You Set Me Right: Favorite Songs of the Aughts

I am a com­pul­sive anthol­o­gist. I like the way col­lec­tions of things become unruly, each ele­ment rustling about with the energy of being paired with some­thing else. We do this with words, of course, string­ing together sen­tences, para­graphs, sto­ries, nov­els, Nor­ton Antholo­gies of Amer­i­can Literature.

For most of The Aughts I com­piled my favorite songs onto CDs and gave them to a few friends as Christ­mas presents. My tastes skew sharply toward acoustic folk music so there’s a good chance you’ve never heard of any­thing that I like. A few of my peo­ple love it too, though, and they tend to be less dili­gent (obses­sive) about find­ing the new stuff. That’s where I come in.

I claim no author­ity. These are just the songs that opened my eyes the widest from 2000–2009. Because I’d never stop if I didn’t impose some kind of limit, I have picked songs that fit on one CD (plus some hon­or­able mentions).

If you like any of them, sup­port the peo­ple who made them. And tell me what I missed!

Tan­gle­wood Tree

Play

but love is a light in the sky,
and an unspoken lie
and a half-whispered prayer

From Tanglewood Tree,
Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer
--Signature Sounds

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The Aughts are the Dave Carter years. I have written elsewhere about Dave and Tracy, and about this song in particular. Those who know me may be a little surprised to learn that it's a love song. When I complain about sentimentality, this is what I have in mind as an alternative. Listen for the fierce truth of Dave Carter's lyrics. Listen for Tracy Grammer's beautiful harmonies and exultant violin. Listen for the whispered Hendrix lines at the end. Just listen; I can't think of a better song, period.

Ironbound

Play Iron­bound

I never liked me much but I tried for you
I never held my breath for any­thing good
so won’t you slow down.

From Time Spent Lost, Katie Sawicki

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“Iron­bound” is in one respect another love song. It should be a tes­ta­ment to its great­ness that I am will­ing to punc­ture my cur­mud­geonly rep­u­ta­tion on its behalf. I love it because it acknowl­edges how rid­dled with self-doubt we can some­times be, and how uplift­ing it can be to be believed in, what­ever the con­text. Prob­a­bly a hap­pier song than “Tan­gle­wood Tree,” but don’t get used to it.

Gen­tle Arms of Eden

Play

this is my home, this is my only home
this is the only sacred ground that I have ever known

From Drum Hat Buddha, Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer

--Sig­na­ture Sounds

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A cre­ation story set to music that doesn’t require you to believe any­thing in particular–except that music has the power to cre­ate. In 3 min­utes we go from an unpop­u­lated uni­verse to single-celled organ­isms to the indus­trial rev­o­lu­tion to war. Like all of Dave Carter’s songs, it is reas­sur­ing and a lit­tle wistful.

Shirt

Play Shirt

and it’s the same old jar of car keys by the door
the same old scuffed up floor
the same old thirst for more until they put you in the dirt

From Kitchen Radio, Peter Mul­vey

–Signature Sounds

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In Boston I attended a concert celebrating the 10th anniversary of the Signature Sounds record label, which is, um, well represented on this list. Peter Mulvey was one of several new discoveries that night. At one point I played "Shirt" so often that someone gave me my own corduroy shirt, which survived moving from Boston back to North Carolina but was no match for Sawyer's teeth. The song is a cheerful account of a mid-life crisis, through which the smallest of comforts (like the familiarity of a well-worn shirt) are the only meaningful ones.

Oast Houses

Play “Oast Houses”

I could show you stuff ‘round here per­chance might make you pause
I could take you walk­ing
Show you cer­tain things that move like wind upon the conifers
Hear the sea­sons whispering

From Bro­ken Yel­low, Jack Harris

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A few years ago the Dave Carter mail­ing list lit up with con­ver­sa­tion about a young Welsh­man who was the hit of the Ker­rville Folk Fes­ti­val. He didn’t seem to have an album or a web­site though, so I promptly for­got all about him. Some time later I dis­cov­ered that Jack did have a CD, and that Eric Tay­lor had pro­duced it. The only way to order it was to send Jack’s mom (still in Wales) $23 by mail. “Oast Houses” is one of sev­eral songs on Bro­ken Yel­low that some­one as young as Jack Har­ris had absolutely no busi­ness being able to write. Its lan­guage is exotic because Jack is from Wales and has a mas­sive vocab­u­lary. The acoustic gui­tar is like a slow-building thun­der­storm. The lyrics are as much Annie Dil­lard as they are folk singer. Lis­ten well.

