Friday Night Jukebox, Vol. CDXLVIII--Gregory Alan Isakov: Saint Valentine

 This week's tune is another recommended by my darling daughter, though it took a while for the song to catch my fancy--but once it did, it quickly became a fave.  As I was doing my half-assed research this week, I noticed that Nathaniel Rateliff, whose song "S.O.B." (great tune, too) was recommended to me by my oldest son, had provided backing vocals on this week's featured album.  So you might say that this week's post is a family affair....

Gregory Alan Isakov was born in South Africa in 1979, and his family moved to the U.S. in 1986, settling in Philadelphia.  Isakov began playing in bands at the age of sixteen, and eventually moved to Colorado to study horticulture at Naropa University.  He continued playing gigs while supporting himself as a gardener and self-released his first album in 2003.  Isakov would self-release his next three LPs before starting his own label in 2013.  His 2019 album Evening Machines was nominated for a Grammy Award for Best Folk Album.  For his career, Isakov has released seven studio albums and one live album.  While not a household name, Isakov has been making a living as a musician for twenty years now which has to be at least as enjoyable as gardening....

"Saint Valentine" was on Isakov's meteorologically named 2013 release, The Weatherman.  The song was not released as a single, and the album did not hit the Billboard 200.

Every now and again a song continues to get more enjoyable with each listen, and this week's tune is one such example.  Isakov weaves the tale of a love lost and the search for home, and his whimsical vocals don't let the heartfelt veer into the maudlin.  He has a nice touch with words--the lyrics are a cut above your standard pop fare, including a chat with the patron Saint of love, who gets told by the protagonist that he's "...all fucked up" (in fairness, on occasion St. Valentine is).  The acoustic guitar is lovely, the music is as sweet as it is hopeful, and all in all it's a terrific piece of folk pop--which is always a welcome listen for me....

Lyric Sheet:  "Well, Grace she's gone, she's a half-written poem/She went out for cigarettes and never came home/And I swallowed the sun and screamed and wailed/Straight down to the dirt so I could find her trail..."

Enjoy:

Republicans = Nazis

Peace,

emaycee