Reviews

Upon listening through the new LP The Harder Stuff by Nashville-based Americana troubadour, Nick Nace, I was left questioning whether or not the record was aptly named. On the one hand, an album which, on the surface, immediately conjures the carefree, riverboat sensibilities of Steve Goodman makes the listening (and the reviewing) experience unequivocally easy and peaceable.  However, the true genius of this record comes in the realization that, though Nace is being expertly guided down these gentle sonic waters by seasoned captain turned producer, Steven Cooper, he has chosen to spend the journey casting his cane pole into the murky depths and serving up the weighty and revelatory truths he reels in. 

 

In an age in which the term Americana seems to blanket anything which is even Roots adjacent, The Harder Stuff serves as a refreshing and dedicated reminder of the specific tonality by which the genre used to be defined and one which, somewhat ironically, is being released by a Canadian. Certainly, I’m by no means making a statement about the philosophical nuances of what “ought to be” considered Americana—or Folk music for that matter—nor am I a stickler for the rigid boundaries of genre placed on works of art primarily by those marketability minded; the point is, what Nace and his collaborators have achieved here is a beautiful work clear in its reverence for tradition but one which is far from a mere derivative of that which has come before it. It is a distinctly personal record which manages to achieve universality in the ancient internal conflict it seeks to convey— a weathered heart grasping for possibility and optimism. 

 

Take, for example, the record’s opening track “Figure 8’s”. This tune is as good an epitomization of any on the record of the fascinating “spoon full of sugar” approach Nace and Cooper nail again and again over the course of the LP. Sonically, the tune is a lilting, down the middle toe-tapper gilded in buttery B3, and the lyrics, on their surface, tell the seemingly lighthearted account of someone saving up to buy roller skates after the rent has been paid. What makes the song far more than that is the weary reality and grizzled facts of life from which the character hopes to skate away. With just three verses (two and a half, really), Nace manages to color a chorus which tags with the line “the good times ain’t gone for good” with an aching, Prine-ian irony. Though the chorus is undoubtedly hopeful in its unyielding trudge towards “summer days” and “that carefree place,” it is imbued with depth upon following one verse which describes the narrator’s narrow financial straits and another which describes two young siblings also born into harrowing circumstances and fighting by throwing toy train tracks—a metaphor for the means by which some escape, perhaps?—at each other. “Mary looks just like her daddy when she hits her little brother.” Still, the narrator chooses optimism and perseverance in dreaming up a pair of skates to whittle away the time in the driveway when better days inevitably arrive. “A little taste of freedom is as close as I will get. The good times, I can see ‘em. They just haven’t got here yet.” 

 

Variations on this theme of a character seeking redemption for the purgatory they find themselves in through the attainment of some external object or rekindling of some bygone identity pervades the subsequent tracks. In “There’s No Music in Music City”— a poignant description of the desolate silence that fell upon Nashville (and the world) during the Covid pandemic and the album’s first single—that redeeming force is a return to the musical identity that Nace has spent years building. In “Little Kid,” a character recognizes the distance they feel from the experiences of their life and the potentiality of their childhood, all while utilizing classic playground clichés to express and amplify this longing. In “The Rio Grande on Christmas Eve,” Nace takes a topographical approach which sets the wistfulness of Christmas against its seeming antithesis: the deserts of the American southwest. 

 

At last, on “The Piece that Fits” Nace takes on two of perhaps the most obvious archetypal objects of longing: religion and romantic connection. It opens with sheer lyrical mastery in introducing one of its protagonists: “Jenny joined a cult. It wasn’t all her fault. A heavenly father was better than none.” After leaving the cult, she finds herself penniless and with every bridge burned in a snowed in diner where the song’s narrator sits down next to her. The pair begin “comparing scars.” Ultimately, the couple forges a transformative, if temporary, bond lit up by the neon lights of Broadway (I presume) and cloaked in the shadow of the cross—each teaching the other a valuable lesson about choosing a hopeful perspective and daring to reach out and seize that which your heart truly longs for. Finally, the couple are forced apart while being pursued by law enforcement following a verse which finds them “so close, yet so far from heaven” on the roof of a church with pockets full of “the day’s collection.” Still, the constancy of the healing the characters find in each other are forever preserved in memory and in the reminder the chorus gives us: “When you’re scattered, completely shattered, gotta find the piece that fits.” 

