Entrance

It’s easy and even fun to question Entrance’s credibility as a bluesman. He’s 21, has a dashing gait and travels the continent — it doesn’t sound like a life of chisels driven under his toenails and shit milkshakes for dessert. Still, subtly, the very act of inquisition qualifies him for some sort of "the blues,” and his pared-down, acoustic picking is almost post-apocalyptic in the Grapes of Wrath labour camp sense. Entrance, born Guy Blakeslee in the ’80s, cosies under your arm quickly with a feminine voice and playing that hints of Honeyboy Edwards, if that means anything to you. For the non-Blue McGoos out there, it’s an early sound, the kind of fetish Jack White and Robert Plant sneak out after dark with, which Entrance’s lilt gets along very well with. Perhaps an eight-bar joke for insiders, Entrance hits us early with an eight-minute lament that’s a little preposterously huge, but otherwise, thanks to sweet fiddles, rusty slide and a real understanding of the past, this is a great record, unconcerned with cool despite being such.