Our Endless Numbered Days
IRON & WINE
Sub Pop
For as long as there have been 4-track recorders, there have been sad, shy boys who have used them to record their every wounded thought. Deemed lo-fi or, more recently, sadcore (by those who like to label things), it typically revolves around a singer-songwriter who favors overdubs and whispering his most personal feelings. Think Smog, Sentridoh or Papa M. Now add Iron & Wine to that list.
Miami's Sam Beam is the shy boy behind Iron & Wine, and that's probably all you're likely to learn about him, because he chooses to keep the focus squarely on his music. His 2002 debut, the murky, solitary The Creek Drank the Cradle, was one of the best releases that year. His new one, Our Endless Numbered Days, relies on more than Beam and his 4-track. The sound is fleshed out, but just barely, by additions from his touring band that includes sister Sara on fragile harmony vocals. It also benefits from the light touch of co-producer Brian Deck (Red Red Meat, Modest Mouse, Califone, etc.). But none of the simple, agonizing beauty of the songs is lost. This is music that makes you feel good about being able to feel so sad.
"Passing Afternoon" is a love-and-loss tour de force executed, like most of the record, through sparse instrumentation and haunting harmonies: "There are things that drift away like our endless numbered days…/ But my hands remember hers/ Rolling round the shady firs/ Naked arms are still like secrets of songs I never learned." "Sodom, South Georgia" is a delicate gem about the hypocrisy of devoutly religious racists: "Papa died Sunday and I understood/ All dead white boys say God is good/ White tongues hang down/ God is good."
Ultimately, there's not a weak song among the dozen. And in the end these melancholy melodies are so pretty that when the last tune ends, you'll find yourself happily going back for more, proving yet again that there's nothing necessarily depressing about sad, shy music. 
—TARA FLANAGAN
The Magic Hour
WYNTON MARSALIS
Blue Note
For his debut outing on Blue Note, after two decades with Columbia, jazz's most famous living trumpeter has opted more for whimsy than seriousness. During his latter tenure at Columbia, Marsalis had run amok, making high-concept recordings with large ensembles that attempted to chronicle the history of jazz in one small plastic disc. He scaled back his ambitions on The Magic Hour — a bit too much. The album, a quartet effort, lacks weight. For the most part it's breezy and light, and sounds like an artist trying very hard to connect with a broader (and more casual) audience. The low point is "Baby, I Love You," where guest singer Bobby McFerrin jokes his way through, using a raspy old-lady voice, and Marsalis retorts coyly using a cup mute. The other vocal cameo, Diane Reeves on "Feeling of Jazz," fares only slightly better; the strutting mid-tempo piece is essentially a dumbed-down celebration of the music. You can envision Reeves, flower in her hair, singing this song in a movie about jazz. As has long been his wont, Marsalis emphasizes his prodigious technique, flawless intonation, ability to evoke different styles and (thankfully) command of swing. But all told, I'd like to hear a little less perfection from Wynton Marsalis, and a little more heart. 1/2—ERIC SNIDER
I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness
I LOVE YOU BUT I'VE CHOSEN DARKNESS
Emperor Jones
Wait, don't run screaming from the name. They're not the latest kids to blend Thursday's angst with New Found Glory's hooks under the aegis of one seriously emo'ed-out moniker, but rather a quintet of veteran Austin musicians engaged in some seriously accomplished quirk-pop. Spoon principal Britt Daniel produced this five-song EP, and his band's influence is palpable. It isn't overwhelming, however, and the band definitely has a vibe that, while familiar, is also fresh and moody. Chosen Darkness mines a literate vein, providing memorable melodies without shilling tired devices, but more readily walks in the shadows its name implies, adding a healthy dose of Joy Division-esque introspection. Still, you can dance to the chiming guitars and Britpop-inspired rhythms when simply not in the mood to brood. "I Want To Die in the Hot Summer" and "Your Worst Is The Best" best exemplify a new, thoughtfully ambitious pop group already adept at having it both ways. (www.emperorjones.com) —SCOTT HARRELL
First Recordings
R. L. BURNSIDE
Fat Possum
In 1968, a man named George Mitchell toted his recording gear to R.L. Burnside's shack in Coldwater, Miss. He captured these 14 traditional tunes, reinterpreted as only a brilliant practitioner of hill-country drone blues could. The impromptu session, which predates Burnside's rise to cult stardom on Fat Possum by a quarter century, captures an artist unchained. He was 43, or thereabouts, and had never cut a record. First Recordings showcases an unknown master. Playing acoustic guitar, Burnside displays an impeccable rhythmic feel — be it a bounce, boogie, dirge or shuffle — and just the right blend of fluidity and coarseness. His singing is a marvel, ranging from a full-moon moan to an eerie falsetto. Although he was an avowed country boy, Burnside did not lack musical sophistication. That's especially evident in the way he commands his phrasing and diction — sometimes it's a slur-and-mumble; sometimes he pronounces the lyrics clearly. On "Just Like a Bird Without a Feather," he emphasizes the chilling story, that of a man who misses his woman even though he shot her "because she did me wrong." Sent to the penitentiary, he closes the song, "Yeah, I love that woman, she said she didn't love no one but me/ Yeah but I caught my baby cheatin'/ And now my home ain't where it used to be." My one complaint about First Recordings, and it's a minor one, is that most of the songs are brief, and thus don't play up the hypnotic quality of Burnside's one-chord style. In the unexpected bonus department, the sound quality is far crisper than you'd expect from a home recording in the late '60s. (www.fatpossum.com) —ERIC SNIDER
This article appears in Apr 1-7, 2004.