By Nicki Escudero
By Amy Silverman
By Brian Palmer
By Chris Parker
By Troy Farah
By Lauren Wise
By Lauren Wise
In country music, as in rock, the line between commercial and alternative has become fuzzy, as indie-oriented artists found Nashville hungry for good new songs, and smaller labels strove to grab rising talent. The husband-and-wife duo of Buddy and Julie Miller could be the poster children for this phenomenon. Five years ago, the industry pigeonholed them as Americana artists, recording for Oakland's tiny HighTone Records and producing the kind of soulful, eclectic hard-country that only a handful of fans worship.
Slowly, though, the Millers established themselves as fixtures in Nashville. Buddy broke through first as the lead guitarist in Emmylou Harris' band, eventually supplying tunes for Top 40 megastars such as the Dixie Chicks and Brooks & Dunn. Julie followed next, with her idiosyncratic songwriting finding an unlikely home in Music City, as witnessed by a recent Lee Ann Womack album packed with her compositions.
And yet success, we're told, is a blessing and a curse. The wear and tear of show business is a major theme of Buddy Miller's fine new solo album, Midnight and Lonesome, an effort bitterly tinged with the scars of September 11. On "Water When the Well Runs Dry," Miller proclaims himself "a man of peace, with some exceptions," and he laments the feuds and bloodshed that made his tour schedule seem less and less significant. Songs by musicians about being musicians are traditionally rather hollow, but Miller succeeds by avoiding "Gee, it's hard to be on the road and still write a good tune" navel-gazing, focusing instead on the soul-searching angst that many people felt after the attacks.
Which isn't to say that Miller's new album is all gloom and doom -- indeed, it's filled with the rollicking, bluesy melodies that earned him notoriety. Muscle-bound bar-band riffs flourish, interwoven with spry Cajun fiddle (courtesy of Tammy Rogers) and sweet slide guitar. On "Wild Card," the Millers duet on a love song that could have been recorded by any number of '50s honky-tonkers, and the album's closer, "Quecreek," is a spooky throwback to the old-fashioned topical story-song (about a Pennsylvania mining disaster that happened a few months before the disc came out). Powerful records like this show why the Millers, whether high-rolling on Music Row or hauling their own amps into your local neighborhood dive, are at the heart of modern country music.