John Minton, Going Back to Vicksburg (Southern Can, 2004)

Although the liner notes don't say so, John Minton is an associate professor of folklore at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne. But don't be fooled; this is no academic look at traditional Southern folk music. Instead, Going Back to Vicksburg hosts a baker's dozen original songs penned by Minton. He leads The Possum Trot Orchestra, and is almost an orchestra unto himself. He is credited with playing all manner of guitar, bass, accordion, organ, and percussion. The Orchestra is filled out by Charlie Gilbert on banjo and Dave Kartholl on mandolin and bowed bass. The album also has The Flying Suraci (Rob and Susie) on vocals.

At the fore is Minton's hushed vocal style. There are times when it is barely more than a whisper and this keeps the songs on the soft and easy side. The title track starts things off with a celebratory shuffle and some soulful backing vocals courtesy of the Suracis. While it is a fun little song, it betrays the overall weakness of the album which is that it stays too close to the middle of the road. I felt like the song had an exuberance bubbling underneath that just couldn't make it to the surface. "The Hot Springs Murder" suffers similarly. Minton crafts little stories in his songs very well and I love some of the internal rhyme schemes such as "As the window pane / rattles like a chain / that binds you to what little else remains." Unfortunately, the storytelling is almost without feeling. At over eight minutes, "The Wild Ox Moan" is too long and the processed vocals seem an unnecessary anomaly.

Musically, the album is wonderful. The playing is tight and there are some great solos from Minton. His accordion adds the perfect color to the doleful "Midnight On the Water" while his spare drumming keeps the time but is never ostentatious. The melodies are immediately accessible and demonstrate Minton's great love for the folk and music of the American South. However, his vocals betray a distance between him and the subject matter; they're too smooth and not gritty enough to convey a sense that he's lived the stories he tells.