Cat Clyde & Dean Johnson
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True West Presents
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Cat Clyde
Where is my love? Cat Clyde howls, opening her new album ‘Mud Blood Bone’ with abandon. Can’t find my love? It’s not the somber lament of a longing woman, but a feral eruption, the roar of an animal on the edge. Her voice crumples with dismay, a swampy croon over romping keys. I got a hole in my chest / I can’t take the emptiness / Where is my love? It’s the essential question of ‘Mud Blood Bone,’ a void eleven frenetic songs sizzle to fill.
The Canadian songwriter’s fourth full-length and first release with Concord Records finds her at a point of personal evolution. “I wrote these songs at the end of a big cycle,” she shares. “Love was not present in my life and I didn’t know where to find it or how to get it back.” Essential to the search, Clyde discovered, was relinquishing old notions. “In the past, I felt like love chained me, controlled me, put me in a cage.”
Produced with Drew Vandenberg (Toro Y Moi, Faye Webster, S.G. Goodman) and recorded at Chase Park Transduction in Athens, Georgia, Clyde’s new collection exists in a sonic overlap; the rockabilly grit of contemporaries like Sierra Ferrell, The Deslondes, or Nick Shoulders, meets the vulnerable, folk rock volatility of Big Thief or Angel Olsen. “Drew was the perfect person to help me assemble the players and bring this collection to life,” says Clyde. “Everyone brought their own unique gift to the studio. I create from a place of instinct, and once we all locked in, it felt easy, and we were able to capture the songs live.”
Dean Johnson
With I Hope We Can Still Be Friends, his debut for Saddle Creek, Dean Johnson makes a pact with the listener: He will sing you his truth in the most heartfelt and charming way possible, if you promise to keep an open mind.
The title partly stems from the playful way the Seattle-based singer, songwriter and guitarist communes with his audiences at concerts. “I hope you’re not afraid to talk to me after the show,” he’ll say, sweetly, before launching into “Death of the Party,” the album’s seventh song. Centered on the “energy vampire” archetype — the exasperating windbag we’ve all encountered at some point — its lyrics are at once intellectually biting and unmistakably hilarious. His tender voice rings out like the ghost of Roy Orbison or a misfit Everly brother.
Johnson spent years tending bar at Al’s Tavern in Seattle’s Wallingford neighborhood. There, he encountered folks of all stripes; and regulars enthusiastically murmured about his budding musical greatness — There’s the best songwriter in town! Johnson was a kind of local lore, a long-held family secret, before the singer finally broke out in 2023 with his debut album, Nothing For Me Please, at age 50.
This Event is All Ages and General Admission.
ALL SALES ARE FINAL. PLEASE, DOUBLE CHECK YOUR ORDER BEFORE PURCHASING. NO REFUNDS.
Cat Clyde
Where is my love? Cat Clyde howls, opening her new album ‘Mud Blood Bone’ with abandon. Can’t find my love? It’s not the somber lament of a longing woman, but a feral eruption, the roar of an animal on the edge. Her voice crumples with dismay, a swampy croon over romping keys. I got a hole in my chest / I can’t take the emptiness / Where is my love? It’s the essential question of ‘Mud Blood Bone,’ a void eleven frenetic songs sizzle to fill.
The Canadian songwriter’s fourth full-length and first release with Concord Records finds her at a point of personal evolution. “I wrote these songs at the end of a big cycle,” she shares. “Love was not present in my life and I didn’t know where to find it or how to get it back.” Essential to the search, Clyde discovered, was relinquishing old notions. “In the past, I felt like love chained me, controlled me, put me in a cage.”
Produced with Drew Vandenberg (Toro Y Moi, Faye Webster, S.G. Goodman) and recorded at Chase Park Transduction in Athens, Georgia, Clyde’s new collection exists in a sonic overlap; the rockabilly grit of contemporaries like Sierra Ferrell, The Deslondes, or Nick Shoulders, meets the vulnerable, folk rock volatility of Big Thief or Angel Olsen. “Drew was the perfect person to help me assemble the players and bring this collection to life,” says Clyde. “Everyone brought their own unique gift to the studio. I create from a place of instinct, and once we all locked in, it felt easy, and we were able to capture the songs live.”
Dean Johnson
With I Hope We Can Still Be Friends, his debut for Saddle Creek, Dean Johnson makes a pact with the listener: He will sing you his truth in the most heartfelt and charming way possible, if you promise to keep an open mind.
The title partly stems from the playful way the Seattle-based singer, songwriter and guitarist communes with his audiences at concerts. “I hope you’re not afraid to talk to me after the show,” he’ll say, sweetly, before launching into “Death of the Party,” the album’s seventh song. Centered on the “energy vampire” archetype — the exasperating windbag we’ve all encountered at some point — its lyrics are at once intellectually biting and unmistakably hilarious. His tender voice rings out like the ghost of Roy Orbison or a misfit Everly brother.
Johnson spent years tending bar at Al’s Tavern in Seattle’s Wallingford neighborhood. There, he encountered folks of all stripes; and regulars enthusiastically murmured about his budding musical greatness — There’s the best songwriter in town! Johnson was a kind of local lore, a long-held family secret, before the singer finally broke out in 2023 with his debut album, Nothing For Me Please, at age 50.
This Event is All Ages and General Admission.
ALL SALES ARE FINAL. PLEASE, DOUBLE CHECK YOUR ORDER BEFORE PURCHASING. NO REFUNDS.
Lineup
