By Ian Bremner

Few things in the world feel like hitting play on a new record from an artist you love for the first time. I felt it this morning with the sun in my eyes and a dog on a leash. Part of fun is wondering what Sturgill Simpson is going to sound like, or Johnny Blue Skies for that matter. From ragtime to EDM, it wouldn’t bat an eye, but my eyes welled up twice before 10am. Artists don’t owe fans a damn thing. Those who cater to expectations are usually the first to get tossed aside by said fans who are quick to move on. We’re lucky Sturgill has never done that. His magic is making a fool of just about anyone who thinks they know his music or the source thereof.

I’d have been happy to hear Sturgill whisper in Japanese or hum children’s lullabies. Either is not entirely out of the question. By shedding his name for a mythical new moniker, you can feel the freedom in the sound, in the delivery. It’s beautiful, soulful, familiar and somehow yet another curveball. He is an artist out in the high seas, without a net, with the muse his only winds.