12 Songs, 38 Minutes

EDITORS’ NOTES

Canadian troubadour Ron Sexsmith has received the praises of Elvis Costello, Paul McCartney and Elton John for his songwriting prowess, his ability to take the love-worn paths and somehow tread them anew with simple lyric flourishes and splashes of surprising melody. For his third major label album, 1999’s Whereabouts, Sexsmith continued to work with producer Mitchell Froom, whose penchant for subtle and unusual instrumentation lends a soberly psychedelic edge to Sexsmith’s love songs without sacrificing the tight bass-drum-piano-guitar attack. “Still Time” opens things with a perfectly metered rhythm and lyric scheme, gently building to the consoling conclusion that “where there’s still hope, there’s still time” as the harpsichord weaves dreamily alongside. “Riverbed” resounds like a solemn psalm. A mid-‘60s gait rolls through “Feel for You” while “One Grey Morning” adds a festive horn section to its mad parade and “The Idiot Boy” hop-skips with an eager naiveté. In the end, it’s a feeling of timelessness, of each pop decade coming together as one in service of a great song.

EDITORS’ NOTES

Canadian troubadour Ron Sexsmith has received the praises of Elvis Costello, Paul McCartney and Elton John for his songwriting prowess, his ability to take the love-worn paths and somehow tread them anew with simple lyric flourishes and splashes of surprising melody. For his third major label album, 1999’s Whereabouts, Sexsmith continued to work with producer Mitchell Froom, whose penchant for subtle and unusual instrumentation lends a soberly psychedelic edge to Sexsmith’s love songs without sacrificing the tight bass-drum-piano-guitar attack. “Still Time” opens things with a perfectly metered rhythm and lyric scheme, gently building to the consoling conclusion that “where there’s still hope, there’s still time” as the harpsichord weaves dreamily alongside. “Riverbed” resounds like a solemn psalm. A mid-‘60s gait rolls through “Feel for You” while “One Grey Morning” adds a festive horn section to its mad parade and “The Idiot Boy” hop-skips with an eager naiveté. In the end, it’s a feeling of timelessness, of each pop decade coming together as one in service of a great song.

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