Milton Mapes

Milton Mapes

Milton Mapes

A horse pulls up on a ridge and its rider looks out on Westernaire. "I'm a brave young gun; got the world sittin' on my thumb. I feel air fill my lungs; there's a race I've gotta run." An electric guitar burns like the red clay beneath their feet, bridge and chorus outlawed by this jagged fragment. The harp-driven, Crazy Horse squall of "Maybe You're Here, Maybe You're Not" follows like the first reel of a John Ford film, after which Milton Mapes' grandson -- Greg Vanderpool -- knocks 'em down one by one. Pulling together 30 years of hard-bitten Americana while coalescing around Vanderpool's rugged ache, Westernaire is frontier fierce. Varnaline-gray, Milton Mapes' skillet rock was smithed by Uncle Tupelo's roots-fueled lust of Eighties post-punks like Hüsker Dü. The swampy, Robbie Robertson/ Daniel Lanois drone of "The Only Sound That Matters" and "Everyone Around," faintly echoing U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name," are broken up by new Austin anthem "A Thousand Songs About California," sounding like it just fell off the Drive-by Truckers. The gritty "Palo Duro" would fit Jon Dee Graham like a hat, while a graceful Southwestern strum on "Silverbell" is all Vanderpool. The fire doesn't burn quite as bright on Milton Mapes' debut, 2001's The State Line, newly reissued by Aspyr, but Westernaire's bold statement compels its discovery. Buttressed by a pair of bonus tracks that flesh out its run time to 35 minutes, The State Line is stripped back from the distorted plea of "Down by You" to the spry rumble of "Lubbock" and old-time tumble of "The Elusive Goldmine." Previously unreleased "World Sees Through You" is a ghostly gem. Saddle up Milton Mapes, and roam Westernaire.

(Westernaire)

(The State Line)