Sometimes you shouldn’t argue with the evidence in front of you. Songs you just have to let guide you. Roll over you. They might show you the promise in a small inflection, the charity in the pick and bend of a steel string, the gift of a vulnerable pause.
Like toes in the sand, the songs feel right. Heart meet sleeve. Sounds keen and kind, welcoming and modest like the soft seed from a sycamore pod.
Reluctant confessions cling like hickory smoke to his pensive sounds. Cardwell, like a Kristofferson from Kansas up to his elbows in Sunday mornings, has spirit and weary pegged. The saunters of a song rendered to give shape to memories. Like when you hear a song for the first time and know instantly it’s the one that’s been bouncing around in your head since the day your eyes opened.
Listening while your wheels purr from Bird City to Flint Hills, Chris, companion sitting shotgun, might just help you understand where things went wrong. Or he might stroll by in song to explain why lovers abandon themselves for a small taste of endless. So pay attention!
The fraternity of Van Zandt, Parsons, Prine and Buckley finds an eager pledge in Cardwell. Sympathetic and honest with a splash of divinity, his scuffed soul makes it’s way into your bar. It buys you a cold one, loans a smoke and makes you a good friend. One you can always rely on.