Even the title of singer-songwriter Jeffrey Martin’s Thank God We Left the Garden induces curiosity. The phrase turns the guilt-ridden dogmas of so many religions on their head. Maybe we were supposed to fail, maybe sinning was more pre-ordained than having us all be angelic humans. Without failure, how can we possibly even revel in our smallest victories? And it’s the latter that Martin emphasizes in his album that requires the deepest concentration. Be warned; his lyrics are weighty. Yet, listening is rewarding. He instills his songs with heartfelt emotion that is more apparent the more one listens, having gone through the first one reading the lyrics in the booklet or just listening intently. Yet, there is a flip side to these positive qualities too.
First, like too many of today’s singer-songwriters, Martin seems so lyrically obsessed that a real sense of melody is rare. Secondly and related, much of the advanced press is comparing Martin to John Prine and John Moreland is overblown. Those writers have the gift of direct simplicity in their lyrics, and more importantly, the ability to craft hooks and memorable melodies that strengthen and sometimes leave those lyrics indelible. Martin hasn’t yet reached that point.
Martin wrote and recorded these songs in a tiny self-built backyard shack in southeast Portland, OR in the dead of winter. The intimate environment in which he recorded the album allowed him to explore aspects of his voice that he hadn’t previously discovered. The songs were supposed to be demos that he would embellish later with a proper producer and session musicians. Instead, excepting eventual producer and guitarist Jon Neufeld, who adds electric guitar to three tracks, these same demos, raw, honest, and steeped with emotion that would be difficult to replicate in a more formal setting, became the album. The less-is-more approach, despite the aforementioned lack of melodic hooks, works well due to Martin’s intimate connection with these songs, mostly a reaction to the vicious news cycle of violence, entertainment, and politics. Namely, that there are still closely held core values that we can treasure.
These six tracks clearly stand out. The essence of his overriding theme, what it means to be human, is stated in “The Garden” where Martin imagines himself in a garden full of beauty and darkness where he eats from the same fruit tree as did Adam and Eve. Some of lyrics of “Quiet Man” are strikingly Dylan-esque. This one is especially noteworthy – “Maybe heaven is a place that doesn’t have an address/And maybe that’s okay just like joy or sadness.”
“Red Station Wagon,” is a tale of transformation, where the protagonist essentially asks for forgiveness for being bigoted in his youth. Martin’s religious upbringing as the son of a pastor rears its head in some of these lyrics, his voice rising to a high pitch as if in a heated conversation with the one he once scorned, expressing disbelief at his original stance. He searches for the meaningful, decrying the false faces put on by so many in “Paper Crown.” “There Is a Treasure” has Martin’s voice rising to an amazing pitch as he sings “The sun will rise like it always does” in a song that proclaims his faith in humans being able to transition to the next phase with hope. Like that one, “Sculptor” has a memorable refrain, “I miss your breath on my shoulder” as he ruminates on the transparent phoniness of a regular job, contrasting it with a letter written like a sculptor that leads to that refrain, yet another example of celebrating life’s real and meaningful values.
Be assured that Martin’s songs will grow on you. You may even take away a little more insight each time through.
