Till the Sun

While smack dab in the middle of the biggest tour of his young career – an opening gig for a little band named Guster – Ray LaMontagne lost it somewhere in Middle America. On tour supporting his then unreleased sophomore album, Till the Sun Turns Black, LaMontagne heard that his dad, a pseudo-famous Nashville sessions player, might attend one of his upcoming Midwest shows. Not Daddy. 

Another daddy's boy, Chris Stills – son of Stephen – once had daddy issues. What did he do, you ask? Simple, he called someone arguably more musically inept than even his own dad, a fella named Ethan Johns (who also happens to be the son of famed 60s producer Glyn Johns). The producer of Stills' overlooked solo album, 100 Year Thing, and both LaMontagne albums, Johns is known for his ability to produce authentic "old timey" music that both young and old folks, equally, seem to enjoy. This is important because, well, there's a whole movement – genre, even – of daddy's boys (Rufus Wainwright, Teddy Thomposon, etc.) making daddy's music hip again. Contrived? Incestuous? Nah, just the rock n' roll version of that whole "take your kid to work day" thing.

LaMontagne's second make-em-proud album is, much like his first album, a collection of songs that grow, albeit only to a certain, stunted point. Held back by their attempts to sound as much like old P.F. Sloan tunes and other artists of that ilk as possible, Johns and LaMontagne churn out sturdy enough string-laden ballads perfect for LaMontagne's soft, reassuring vocal style. With his breathy, soul-faux vocal delivery, LaMontagne spits out easily digestible vocals and lyrics that sound strangely similar to Tracy Chapman. (Yes, Tracy Chapman is a woman and LaMontagne is a man; that doesn't mean they can't share the same voice and vocal style. Does it?)

Much has been made about LaMontagne's lyrical skills already, some even claiming him as their pick for "next great singer/songwriter" honors. This, dear readers, is hogwash. Yes, LaMontagne does write plain, universal, enduring songs, but these attributes (which are pretty much only talked about in a gratifying way by critics) only further establish LaMontagne's body of work as nothing more than by-the-books throwback rock. Harmless – a dirty, shameful word in the rock world – would be a better way to describe LaMontagne's output. The risks and personality simply aren't there. Instead, listeners get the kind of writing that could easily put LaMontagne at the vanguard of a Hallmark card-writing contest. LaMontagne and his Black Sun are fleetingly touching, historically offensive and gosh darn easy to take down.

The problem with albums like Till the Sun Turns Black and artists like LaMontagne is that they are a little too "steady," "harmless" and "comfortable." Too put it plainly, they're "just right," and in the world of rock n' roll – especially the spirited era being tapped into here – "just right" is a detriment. "Empty," "Barfly," "Three More Days," "Gone Away From Me" and "Within You," however, succeed as late-night creepers, made perfect for dark day excursions and tender moments with a lady (or man) friend not willing to listen to M. Ward, Sufjan Stevens, Nick Drake or one of those other whisperers. Till the Sun Turns Black's other six recordings are, well, steady, and also completely unmemorable. (A note to parents with kids away at college: Till the Sun Turns Black is greatly recommended if you happen to be sending your freshman daughter (or son) a care package, but only if they're out of those Rave sandals he/she really wants.)

You can't blame guys like LaMontagne for wishing there were more albums like Bryter Lyter and even Exile on Main St., but you can (and should) make note of their personality-lacking attempts to be a part of rock's folk legacy. That said, Till the Sun Turns Black is a decent enough holdover until Ryan Adams – whose father is not a rock star – does it up right again. And again.   6.5/10

Written by G. William Locke