’s songs are genuinely engaging — but he more often gets mired in Hallmark-card aphorisms (“Passing times become a treasure/All of life’s become the song”) that reflect all too clearly his apparent belief that “people’s music” is music designed to ruffle or challenge as few actual people as possible.

Songs may take you home, as Staines tiresomely reminds us at every opportunity, but first you need to have been somewhere that matters.