The world needs another road song like Paris Hilton needs more press. But then along comes David Mead, with an exception to make the rule. On the title track of his third full-length, Mead does an exquisite job of mining poetry from the monotony of touring alone by car, his connection to a sweetheart breaking up (possibly in both senses) as he calls home to the “concrete canyons” while driving across the Hoosier state. “A guy in Chicago said I sing like a girl,” recounts the singer-songwriter, poking fun at one of his two greatest assets, a heartrending tenor that hits effervescent high notes with a rare lightness of touch.
Mead’s other primary strength is highlighted by the destination of the opening cut, “Nashville”: A knack for telling stories via catchy, concise pop ditties. But that and the occasional flourish of steel guitar are the only characteristics of his craft indigenous to Music City, where Mead resides.
Just as additional songs draw lyrical inspiration from other corners of the country (“New Mexico”, NYC’s “Queensboro Bridge”), his diverse arrangements reflect far-ranging sensibilities. “Beauty”, the only cut featuring electric guitar, is a red-blooded ballad a la Coldplay, while “Bucket Of Girls”, with its plunking piano in 6/8 time, recalls Rufus Wainwright.
That Mead can integrate a silvery, cascading cover of Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” into the final moments of this 41-minute effort, and not have his own originals pale one iota in comparison, is additional confirmation of his formidable gifts.
