Saskatoon's Zachary Lucky is unapologetically old-school country,
armed with a husky, bass-heavy voice and a command of virtually every
folk guitar-slinger's tricks. He carries himself like a younger Richard Buckner or a heartier Doug Paisley, and he held the crowd in his sway during his Lawnya Vawnya set.
Instead of spotlights, Lucky was illuminated by silent, black and white film footage dating back to the 1920s or '30s. On occasion, he and his cowboy hat seemed at one with the bustling crowd scenes and aerial landscapes, simultaneously out of time and fitting into 2016 just fine.
That's the confusing temporal and geographical realm that Lucky occupies. He sings of Canadian places and people as knowingly as he might Townes Van Zandt or the Rio Grande. It's a relatable show on many levels, and conjures universal feelings that have passed through
our collective timelines.
Lucky is the forlorn embodiment of the Information Age, compelling and reassuring on one hand and coolly unsettling and of no place on the other.
armed with a husky, bass-heavy voice and a command of virtually every
folk guitar-slinger's tricks. He carries himself like a younger Richard Buckner or a heartier Doug Paisley, and he held the crowd in his sway during his Lawnya Vawnya set.
Instead of spotlights, Lucky was illuminated by silent, black and white film footage dating back to the 1920s or '30s. On occasion, he and his cowboy hat seemed at one with the bustling crowd scenes and aerial landscapes, simultaneously out of time and fitting into 2016 just fine.
That's the confusing temporal and geographical realm that Lucky occupies. He sings of Canadian places and people as knowingly as he might Townes Van Zandt or the Rio Grande. It's a relatable show on many levels, and conjures universal feelings that have passed through
our collective timelines.
Lucky is the forlorn embodiment of the Information Age, compelling and reassuring on one hand and coolly unsettling and of no place on the other.
