CD Review

Every inch and breath of my being feels compelled to pen the greatest review ever to leave these fingertips, because, without question this is the finest record in my collection.

Silence and sound are ideally disseminated on the eagerly anticipated debut, I bought a heart made of art in the deep, deep South, from Athens, Georgia’s Hope For Agoldensummer. From the moment I opened the eco-conscious package made from recycled paper and printed with vegetable based ink, it was certain that something special was enveloped inside. I’d love to describe what I found in laymen’s terms, or using well- known contemporaries as frames for reference, but alas I’m spent trying to draw comparisons. The sounds are like the Loch Ness monster or the California Condor-- you may have heard about these things, but in all likelihood you’ve never realized the myth or set eyes on the endangered species.

I could indulge in long-winded soliloquies applauding each of the album’s 12 songs, but I’ll let you do it instead after your first three am listen. I‘ve trimmed the fat back to just four songs that I‘ll reveal feelings for and then you’re on your own. There’s not a trace of self-righteousness or contrived grandeur in the entire fifty minutes, but few songs are so down to earth as “Midwest,“ written by Hope’s chief troubadour Claire Campbell’s kid sis Page. It’s a vivid, delicate detailed tapestry revealing love lost and real life in all it’s splendor and heartache, “How I miss him now / and the chance to explain / but this Georgia voice couldn’t cut through that Illinois rain.” The quintet’s exploration of a hopeful, yet melancholy tinged world is amplified in the haunting (guitarist) Deb Davis dirge “Love Letter.” The, until now, rarely amplified guitar and Will Taylor’s cello collide harmoniously while Jaime Shepard’s signature subtle and spaced paintbrush percussion is shelved for the manic machinations of the makeshift kit and a 30 inch kick drum. Claire interprets a letter written by friend Ben Roth in a manner he likely never expected and, yet, the world should thank him anyway. “Malt Liquor” is a Sunday morning church service without the confusing contradictions of religion and piety, or the uncomfortable hardwood pews. “Some days I wear black / and the next day baby blue / ‘Cause that’s the color of the sky my train is traveling to” she croons with unparalleled passion and fervor. The album ends with a chameleon that changes colors until the kids just rock out like a malnourished musical militia- a little confident, a little disheveled but hungry in their pursuit of healing sound, “Instead of stopping our hearts / we play music / because we’re rock stars...”