Elsewhere, Rouse takes ill-advised stylistic detours into gospel (“Sparrows Over Birmingham”) and faux-Barry White soul (“Under Your Charms”) with lame lyrics (“It’s the end of the night / And I’m feeling sexual”). “Love Vibration” has silly lyrics and a chorus with backing vocals that resemble the Welcome Back, Kotter theme. In the title track, a catchy melody is sullied by namedropping (Carole King) and wholesale lyrical appropriation (“is it too late baby? / Is it too late?”). Unfortunately, Rouse’s attempt to pay homage to the decade of his birth is derivative to such a degree it compromises the songwriting. The production by Yo La Tengo cohort Brad Jones (who also contributes bass and organ) is a notch better than Rouse’s previous recordings. Rouse’s devotion to ’70s singer-songwriters is apparent throughout 1972. Under Cold Blue Stars is a mature and well-crafted work from a talented songwriter. The standout track is “Women and Men,” a breakup/makeup tale punctuated by a soaring guitar solo and a chorus loaded with self-righteous anger (“But you won’t see me / Cause I won’t be there / To help you sleep / When you get scared”). Cheerful keyboard harmonies contrast nicely with the Paul Westerberg-styled desperation of Rouse’s vocal on the fading suburban dream of “Miracle.” “Christmas With Jesus” takes a poke at religion (“And getting in / Is easy when you’re / Friends with Jesus”). “Nothing Gives Me Pleasure” tells of a self-sacrifice born out of love turning to resentment (“Nothing gives me pleasure like you do / I’ve always been the one to follow you”). Loosely a concept album, it has lyrics that focus on a couple’s relationship (modeled on Rouse’s family lore). Largely up-tempo, chock-full of pop hooks and memorable choruses, it’s given life by an excellent rhythm section featuring former Ben Folds Five drummer Darren Jessee. Under Cold Blue Stars, produced by Roger Moutenot (Lou Reed, John Zorn), is Rouse’s best effort so far. David Henry again co-produced, largely replacing the acoustic tenderness of Rouse’s debut with a less earnest but more direct electric approach. And “Directions” adds grit to harshly self-critical lyrics (“Stay out all night and get high with your friends / Wonder why you don’t get one thing done”). The jazzy rhythm guitar line of “Marvin Gaye” manages to pay tribute to the late Motown legend without resorting to blatant thievery. “Laughter” is a Smiths-influenced tale of paranoid introspection with a fine chorus punctuated by trumpet and flugelhorn blasts. Home is altogether more confident, kicking off with a trio of excellent tracks.
While the album lacks assurance, it’s a strong debut. “Lavina,” paralyzed by grief, “sits alone in a chair / She doesn’t speak or write / Of any despair.” Elsewhere, the album nods to U2 (“Suburban Sweetheart”) and R.E.M. Sung in a plaintive voice, the lyrics tackle loss, alienation and missed opportunities. Equal parts mournful (“The White Trash Period of My Life”) and hopeful (“Dressed Up Like Nebraska”), the songs convey a strong feeling of restlessness. Co-produced by David Henry and Rouse, the sparse arrangements are supplemented by the careful use of organ, violin and cello (played by Henry). Despite his long tenure in the country music mecca, Rouse’s easy-on-the-ear style is far more informed by ’70s AM radio and ’80s UK pop than by anyone who played the Grand Ole Opry.ĭressed Up Like Nebraska paints a compelling picture of life there. Given Rouse’s upbringing, it’s not surprising that the theme of wanderlust runs through his first four solo albums. As a teenager, Nebraska-born singer-songwriter-guitarist Josh Rouse led the typical displaced life of a military brat until moving to Nashville in 1996, drawn by the allure of clubs and a thriving music scene.