Late February, and spring rises, carrying floods of all kinds: sunlight, rain soaked, flash, flower, hope. Winter, in all its irrepressible glory, has lightened its yoke, letting the world wake anew.
When we woke, the ground had frozen. When we walked the streets of Philadelphia, we needed no coats.
I find it hard to talk about music that has come to mean something more to me. When I first listened to Joe Pug’s The Flood in Color, I messaged with a friend who loved it, too.
She said,
Joe does it again, breaking and repairing my blackened heart.
And I responded,
It gutted me, at first, in a quiet way. He has a gift for making us bleed a little truer.
I think that pair of sentiments, those emotional expressions, betray the truisms at the center of Joe’s songs, ever since his early days. The lyrics travel these bifurcated roads that twist and twine like nests of briars, hope entangled with despair, but always glimmers filter through.
Again, it’s a confusing thing to write about being human.
———
The Flood in Color has become my favorite Joe Pug record. I’ve listened to his songs for a decade now, loving the words and the feeling, but this marks the first time I felt myself so deeply in the music. It has had an interesting effect; traveling backwards, the songs begin to feel familiar in a new way, like something shifted that allowed me to fall in love again, but differently, a little more deeply. There is something of the agape about it, a touch of the pragma, but it feels like a kind of love.
I think this record is a love letter to living. Joe would tell you, I think, that music isn’t his whole life; he has a family, he reads books, he runs a podcast (and it’s a great one, y’all).
But at the same time, maybe everything filters through the music.
I’ve seen these songs described as minimalist, but my deaf ears hear a symphony of sound. I walk the woods around my house, bluetooth connected directly to my hearing aids, and I let it soundtrack sunrises and sunsets, fox sightings and eagle fights. I sit on the edge of my wide creek, its expanse so often sunbright, the Chesapeake winds whistling around me.
No drink is strong enough
No drink is strong enough
No drink is strong enough
To still my shaking hand
~ “Exit”
— — —
Joe recorded The Flood in Color with Kenneth Pattengale of the Milk Carton Kids; maybe that explains the descriptions of minimalism, the way these deftly-textured songs feel almost sparse (but not, I assure you). I think it better, though, to think of these songs as contradictions in space, panoramic microcosms. There are studies in humanity, but always within the context of something larger.
— — —
He named The Flood in Color in that moment right before sleeping, penning it by the bedside, its title coming before the song.
The album lives in that liminal space.
This write-up is becoming something else altogether. It feels like a confession.
— — —
We found ourselves wandering Philadelphia’s downtown streets, a dozen or so blocks from The Boot & Saddle, settling on Alice’s for pizza, gnocchi, tiramisu and conversation with one of our closest and most important friends. A sister, really.
And then we found ourselves walking in a suddenly-chilly wind, the sun having fallen behind the city’s concrete towers, light now a manufactured thing and warmth a memory.
— — —
Boot and Saddle’s iconic fluorescing boot flashed in front of us, and it felt like home to push open its doors. More incandescent than years before – ever since they started selling art on their walls (sell my photos, someday, maybe?) – its ropes and mirrors, its sliding barn bathroom doors, its beer-soaked wooden floors, its venue hidden in the back.
Everyone drank beers, plenty of us a gentle kind of rowdy, all of us eager in our own ways. Jess and I, we talked about school, we talked about our worries, and we leaned against the stage.
Matthew Wright opened the show, settling at his keyboard with a wide smile and gracious airs. He reveled in the moment, sharing that presence, that mindfulness, with the audience. Touring his new (EP, I guess?) Kitchen Songs, he sang and told wry stories about being overly attached to fake worlds, demonstrably untrue truths, and celebrated the wild value of existing, even in the face of what feels like hopelessness.
My favorite cut of the night was “Foolish”, but that cover of Bobby Charles’s “I Must Be in a Good Place Now” – sung on record with the radiant Molly Parden – established a buoyancy and hopefulness that Joe would carry later into the night.
— — —
I’m old enough to know that certain songs…well, they become a part of us.
Joe sang two of his Hymns this night, opening solo with #35, reserving the mountainous #101 for the penultimate spot in the setlist. He would, ultimately, play six of the seven songs from the Nation of Heat EP, all of them met with an audience whispersinging or shouting along, whooping loudest at the references to our I-95.
They are familiar things, these songs.
He featured The Flood in Color just as much – six songs – spread between the beginning and the end of the set. Songs like “The Letdown” and “Blues Came Down”, mournful and honest. Songs like “Exit” and “Long Midnight”, their truths doused in something like a kerosene sunset.
My favorites, though, are “The Flood in Color” and “After Curfew”, the latter a kind of prayer, the former a kind of warning.
So listen close now
I was dead wrong
To think that things would work themselves out in the long run
Pay attention
Heed the thunder
The flood is coming
The flood in color
~ “The Flood in Color”
Fall to your knees if you need
The truth is hard to handle
You are not fragile
You are not fragile
You are not fragile
~ “After Curfew”
— — — — —
A Joe Pug show is defined as much by the experience of being in a place together, listening to stories together, and engaging with the songs together, as it is a concert. He tells stories that feel familiar, makes observations that carry little wisdoms; but still, and still, he doesn’t forget the showmanship. The small laughs, the wide smiles, the wry comments.
Like when he told Matthew to take a solo on the keys and watched him from the back of the stage; as it ended, he strode forward and said, “Jazzy, but good.” We laughed together in a way the written word will never wring into reality.
Or when he introduced his bandmates as being from a “land where the Waffle Houses are as plentiful as the Wawas” (Matthew) – an ode to Philly and nearby South Jersey – and from a part of “Texas where the Lone Star beer flows as warmly as Yuengling” (Geoffrey). It’s a little connection to the local world, but it feels so much bigger.
Or when he told the story behind “I Don’t Work In a Bank”, maintaining a deadpan seriousness until partway through the song, when the men cheered loudest and he suggested maybe that wasn’t such a good thing.
Or when he told us about a game the band plays on tour, sharing that these words might just change our lives: “Depressed or Dehydrated.” And in total truth, it has changed my life, as I ask this question of myself every single time I start to slide into those long shadows. I drink water better now. Promise, Joe!
We laughed together often, sang together steadily, and when the night rolled to its inevitable end, Joe walked into the crowd holding his guitar. We made space for him, encircled him, and he sang “Deep Dark Wells” to mark an ending of sorts.
And as long as you’re not finished
You can start all over again
Joe’s playing 9:30 Club on March 7th. Please go to the show. If you can’t, find his online store and buy a record, a pin, or whatever he has that works for you. Play the songs aloud for your friends and family. Just listen.
