Look, I like Roky. Dude puts on a mean live show to this day, and his story can't help but inspire, but he seems like the weak link on this collaboration. The album's finest moments are in its atmosphere, check the stunning, haunting opening track. Even the best songs, those that sound like regular old Roky solo stompers, soar on elements that're Okkervil all over. John Lawman especially works because of all that beefy baritone sax, Iggy piano plinking, and fucked up guitar squall, not necessarily because of Roky's workmanlike, shouty singing.
The weakest moments, meanwhile, lie mostly in the vocals, where the lines are clunky (Please Judge) or just clunkily delivered (Ain't Blues Too Sad). Erickson's croak gives the songs character, but he's no Cash when it comes to driving timeless pathos into modern sounds. The album's got soul, and its earnest clumsiness is charming in places, but it lands in an awkward middle ground between earthy grit and highly-produced swooning, never quite winning you over via one or the other 3/5
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