Molina and Johnson Molina and Johnson

As the story goes, Will Johnson approached Jason Molina at one of the latter’s gigs in Austin, Texas. They exchanged numbers on tattered napkins and, roughly 5 months later, were hitting the road with all the necessary supplies (beer, food and, obviously, a BB gun), to the studio in Texas where they would spend 10 days recording an album together. According to Johnson, the pair “wrote, co-wrote, workshopped, complimented, scrutinized, drank, invited friends to come play music, smoked, made lots of notes and drawings, drank a little more and shot the BB gun off the back porch”.

As idyllic an American tale as this sounds, that the story should be so consistently repeated in reviews and press packages is slightly unnerving. Surely we know the back story behind Molina and Johnson well enough to know that their credentials as “loners”, “outsiders” or “wanderers” is pretty much cemented? In fact, individually the two have been creating tumbleweed evoking alt-country or rock for over a decade now, and so the buddy-story of their BB gun toting shenanigans does relatively little except make the listener a little cynical: if the album is supposed to conjure images of Texan landscapes or something similar, shouldn’t it be left to do that for itself?

Well, it does speak for itself. But the accompanying story should serve more as caution than a selling point. These are 14 songs so drenched in Americana and faux-Appalachian tradition that it can, at times, become slightly tiring and, at worst, comes off as contrived. With big-hitters such as Molina and Johnson, however, such minor gripes can always be overlooked in favour of their dedication to song craft and - let’s be honest here - Molina’s voice, which hovers with such a pure and aching longing that, on an album of predominantly understated musicianship, it’s almost a necessity that he should be the vocalist utilised less frequently.

And, predictably enough, there are some songs that stand out as excellent. Opener Twenty Cycles To Ghe Ground recalls early Sam Beam, and gives the listener an opportunity to sample Molina and Johnson’s voices together. It’s a pedestrian number, but its relative simplicity only allows the vocals room to breathe and that is, of course, what we all really want to hear from these two. Similarly, Almost Let You In moves along innocuously enough, with an effected piano punctuating the song’s gently evocative harmonies.

Elsewhere, however, songs move at such a slow tempo that the album becomes far more effective as background music. There is nothing inherently wrong with a slow tempo, of course, but a marriage of two such prolific songwriters may lead to a sense of disappointment when discovering the album’s unassumingly low-key aesthetic. And this, perhaps, is the crux of the point. The album appears to be a studious exploration of simple, rustic textures - an attempt, perhaps, to alleviate the name of Molina and Johnson from the pressures of their more high-profile ventures. So for those eagerly anticipating an explosively creative unison, the album may come as somewhat of a disappointment. Instead of the synergy we may have hoped for, we get something pleasant enough, but that ultimately falls short of what either artist has achieved individually.

Indeed, many songs are guilty of evoking similar artists, as opposed to Appalachian landscapes: Will Oldham and Richmond Fontaine are names easily brought to mind upon initial listening. These are, of course, artists associated with the kind of Southern tradition the album attempts to adhere by, but it is a reminder that the album (and the press release) is, at times, too concerned with its overall aesthetic, with the listener imagining an idyllic Southern evening - tumbleweed ‘n all - than with the individual songs. Molina and Johnson proves to be inessential listening for fans of either artist, but should prove suitable listening for those of us who want a mild-mannered soundtrack to our lamentations of modern city life.