Har­ris­burg

Play Harrisburg

Some say that man is the root of all evil
Others say God's a drunkard for pain
Me I believe that the Garden of Eden
Was burned to make way for a train

From Golden Age of Radio, Josh Ritter

--Signature Sounds

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I'd heard of Josh before I moved to his adopted home state of Massachusetts, but didn't actually listen to him until Joan Baez covered his song "Wings" and I had to hear more. "Harrisburg" is as close as a song can get to being a train, Johnny Cash be damned. You listen to it and you think it has seeped as far into your brain as it can go, but then six months later it breaks through another barrier in your consciousness and you start walking to its beat for an entire summer.

Revelator

Play Rev­e­la­tor

Queen of fakes and imi­ta­tors
Time’s the revelator

From Time (The Rev­e­la­tor), Gillian Welch

–Acony Records

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In 2001 Gillian Welch opened an epic album called Time (The Rev­e­la­tor) with a song that I’ve been try­ing to unravel for lo these many years. It is full of his­tory and ancient tones, and the songs are inter­wo­ven and essen­tial to each other (and to you). “Rev­e­la­tor” is prob­a­bly the most dense of these. I keep nib­bling on it like my fourth slice of despair-flavored cheesecake.

Train Home

Play Train Home

Now is what can be,

all the rest is wait and see,

those prophets never hear that cosmic laughter.

Train Home, Chris Smither

Hightone Records

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Chris Smither has made a career out of finding new ways to espouse his keen-eyed philosophy of having no idea what the world is really about (and being okay with that). He packs a lot of words into his songs, so you'll probably want to read along as you listen. I moved to Boston just weeks after this CD came out and was lucky enough to attend an album release party. I might have hated living in that city but I found a lot of incredible music while I was there.

Northbound 35

Play North­bound 35

It’s just flashes that we own

Lit­tle snap­shots

Made from breath and from bone

And out on the dark­ling plain alone

They light up the sky

From Strip­ping Cane, Jef­frey Fou­cault<

–Sig­na­ture Sounds

Buy the Album

Early in The Aughts I got an email from a guy from Paris who runs a mail­ing list I was on, sug­gest­ing that I go see Jef­frey Fou­cault since he was play­ing in North Car­olina. He didn’t real­ize that the drive from Asheville to the coast would be about 7 hours. I skipped the show but ordered the CD, which was a fan­tas­tic debut. A cou­ple years later, Jef­frey released another album, with “North­bound 35″ on it. Of all the songs on this list, this one would fare best if you had to strip away the per­for­mance and just read the text as poetry. It is line after line of insight.

Happy End­ings

Play Happy Endings

>

Carl had a way with the cotton,
Mother had a way with words,

And I had my way with a red-haired Catholic girl
.

From Scuffletown, Eric Taylor

Buy the Album

Eric Taylor's albums are as dense and rich as novels, full of broken people and compassion. This song might as well be a novel in its own right. At the very least, it's a Raymond Carver short story with fingerpicked guitar for punctuation. I've been listening to "Happy Endings" since 2001 and it's still unfolding for me.

Wisteria

Play “Wis­te­ria”

If we turn off the radio
I’ve only to close my eyes
And the wind in the sycamores
Will carry me home

From Some­where Near Pater­son, Richard Shin­dell

–Sig­na­ture Sounds

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“Wis­te­ria” is a beau­ti­ful tes­ta­ment to the power of mem­ory to become over­whelm­ing. I want to curl up inside of Richard Shindell’s gui­tar and lis­ten to him play this song over and over again until I die. And then I would like to buy Richard a puppy.

