An enigmatic elder statesman of Texas folk, Taylor writes and sings as well as his fellow wordsmiths, and yet his music is a sound apart. A couple decades ago he was married to Nanci Griffith, wrote and recorded with her, and figured prominently in the Anderson Fair scene and a blossoming Texas folk club culture. But there’s neither outlaw bravado nor coy preciousness in his voice: He recalls more a Southern Bill Morrissey in his low, talky growl and in the stripped soul of his deeply charactered vignettes.
His self-titled 1995 release on Watermelon was a revelation, notably for the interior monologue “Dean Moriarty”, which is much more than a contribution to a legend. Like Taylor’s best work, the song forms a vivid picture of relationships trying to survive time and loss. Resurrect feels like a sequel to that record, musically arranged to find lushness in spareness, strength in intimacy: just guitar, piano, melodic bass, low, echoing percussion.
His lines and melodies have the concision of blues, his stories never indulge in ephemeral confessions; they feel necessary, composed somehow from the fragments of every man and woman’s story. “Louis Armstrong’s Broken Heart”, for one, masterfully balances a litany of images with a narrative distinct as cinema verite: “I know a place where the whistle blows/And the brakeman falls apart/It’s a pocket watch and bloody nose/It’s Louis Armstrong’s broken heart/It’s Louis Armstrong’s broken heart.”
Taylor deserves a hearing from anyone who numbers Guy Clark and Townes Van Zandt amongst their songwriting heroes.
