They’re natives of the same wooded portion of Upstate New York that was the sometimes physical and always mythical home of The Band. They charm like a snake oil salesmen in a 19th-century medicine show; they stomp the boards like spirit-filled preachers; they close their eyes when they croon their imperfect (and therefore paradoxically perfect) Catskill Mountain harmonies; they smile wickedly when they drop into a groove; they bring a little bit of that front porch feeling with them wherever they go, even when they’re not playing; they watch the Nashville skyline with bemusement. They’re a harvest festival, a late-night meal of greasy roast chicken and a stolen bottle of red wine shared with friends, and a woozy summer night filled with the promise of love, danger, barbecue and fireworks, all rolled into one. All of that is in the vinyl of this record you’re holding right here. As is the lightning. How do I figure? I figure literally. On track three, what you may be thinking is a glitch in the recording of “Hey Hey Revolver” is nothing of the sort. Your record is fine. What you’re hearing is literally lightning hitting the ad hoc studio the band was recording in at the time (a leaky, abandoned Shakespeare theatre). No fooling. And that’s the Felice Brothers all over – imperfect and rough in an age of false perfection and polish. Their edges aren’t smooth; their clothes (and their voices, and their instruments) are tattered, threadbare and frayed. And they’re all the more golden and beautiful for it.