After All

Play After All

And when I chose to live
There was no joy
It's just a line I crossed
I wasn't worth the pain my death would cost
So I was not lost or found

From The Green World, Dar Williams

--Razor & Tie

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There aren't a lot of songs about a subject as taboo as the contemplation of suicide, which is a horrifying thought if music is something that helps you make sense of the world. This song is a frank argument against suicide for those who aren't religious or who are childless. Dar Williams excels at a certain grim kind of empathy that acknowledges how truly dark and alone the world can get, but she always brings along breadcrumbs in case you want to follow her back into the light.

Mother, I Climbed

Play Mother, I Climbed

sticks and stones might break this body and words might wound my soul
and phan­tom visions fly me where the faith­ful fear to go
but when this story’s over and my sun is sinkin’ low
open up your gate, marianna

From Flower of Avalon, Tracy Gram­mer

–Sig­na­ture Sounds

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This song is a prayer for grace. The speaker’s fruit­less search for the com­fort that is sup­posed to come once one finds some­thing to believe is only half of this story–it is even more impor­tant that she never ceases look­ing for some­thing to invest her faith in. This pil­grim, who has embraced as many kinds of reli­gion as she knows how, and found them some­how incon­gru­ous with her spirit, is still hope­ful, still open to mys­tery. I try to be mind­ful of this in my own frus­trat­ing encoun­ters with those who claim to speak for higher powers.

Mercy of the Fallen

Play Mercy of the Fallen

There's the weak
And the strong
And the beds that have no answers
And that's where I may rest my head tonight

From The Beauty of the Rain, Dar Williams

--Razor & Tie

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Dar Williams' songs about humility and the importance of finding your people and keeping them in your life always seem to come just when I need a reminder. Sometimes what you need more than anything else is an honest acknowledgment that someone else has been as far down as you are, and that sometimes that's where you need to be. I think it just makes it easier to live with confusion when you have something in your life that is up front about how the world doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Here's to having, and trying to be, humble friends.

Transit

Play Tran­sit

The merge from the turn­pike was mur­der, but its never a cinch


It was Fri­day at five, and no one was giv­ing an inch


They squeezed and they edged and they glared


Half them clearly impaired by rage or exhaus­tion


The rest were just touchy as hell

From Some­where Near Pater­son, Richard Shin­dell

–Sig­na­ture Sounds

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I will now begin to extri­cate myself some­what from this sequence of sad songs (remem­ber how happy things were when we began?). “Tran­sit” is an odyssey by Richard Shin­dell at his wry and acer­bic finest. Not too shabby on the gui­tar, either.

Long Time Gone

Play Long Time Gone

They sound tired but they don't sound Haggard
They got money but they don't have Cash
They got junior but they don't have Hank
I think, I think, I think the rest is a long time gone

From Real Time, Tim O'Brien and Darrell Scott

--Full Light Records

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What do you sing at the top of your lungs, with the windows down in your U-Haul truck, when you are finally escaping from two long years in Boston to come home to North Carolina? This. Also? The mandolin is so good in this song that Darrell Scott sings along with it.

Wagon Wheel

Play Wagon Wheel

Headed down south to the land of the pines
And I’m thumbin’ my way into North Car­o­lina
Starin’ up the road
And pray to God I see headlights

From O.C.M.S., Old Crow Med­i­cine Show

–Net­twerk Records

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“Wagon Wheel” is so self-evidently fan­tas­tic I don’t know what I might say to change your mind if you dis­agree. It began life as a cho­rus by Bob Dylan, who aban­doned it. Almost 30 years later, Ketch Secor of Old Crow Med­i­cine Show res­ur­rected it from that inaus­pi­cious begin­ning. The fin­ished song’s loose har­monies almost insist that you sing along. If you’ve ever in your life been home­sick for the South, this will make you feel bet­ter. Promise.

Come Home

Play Come Home

No mat­ter what you bought or sold
The only thing you’ll have to hold
Is the love you’ve loved and the truth you’ve told
When you climb up on that train.

From Songs for a Hur­ri­cane, Kris Delmhorst

Sig­na­ture Sounds

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I had never heard of Kris Delmhorst until the Sig­na­ture Sounds 10th anniver­sary show, where she played two songs in pig­tails and paja­mas and was much in demand on other people’s sets. She has an amaz­ing voice and an obses­sion with bad weather. She can make a banjo sound like wind chimes in a thunderstorm.

Hon­or­able Mentions