How long has it been since the first indie artist turned toward a troubadour’s drawl and a Western backdrop? While the answer may be a little ambiguous with some answers tracing back to the early 2000s and others even farther, it’s hard to argue that indie folk as a genre has seen itself withered down over the years. Now the troubadour writes bad pop songs, their acoustic guitars strumming a few poorly mixed chords and their lyrics playing with uninspired—or maybe over-inspired?—hooks, blending them into songs more indulgent than impressive.
And that isn’t to say that Chris Porterfield’s band isn’t guilty of indie folk’s more mundane cliches—he still strums the same chords and sings of torn hearts. But Field Report’s Marigolden lets those folk cliches breathe into open air. The indie sheen that confines so much of indie folk’s more renowned songwriting is either stripped back completely (“Ambrosia”) or cast into a canyon to echo across the ravines (“Wings”).
Taking an approach similar to their fellow Wisconsinite Justin Vernon (Bon Iver), Field Report recorded their sophomore album atmospherically—often, the most striking moments are those that break structure and expand into points of ambiance. A dancing slide guitar and bellowing synthesizer build up the album’s highest moments, with “Wings” taking center stage with its layered synths and “Michelle’s” Wisconsin romance—the only place where “I love you like a lamprey” can really make sense—glows with its subtle groove.
Similarly, Field Report can strip back their larger sound to Chris Porterfield playing solo; on “Ambrosia,” Porterfield plays a somber set of simple piano chords and sings. Elsewhere, their instrumentation shines individually, with chimed guitars blending through the title track and expansive synthesizers dueting with a somber slide guitar on “Pale Rider.”
Field Report stands out in the ether; not for abandoning the same tropes plaguing the modern troubadour (backwoods love songs seem inescapable at this point), but for building onto those tropes with expansive soundscapes. Marigolden’s album cover sums up its ten songs pretty well–Porterfield and company sit atop a canyon, shining folk-singer headlights into its winding abyss. Their sounds roll off the cliff sides, fading into some permeable distance where echoes grow beyond their songs.
Rating: B+
