Warmer Milks
Hello again. I know it’s been too long since I have reached out; these lengths of time between communications are relative of course. Sometimes a week feels like a year. Sometimes a wild spring will gut you, pulling out your problems by the root; it is weird to see how these tiny little hands stretch down and down deep. You may think, “are these mine? Was this network of dirt truly connected to me?” And it definitely was and is, and it’s your memories, which your heart keeps very close track of. So here I am among these blossoms and petrichor and a fine mist; it’s a map of where I’ve been, and you’re there. And music.
Warmer Milks was an out country sort of band from that gorgeous Kentucky-ish underground, featuring songwriter Mikey Turner, aka Ma Turner. Sophomore Lounge reissued this album, originally a cdr, with a full double lp gatefold treatment. I got a copy because if Sophomore Lounge does something then it is likely worth your time. This album knocked my brain around, echoing the dampened hushed drag of pulling something up by the root and looking at it: it’s untempered and lovely, like walking through downed pines. I know caring is hard and I know it can also signify a squareness that is not the hip kind; being too eager is to ignore the shit all around and to be unaware can be the most cardinal of sins. Though, I guess sometimes the right person can take you out of it all and then you’re just laying on the ground like a dumb kid, which is in this instance, the highest of compliments.
What I mean is that this album sounds like it was cared for and about; maybe not in the focused craftsmanship that we often associate with creation. There is a process that is more zen-like, where you acclimate to the possible colors and sounds, to the species and local flora; you carefully select the arsenal, and then sweep it all into the air and let yourself fall, trusting that things will land where they must. And this is one of the most difficult of disciplines: falling forward. Soft Walks, the album in question, is a masterclass in letting go; it’s inspiring and comforting. There is an implicit trust that can be mighty hard to achieve or even recognize.
I think it’d likely be impossible to get these folks together to perform this album live because, as with most things in my life, I’m late to the game. Things tend to hit me well after the fact. An interesting parallel between these sounds and this idea is that with making records, there is another step after capturing these ideas and feelings; if only we could take the raw data spilled across the years of our lives and lay them out to a mix engineer. In the case of this album, it’s Paul Oldham, champion Kentuckian behind the board of a litany of heartbreaking recordings.
In my own long-winded way, I wanted to tell you about this album, and about my feelings. Since I lost my mom, just over a year ago, I’ve been having a bit of a hard time doing all kinds of things. Life seems out of order in a way and love is a record like this one: languid and vast. Give it a listen if you have the time, it won’t be a casual thing. And I hope to write again, sooner rather than later.