 

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The second half of the record brings with it an important shift in tone in Nace’s exposé on interminable hope and, in a sense, a critique of its presence in the previous songs. Rather, the songwriter chooses to convey the irony in a heart which chooses to solely chase contentment that may or may not be waiting just over the next hill instead of recognizing it in the his present circumstance. This notion is expressed in the angst of unrequited love in “Someday is Too Far Away” (which was a brilliant choice to follow up “The Piece that Fits”). In “All the Love That You Need”, it takes the form of someone calling out a character’s failure to recognize that there is, presently, plenty of love to fulfill him if only he’d choose to see it. On the album’s titular track, Nace affirms his honky tonk authenticity by singing about the most classic of all coping mechanisms for angst: alcohol— importantly doing so in a way that remains fresh, substantial, and well above the level of cliché. 

 

Finally, on the last two tracks, “The Skin of Our Teeth” and “Last Call,” Nace seems to make some peace—albeit a restless one—with the reality that the hardships of one’s life may never fully abate, but within those hardships contentment, meaning, and possibility can always be derived by one willing to take that perspective. The former tells the story of a couple who are expecting a baby—which is to say it leans on the perfect symbol of potential beyond one’s individual scope as well as the sacrifice of what might objectively be an “easier” (or less expensive, at least) life by parents bringing a child into their care. The latter track—and the finale of the record—brings the listener into the mundane environment of a bar one has stayed in with their spouse until close because they long to hear the words “last call.” One can form their own interpretation of what Nace is intending with this statement—aside from the obvious play on the honky tonk aesthetic of “The Harder Stuff”— but, to me, it feels like a character striking a better—though still imperfect— balance between gratitude for what currently surrounds him and the feat of missing out on the possibility he believes exists just before him. Therefore, he feels compelled to see every evening to its confirmed conclusion. 

 

Ultimately, The Harder Stuff is an album for dreamers from a masterful songwriter who is no stranger to the constant, wearying vacillations between the euphoria of hope and the oft crushing reality of waiting for that hope’s fruition. As any great work of art must, Nick Nace, Steven Cooper, and the exceptional cast of musicians craft a sonic and lyrical journey that succeeds at various depths. For some, they can whistle along on the decks of a carefree journey down the river through a Wendell Berry-esque America. For others, they will find that the smoldering hope that where this riverboat docks might, indeed, be the land of milk and honey they’d long been searching for is not just shared by Nace but adeptly put into words by him. In retrospect, the title is apt. On The Harder Stuff, Nick Nace dares to confront one of Man’s most basal and distressing tendencies, but he does so in a way that is characteristically gentle and kind, and is undeniably easy going down. 

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Check out The Harder Stuff and keep up with Nick at nicknace.com.

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Personnel on The Harder Stuff:

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All Songs Written by Nick Nace

 

Last Call & Little Kid Written by Nick Nace & Steven Cooper 

 

Produced by Steven Cooper

 

Recorded at Smoakstack Studios, Nashville TN

 

Engineered by Zack Zinck 

 

Additional Production by Jon Latham

 

Additional Recording & Engineering by Owen Beverly, Nashville TN

 

Additional Recording by Steven Cooper, Nashville TN 

 

Mixed by Justin Nace

 

Last Call & All The Love You Need Mixed by Owen Beverly 

 

Mastered by Justin Perkins

 

Nick Nace - Vocals & Guitar 

Steven Cooper - Acoustic, Electric, Slide & Baritone Guitar, Bass, BGV’s

Jon Latham - 12 String Acoustic & Acoustic Guitar, BGV’s 

Todd Bolden - Bass 

Erin Nelson - Drums, Percussion

John Henry Trinko - Piano, Organ, Accordion 

Owen Beverly - Big Dumb Organ, BGV’s 

Megan Palmer - Fiddle

John Calvin Abney - Accordion, Bell