Once upon a time not so long ago the musical sub-genre variously known as alt-country / y’allternative / No Depression / cosmic country / cosmic American music was born (mostly in the Far West), and its practitioners were demigods who stalked the earth with a fusion of twang and psychedelic feedback in their wake. Call them Cosmic Americanus Rex: the Byrds, the Buffalo Springfield, the Dillards, the Gosdin Brothers, the Flying Burrito Brothers, Poco, Gene Clark, Gram Parsons, Michael Nesmith, Clarence White, Neil Young, J.D. Souther, Rick Nelson (and you know, where the hell is Ned Doheny?). These twang titans also sported fellow travelers for better (Little Feat, Jerry Garcia) and for worse (Parsons idolaters/body-snatchers the Eagles, the Rolling Stones). Somewhere amidst this first flowering of the dubiously named country rock, a more concise and pop-oriented version of what far out explorers such as Parsons and Nesmith were discovering sprouted up under the aegis of such ’70s FM radio stalwarts as America, Seals & Crofts, Loggins & Messina, and Bread.
The Brooklynites in emergent countryish soft rock outfit Maplewood, who also do double-duty in such bands as Koester, Nada Surf, Champale and Winterville, pay not too slavish homage to both the acid-drenched pinnacles of cosmic Americana and the desert rock of America (RIP Ian Samwell). It’s definitely “twinkling Western sky music,” as Hendrix once said of their forebears Crosby, Stills & Nash. With the exception of “Sea Hero’s” bling-blip coda on disc, there is no electro or Theremin to make the compositions for their first long-player “modern”; “Desert Queen” shows the influence of “White Horses”, but this is generally hazy country, psych-pop which could potentially benefit from the full on Arthur Lee/Bruce Botnick orchestral treatment.
Different from Arizona’s Calexico in that there’s no immediate symbolism of sand nor mariachi, and from the Los Angelenos in Beachwood Sparks for purveying tighter, more focused and less solipsistic tunes that might actually crack radio, Maplewood are one toke away from the cosmos and harbingers of a movement already afoot. As when Keith Whitley sang “Buck”, a backlash against late New Country and the teen pop that dominates the airwaves is well underway. Immediately, the lilting, easy, three-part harmonies of Steve Koester, Mark Rozzo and Craig Schoen (co-founder Ira Elliott was on tour with Nada Surf) draw the line in the sand between them and Orlando’s synchronized singing boy bands. If they don’t quite attain the heights of the Beach Boys’ supposed harmonic perfection nor that of those ’70s masters Maurice White and Phillip Bailey — and there were two spots at the band’s recent Knitting Factory show where the vocal blend went flat — Maplewood nevertheless are prime contenders for the mantle yet to be bestowed by the giants: Stephen Stills, Richie Furay, David Crosby, Chris Hillman and the ghosts of Gene Clark and Parsons on high.
The central problem with the Beachwood Sparks (woodsy theme a-go go here in these group monikers, no?) is that Chris Gunst’s voice is not strong enough to support their musical ambitions and Brent Rademaker, who is better, never sings lead. Maplewood’s Koester and Rozzo display no such weakness. This fact, combined with the gorgeous accessibility of their songs, especially the sublime “Indian Summer”, should see them poised to penetrate the mass in a way other “Return Of Country Rock” standard bearers like the Sparks, the mighty Bobby Bare Jr., and assorted idolaters of the post-Flyte, post-Sweetheart Of The Rodeo Byrds have not managed to do. At the Knit, the sole whiff of angst came from the fragile and virtually chamber rock “Bright Eyes”, and somewhat from “Santa Fe” and the Sparks-esque “Sea Hero”. Otherwise, reflecting their slogan “Maplewood feels good”, the band effectively conveyed a hay cartload of peaceful easy feelings.
Their music evokes a mythic (alternative) American pastoral of pleasant valley Sundays replete with a potential fiddle-heavy jam, sweet tea or lemonade sweating in a blown-glass pitcher, lazy dogs snoring on the wraparound porch and Mayan hammocks swinging ‘neath the flowering trees. Makes you want to hit the highway and fly on the ground past the outer limits. This was made literal during “Be My Friend” as its melody echoed the Byrds’ “Wasn’t Born To Follow”, thus rolling the post-commune skinny-dipping scene from Easy Rider behind one’s eyelids. Even as Maplewood make plans to release their debut toward the end of the year, and they are more than primed for deserved adulation, their current minor tragedy is that they are not out in some place like the Jemez hot springs, but bound to Gotham. And for all that this metropolis possesses its own concrete canyons, peaks and valleys and the odd eagle gargoyle, this is music that belongs to the wider open spaces of The Farm in Tennessee, Joshua Tree and Topanga. From: https://www.popmatters.com/maplewood-030408-2496083539.html
