Supergroups are all the rave this decade.  Velvet Revolver.  Audioslave.   The Raconteurs.  Chickenfoot.  Next in line are the Monsters of Folk: Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst, super-producer Mike Mogis, Retro-Nuevo troubadour M. Ward, and My Morning Jacket front man Jim James.  If the gold standard is the Traveling Wilburys—and it is—the Traveling Wilburys they are not, despite so many media types deeming them to be the next coming.  Nor are they folk in the most Woody Guthrie sense of the word.  Neither declaration is their fault– somebody inevitably has to label them something– but none of the four are far enough along in their careers to carry the burden of being mentioned in the same breath as eternal heavyweights such as Bob Dylan, George Harrison, or Roy Orbison, nor should they be held accountable (though in truth it is their own fault) for the awfully awful moniker.  But their intent seems serious enough, and the Monsters of Folk set out for a full-on musical movement with their self-titled debut.  Whether they come close to accomplishing that, however, is up for a serious debate.

Monsters Of Folk starts off with “Dear God (Sincerely M.O.F.)” and right away Jim Jones and the boys sound like they’re trying to harness their inner Thom Yorke; the song has such a Radiohead “Nude” remix vibe to it that it proves a difficult pace setter for what’s to follow.  Next up is the Oberst led “Say Please” and it’s a complete about face; high on harmony, Oberst heads towards Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young country with Ward on guitar doing an earnest ode to Neil, and though it’s better than its predecessor,  it too falls a few miles short.  Ward leads the way on “Whole Lotta Losin’” and it’s as close as Monsters Of Folk comes to full-fledged romp; Ward is known for his reverence of yesteryear, and like most of his solo stuff, “Losin” is a all-in win; the first homerun of the album.

Monsters of Folk has its share of them, and they seem to come with higher frequency in the Jones-heavy numbers such as “The Right Place” with its alt-country twang that is perfect for this band of misfits; when Jones sings, “I’m in the right place” he’s spot on.  “Baby Boomer” is perhaps the best compilation; with its Johnny Cash-chug-a-chug/The Statler Brothers “Flowers On The Wall”-esque foundation,  Ward, Oberst, and Jones play off each other as if they were always meant to.  When Oberst is left to his own device Monsters can too easily fall into a pattern of sounding too much like another Bright Eyes record however.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that—he’s rightfully earned his place at this table—but the grey area lies in the fact that if you didn’t know any better, the “other guys” can too easily—and do—sound like other guys.  “Man Named Truth” is an exception; the tune is equal parts of everyone he claims to be influenced by, from Dylan, to Young, to especially Emmylou Harris; the tune is tasty, as easily accessible as it is addicting, and the other guys stand out as much as they fit in.

If there’s one common criticism of Monsters Of Folk as a collective of creative guys at the height of their respective creating primes it’s that at more times than not it feels too shared for the sake of sharing, less organic than it probably should; too many times they trade turns shining in the spotlight than they share in shining in it together.  There’s a lot or promise, more than a few payoffs, but it’s less cohesive, and even less coercive.  That and at the conclusion of the album it loses steam quicker than a freight train out of coal.  Monsters Of Folk concludes with “His Master’s Voice” and regrettably it’s a Rip Van Winkle yawn.  People who want to like this album because they worship the guys behind it probably will see little wrong with it; for all intents and purposes, these guys are as close as their generation’s Traveling Wilburys as they’re going to get, and why not love that.  But a more objective person will take pause, noticing the flaws as much as the promise.

As a whole, Monsters Of Folk, is definitely worth a listen, and it’ll be an entertaining one.  Just don’t go in expecting a grand finale.  There are plenty of bottle rockets here.  Just be happy to take what you can get.

After nearly twenty years and five albums as the front man for The Wallflowers, Jakob Dylan has gone solo. At first glance the album’s title, Seeing Things, could look sort of ominous with song titles such as, “Evil Is Alive And Well”, “Everybody Pays As They Go”, and “War Is Kind,” considering who his old man is. But listen to the album and you’ll quickly realize the second coming of The Times They Are A-Changin’ this is not. Jakob Dylan paints his canvas with concise, impressionist brushstrokes. Dylan isn’t a man trying to make a statement; there is no ethos, no concrete message. Seeing Things doesn’t try to be more than what it is; a collection of ten songs lasting just under forty minutes sung by a man who’s got a penchant—and talent—for writing deeply personal songs. The Wallflowers, though fun, always seemed like they should have been a vehicle for what has now become a reality, Dylan’s solo career. And he seems at ease with that as he sings, “My line of work suits me fine,” in the song, “All Day And All Night.”

Seldom is gravel a synonym for smooth but Dylan’s voice is as soothing as a ride in the back of a pickup truck on a backcountry road in the middle of a cool summer night. And his voice has never sounded better; a perfect compliment to his acoustic guitar on this acoustic driven record. Seeing Things at times sounds like a not so distant relative of a softer Neil Young (think Silver & Gold) or Tom Petty (think Wildflowers) offering, or an E-Street Band-less Springsteen album. The songs weave comfortably in between blues, folk, and country influences and come out as a reflection of a man who has come to terms with his surroundings just fine, and as he’s looking out on the world through his sunglass covered eyes, he’s doing so with admiration. The album’s production is vintage Rick Rubin: sparse, intimate, and alive; you can hear the creaks of the studio. It’s not as stripped down as some of Rubin’s work with Johnny Cash, but it’s just as personal, and it sounds precisely like these were the types of songs Dylan was born to sing.