A well-executed, if one-note, debut
Every press release or media profile about Buffalo Nichols’ self-titled debut highlights that he is the first solo blues artist signed to Fat Possum Records in around 20 years. The label, known nowadays for its roster of indie darlings like The Walkman and Soccer Mommy, got its start signing Mississippi blues artists, many of whom had never recorded before. The likes of R.L. Burnside and Junior Kimbrough are tough acts to follow, especially with a short, eight-track effort. However, with the weight of expectations removed, it’s an enjoyable enough, intimate blues record, though it lacks sonic diversity and truly cutting lyrics.
Buffalo Nichols got his start with a folky Americana duo called Nickel and Rose, who put together some textured and lush EPs. This solo record isn’t as dense, utilizing only finger-picked guitars, his voice and occasionally some percussion. However, even with a name and genre change, this album and his Nickel and Rose projects share a common issue: their uninteresting vocal arrangements.
Nichols is a fine singer with a rough vocal texture to match his tales of woe and misery. However, for a guy who is apparently influenced by gospel, it’s baffling that there are no harmonies or multi-tracking to bolster the mood. On “Living Hell,” the repetition of the title phrase would’ve been driven home if his voice were layered on top of itself or if some backup singers provided atmospheric coos. Similarly, the swaggering drums and loose, funkier mood of “Backing On Top” could have used some gospel choirs to fully sell its exuberance.
That’s not to say there aren’t songs where the sense of intimacy implied by his unmarred performance really shines. On the opening track, “Lost & Lonesome,” the lived-in hardship is palpable as he rattles off friends drifting apart and feeling lost after leaving his nest. “You’re going to suffer anyways/ better to do it with a friend” would’ve worked better as the song’s closing line, but it still works to flip the song’s theme of misery on its head without feeling cheesy. “Sorry It Was You,” the most instrumentally dense song, with layers of guitar, a buzzing solo and spacey organ, casts him as a drunken adulterer confessing his sins after waking up in a stranger’s bed to a dozen missed texts from his beau. The juxtaposition of his spare vocals against the musical chaos highlights how overwhelmed he is and how small he feels in the face of his mistakes.
Sadly, not all of the attempts at fuller soundscapes work. In fact, the percussion is a mess throughout the entire album. The drumbeat on “Back On Top” is thudding and uncompressed in a strange way, though it’s a masterpiece compared to the mess that is “Sick Bed Blues.” Rattles, cymbals and stomps cut into the song without rhyme or reason, as if they were an accident, but they’re too intermittent to contribute to the mood in the same way the extra elements worked on “Sorry It Was You.”
Nichols has never shied away from provocative song topics. “Another Man” and its outcries against police brutality and racism was originally released under the Nickel and Rose banner, but the biting lyrics were undercut by that version’s jauntiness and layers of strings. This re-recording is a far rougher, more sparse affair, letting lines like “They’d hang you from a bridge downtown/ now they call it stand your ground” and “No need to hide behind a white hood/ when a badge works just as good” marinate rather than flash by too quickly. The rest of the writing on the album is not poor, but none of it matches the wit and detail of “Another Man.” If every song was as pointed and sharp as this track was, then Buffalo Nichols would be a masterpiece. However, it’s ultimately held back by its inconsistent soundscapes and bland vocal performances. As it stands, it’s a well-performed debut that leaves room to grow and more to be desired.
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