05.27.06

Cory Branan — 12 Songs

Posted in cory branan, some albums we done liked others we ain't - May 27th, 2006 at 4:48 pm by Mimi

You probably don’t know who Cory Branan is. Get ready to get over that. He’s seven flavors of awesome. Even God only thinks in multiples of seven, so learn to love Cory.

All about him written by someone else:

http://www.corybranan.com/press/Bio06_web.jpg

If your love isn’t cemented by his quote about his influences, his music’s probably not for you because he’s too witty and sarcastic for your dullard sensibilities. That’s ok, you still got Toby Keith. [Insulting you is Mimi telling you she loves you. -- Cricket]

Cory’s first album is a singer-songwriter’s jizzfest, full of the kind of songs that makes girls sigh and daydream about setting up house with the guy singing. With his second, 12 Songs, Cory’s stepped it up with complex arrangements, branching out from the stripped-down, troubadour style that sold him to me in the first place. Some people don’t appreciate it when an artist makes a giant leap from album to album. Those people must not understand the concept of the word “artist” — you don’t get to pick what an artist does from project to project, so shut the fuck up.

I held her skirt like a curtain; I held her heart like a new born child. I held her skirt like a curtain; I held her heart like a still born baby child. ( — “Love Song 12″)

Cory isn’t a pop idol or a mainstream radio kinda guy. He’s too honest for that — too brutal and complex and subtle. However, since I’m not a hipster, if he got really famous, I’d be freakin’ thrilled for the guy.

“Love Song 12″ starts off seeming like one of the songs on his first album, just Cory and his guitar and a little mixing to make him and his guitar sound buffed and expansive. It kicks over around the sixty second mark into a textured ballad that would appeal to fans of The Postal Service or other alternacrap bands (but actually good, which is the important part).

She’ll sleep by you on the floor when you have six dollars to your name.

Cory’s lyrics aren’t usually bludgeoning. He understands the concept of metaphor and analogy. He also understands how to invent his own instead of using clichéd shorthand. His voice on this track is wistful and longing which is a deft foil for his sharp, rude delivery on his tongue-in-cheek tracks.

It ain’t braggin’ if it’s true. It ain’t braggin’ if it’s true, said Muhammad Ali — AND ME. ( — “Muhammed Ali”)

You should buy 12 Songs just for this song. No lie. If you don’t trust me on this, that’s fine. But “Muhammed Ali” highlights every single thing I love about Cory — his sense of humor, his superlative use of metaphor, and his sexy-as-hell Mississippi accent, which he employs to twist his words into shapes that suit him and his rhymes. Cory works this song so hard he must have broken his spleen recording it. It even has a sudden break to female background singers a lá pop songs from 1968.

Buy the guy’s record for this song. Come back and hate on me if you want, but I doubt you’ll be disappointed — plus you’ll be supporting the guy’s beer budget, what’s to hate?

*Don’t read further if you don’t want to witness extreme fangirling* [Yeah, because you haven't been doing that at all before now -- Cricket]

“Tall Green Grass” has made it into my Favorite Songs Ever rotation, and every time I listen to it, I have visions of stalker-fuelled shenanigans where I move in next to Cory Branan and go over to his place for weekend BBQs and he comes out fishing with me weekends up on Lake Cumberland. If you think I’m kidding, thanks for supporting Camp Sanity.

There’s a whole mess of trouble up on Choctaw Hill; your sister couldn’t make it, I bet you will. First line of the song, and I’m already done. The use of the word “mess” sells the song for me. Then BOOM — the innuendo, and the implication that the girl he’s singing about isn’t anyone special or perfect, just the girl who said “yes,” makes me want to drink a beer with him in the back of my truck with my feet hanging over the open tailgate while he insults passers-by.

Knock back a jelly-jar of watermelon wine. This isn’t a Sugarcreek song, no matter how much this line makes it seem this way. Unlike all that burnished, Jesus-fried, radio-friendly country out today, Cory makes you believe he tied one on the night before, that he’s a beer for breakfast kinda guy. Plus, when I was a kid, one of my aunts wouldn’t let the kids drink from anything but jelly jars, because we were a bunch of hooligans in her mind, so he gets bonus points for nostalgia, which I think he’s smart enough to have been intending.

We’ll be off the radar, off the map, stretched out in the tall green grass. Only green against blue, only me against you. This might be the sexiest lyric this totally owned Southern girl has ever heard [No way, the sexiest lyric ever is "Strip off what you don't want ripped off/cause baby it's all in my way" -- which is still Cory, though. -- Cricket]. Cory stole my soul away with this song, and if you’re not even interested enough to buy this album to hear his ode to long afternoons laying on your back, itchy and sweating, with the heavy sunshine like a weight pressing you into the earth, sharing beer-flavored kisses, you are hopeless. Give up now, CMT sucked out your soul.

The breakdown on the line, leave your reservations in the cold red clay, is so full of longing, I can taste the Bud on the back of my tongue. The juxtaposition of the visuals of the red clay and green grass is perfect on every level ever known to human kind.

I did warn you about the completely out of control fangirling here.

From a famous tattered sleeve, he pulls the ace of innocence. ( — “All the Little Cowboys”)

Remember when I told you that Cory knows how to rock analogy and metaphor? The above lyric is about a cowboy. Boggle at the spin on the second part. If only every songwriter in Tennessee were this clever, we’d all be in for a country music renaissance. Bring back Kris Kristofferson! Oh well. We will have to just support young’uns like Cory, right, gang?

Now the eight ball’s just a chaser for the Demerol and speed. Now all you could ever ask for, is never all that they could need. So they settle for the bottom.

I think you can see why I brought up Kris, right? Apt. If you don’t know who Kris Kristofferson is, well, I ain’t got nothin’ for your sad ass, move it along to Pitchfork. [She doesn't mean that -- y'all should stay on this site and get your asses schooled on country if you don't know Kris. -- Cricket]

All these little cowboys can’t leave bad enough alone. That’s not a direct indictment of the Bush administration, but we can pretend, right?

Why am I not talking about the arrangements, the chord progressions and picking? Because Cory Branan is about the lyrics. Artists, real ones, have strong suits, and Cory’s is hearts, for sure. He’s got at least the Queen and Jack in his hand, and he owns mine.

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