Review Summary: "Anyway. Anyhow. If there weren't any yesterdays, there are many now."
20 years on and Frontier Ruckus still stands. The unsung Millennial folk poets of the Midwest have been many things: distinctive, misty eyed, sentimental - and most of all: persistent. Throughout their two-decade tenure the indie folk revival has come and gone; helmed by Fleet Foxes and Iron & Wine, only to come back full circle with Big Thief and Noah Kahan. And through it all Frontier Ruckus has remained steadfast in weaving their own brand of prosaic folk. Perhaps it should be less surprising that now, so deep into their journey, they have dropped the best work of their career.
And it isn't even close, really.
In 'On The Northline' Frontier Ruckus demonstrates tremendous growth: honing their ability to zero in on tight, heart-wrenching hooks, around which they construct richly sentimental melodies. In theory, this has always been the band's goal. The difference here is in approach. In focus. Gone are their past tendencies to indulge in bloated patchwork instrumentals or cracked lo-fi lyrical laments. Here their sound has developed an inviting, fundamental quality, that is not only broadly accessible, but heart achingly relatable. Each successive track seems to blossom in hues of autumn and gold, wrapping you in a blanket of rust scented memories.
Central to the nostalgic tone of the album is its locale - 'On The Northline' boasts a distinct and resonant sense of place. As mainstays of the modern rust belt gothic aesthetic the album conjures vivid imagery of eastern Michigan: where the ruins of Detroit decay into miles of memory masking mini malls and suburban ennui. Oh, the sights and sentiments it conjures: bright sunrises and budget banquet halls, expansive woodlands and empty whippet cans. Frontier Ruckus places you there, right on the edge of those sprawling concrete memories just before they are engulfed by the lush forests that flank the Great Lakes.
At the center of 'On The Northline' lie questions of loss and growth - and where to find them amidst ruinous surroundings. In it, corn syrup-sweet memories flow forth; of love longed and lost, and the sorrowful strain of stomaching these ups and downs as rust belt ruins whip by out the window:
"I'm sorry for what I became and what you've seen..."
"But lately this played out scene feels vaguely like a broken Coke Machine."
Their writing has a circuitous, diffusive quality that paints a patchwork quilt of snapshot moments - and the recognition that rises from the ashes of their recall. The work calls to mind Elliot Smith or Ben Gibbard - but its prose more personal, more rich with idiosyncrasies, its distinct rust belt backdrop an ideal framework to explore a more personal decay:
"Nothing will ever scare me like the chance of something good..."
"But I'll see you in the morning, together in that same town..."
Compared to prior works - most of which were great indie folk efforts in their own right - 'On The Northline' shines with an airtight melodic warmth and consistency that renders past efforts scratchy and slipshod by comparison. Another driver behind this change is in its production: the instrumentals feel warmer and more intimate than ever before, and are brought to life by deftly balanced, delicately layered multi part vocal harmonies. With former backing singer Anna Burch long gone - once a crucial player in balancing out the band's heartfelt but uneven vocal delivery - Matthew Milla has stepped up. Not only honing his vocal delivery but enriching it with an elegiac back porch quality in its production.
Carried by the strongest vocal delivery of their career, the band ties down and grounds their impressionistic lyricism with the precision-crafted melodies that can only come from nearly 20 years spent as artists in the scene. The minor key, melancholic tones are contrasted by a colorful variety of instrumentation: brightly whirling banjo, dirge-like cries of brass, beguiling singing saws, and bursts of melodica that surge like a sputtering technicolor veil.
At its core, this convergence of vivid color and bittersweet sentiment conveys the beauty of giving love, and how that act is determined by your environment. That in loving a home that is frayed at the edges, you come to love one another with an even firmer resolve:
"Past the Silverdome, where anyone could see,"
"The broken light in me - where the daylight used to bend..."
"Everywhere but beside you felt wrong."
To call this album a success would be contentious. With all of its whispered idiosyncrasies, this is unlikely to be the record that propels these Great Lakes veterans to the main stage success of their peers like Lord Huron or Bon Iver. Which is a shame. What it is, however, is an unassuming triumph. A quiet recognition of sense and self. A shoreline shotgun shack rendered in harmony and strings. And best of all, they left the back door open for you:
So kick off your boots and come on in.
