The Singles Jukebox

Spooky or creaky?

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[5.00]

Edward Okulicz: When Williams sings the titlular line she half-swallows it, as if she knows it would scan better if “twenty” had one syllable. She teases us as “I know this road like the back of my hand” threatens to become a rousing anthem for a mere moment. Admire her as I do, I like this song better when she stops singing.
[4]

Alfred Soto: Will someone please explain to this once great singer-songwriter how slurring has destroyed her talent? She’s writing songs to match the slur: ponderous, convinced of their importance, recalling folk and blues artists but abjuring specifics, a fucking grind to listen to. I don’t care how many expensive slide guitars whine support.
[3]

Megan Harrington: Williams’s voice is lethal. I feel it wrapping around my neck. Tighter and tighter. I pray for lifelessness and she keeps singing. It’s a potent and affective decision to keep the arrangement minimal. The guitar can’t measure up to Williams, but it’s wrenched and poignant, still. She is Dylanesque in a way he hasn’t managed in a good decade.
[9]

Cassy Gress: It’s dark, cold, a little breezy. You’re standing on the side of a highway lined with firs and thinking you should have brought warmer clothes. Occasionally a car comes over the hill and passes you by, headlights flaring as it hits a stray bump. Footsteps crunch on the grass behind you. A woman clutches your sleeve, her bony fingers curling into themselves, her breathing quiet and intense. She has abided in these dark woods a mighty long time and she will be damned if you do not hear her story.
[8]

Anthony Easton: The best thing about seeing Lucinda live in concert is that she is not afraid of being loud, fast, and a little sexy. Her recorded music since Car Wheels on a Gravel Road seems to have lost those qualities. Though she continues to be rewarded for this kind of dirge, I find it harder to slog through. I’m not even sure she has an interesting voice anymore. 
[3]

Thomas Inskeep: Her voice, like a sun-dried, weather-beaten old saddle, is a divisive instrument. I like it because it pairs so well with her Southern gothic lyrics. The instrumentation here does what it’s supposed to: stays out of the way. Ultimately, this is all about the lyrics, which are superb.
[7]

Brad Shoup: What’s happening on Lucinda’s radio? I can’t imagine that Luke Bryan is  serenading her through Nebraska, but I also can’t imagine what else she  could be referring to. I’ve caught country stations in New England, I  tuned into NPR in the Everglades. AM radio, that’s the true haunted  house: agitated callers alternating with local hucksters, niche songs  for overlooked people, all of it assailed by static. Maybe that’s a  small detail to argue about, but “Ghosts of Highway 20” is seven minutes  of reflexive long-haul porn, cruising grimly over “House of the Rising  Sun” chords, seeing nothing but decay where actual life exists. (She  notes “used cars for sale” as if that were the worst option.) The title  is wielded like an existential blackjack: Williams and the ghosts and  her vehicle, a blithe death cult seeing nought but shadows from Boston  to Newport. What’s most galling about this is the presence of the god  Bill Frisell, who’s fashioned a career from translating the miniature  wonders of rest stops and town square diners.  Beyond a buzzy intro that sounds a little like “She Looks So Perfect,”  he’s stuck hacking at telephone poles and billboards, trying to bring  them down to a size Williams can taunt.
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