I have a 24-year-old nephew whom I love dearly in spite of his
\nbeing, well, 24.<\/p>\n
See, the kid is bright, adventurous, rootless and unreliable,
\neasily distracted by the opposite sex and seemingly bent on
\nstretching his adolescence out as long as possible. I’ll spare you
\nthe details; suffice it to say, two years out of college, he
\ndoesn’t have a penny to his name and continues to live almost
\ncompletely in the ephemeral present, relying on instincts, charm,
\nand a native intelligence that has allowed him to get away with
\nmore than most. (Hmm… does that sound more critical… or
\njealous?)<\/p>\n
Anyway… Brandon Patton, for whatever reason your album
\nShould Confusion<\/i> makes me think of my nephew, and not just
\nbecause he likes his music as eccentric and independent as
\npossible. (Hell, he probably downloaded your first rough mix off
\nthe Internet years ago\u2026)<\/p>\n
Maybe it’s because, despite a rocky moment or two, this disc
\nfull of hormonally-influenced odes to ADD ultimately won me over.
\nThe opening, somewhat mournful “Counting The Paces” had me thinking
\nmaybe I’d stumbled on yet another young “I wanna be as sad as James
\nTaylor but not as artful” navel-gazing acoustic troubadour. Ah, but
\nthen a couple of minutes into the following “What’s The Worst That
\nCould Happen?” the lyrics and music took a sharp manic turn,
\nelectric chords crashing in as Patton played out a high school
\nromance melodrama with an unexpected jolt of bite and purpose
\nbehind it. In the moment Patton’s self-assured vocals went from
\nbreathy Dave Matthews croon to full-throated Paul Westerberg cry, I
\nknew I was on to something.<\/p>\n
“Mo’ Song” has a similar flavor in the sense that it’s also an
\nacoustic-based track that Patton adds a tasty electric crunch to.
\nWhat it also adds is dashes of cock-eyed wisdom and blind-side
\nhumor that permeate the rest of the album like the spices in a
\npungent gumbo. Following the twists and turns of these songs, you
\nrealize this particular kid really does have it; he knows how to
\ntell a story in such a way that you have no idea what’s coming
\nnext, but aren’t for a moment tempted to leave before the show’s
\nover.<\/p>\n
Patton’s sharp wit is especially evident on the playful “Did All
\nThat Before,” whose verses are full of rapturous declarations of
\nlove that collapse under their own weight in the balloon-poking
\nchorus. “Auspicious Moment” is another rib-tickler, one of those
\ngoofy messing-around-in-the-studio vignettes that shouldn’t work,
\nbut does. Patton’s deadpan, self-mocking, white-boy rap delivery is
\nthe perfect counterweight for the hormone-addled fervor of the
\nlyrics (“I can’t pay attention, in the spring \/ When the girls are
\nout on the green \/ And the summer dresses cover my head when I try
\nto think”), the drum track crashing around in the background with
\nuncanny adolescent empathy.<\/p>\n
Patton’s exuberant arrangements keep you guessing, deftly mixing
\nand matching musical styles from the big-band jazz flourishes on
\n“Thirty-One Hundred Miles” to the vaudeville shadings of “Everybody
\nLoves You Now” and the Rawhide rockabilly of “The Good Life.” In
\nevery case, his acoustic guitar work is superb, as steadily melodic
\nand rhythmic as you could ask for.<\/p>\n
The bookend to Patton’s straight & sincere opener is the
\nearnest, memorable closer “Someday When We’re Old,” which leaves
\nyou with just the right final impression — yeah, he can get a
\nlittle goofy, but he’s no lightweight. So let’s see, this kid I
\nwasn’t so sure about turns out to be: an excellent guitarist with
\nan engaging voice, who’s self-published a d-i-y album that’s
\neloquent, witty, versatile, charming and — once in a while —
\nserious.<\/p>\n
I don’t know what my nephew will be doing — hell, I’m not even
\nsure what continent he’ll be on — this time next year, but I’m
\npretty confident Brandon Patton will be making music somewhere, and
\npeople will be listening. As they should.<\/p>\n