When your pseudonym is Ass, you’re just ass-king for it. Seriously. So let’s get the juvenile stuff out of the way first. Stockholm’s Andreas Soderstrom is Ass. (Insert Stockholm Syndrome joke here for even more mileage.) “What are you listening to, honey?” “I’m listening to my Ass! My Ass makes sweet sounds!” Yes, it does. Listeners will love what comes out of it. This music is perfect to listen to while sitting on one’s ass. By this, I do not mean the donkey, although a previous album featured an image of a donkey. Perhaps something was lost in translation. It’s a round white vinyl album with a tiny hole in the center. Perhaps, in Sweden, donkeys are white and round, who knows. All I can say is – reluctantly, begrudgingly, admiringly - this Ass kicks ass.
Salt Marsh is the third album of a triptych; the second installment was reviewed here in 2008. Much progress has been made during the ensuing time span. The basic elements are still present: Salt Marsh is an album of finger-picked steel guitar in the Rickard Jäverling vein, with the additional enhancement of banjo, horns, flutes, whistling, drums and so on. This time out, the music is fuller, more energized, better integrated, with an increased tonal variety and a sure-footed confidence. Each of the seven songs belongs; to remove one would be akin to removing a key scene from a theatrical performance. Andreas seems to be having a lot of fun; while the previous album was described as reflective, the follow-up is better summarized as happily comforting. One thing it does not sound is Swedish.
Perhaps it is time for us to admit that no region can claim a monopoly on a musical genre. British kids can perform Motown soul; Turks can perform post-rock; and Swedes can apparently play roots music. Nothing on Salt Marsh would seem out of place on Beyond Berkley Guitar, and therein lies its beauty: it’s an homage that threatens to surpass its source material. Without the benefit of reading a press release, one might imagine Ass as a backwoods Missouri quartet, with tall boots, worn jeans, chapped lips and chipped drinking glasses, improvising melodies and repeating the ones that made the mottled yellow mutt howl. But no – this is just one person with guests, across the sea, keenly attuned to the sounds rippling across the water.
An additional selling point of the album is its modernity; traditional as it may be, it also calls upon contemporary tropes in order to appeal to modern listeners. The bowed drone that underpins “Finders Capers” places it only a single degree of separation from sound-layering visionary Richard Skelton; the shimmering reverb and tangled percussive hints of “Ain’t Nobody Laughing at Me” call to mind the recent organic/processed culture clash of Nils Frahm & Anne Muller. In other words, no one would mistake this for a “found” recording; Salt Marsh is decidedly a thing of the present. This is exactly the sort of experimentation that pushes music forward. By blending styles without sacrificing the identity of the protagonist genre, Ass nudges American roots into an area that has yet to be defined. “Modern roots” sounds too oxymoronic; “contemporary folk” sounds too artsy; “hodgepodge” and “patchwork” sound too random. Perhaps something like “quilt music” would work, but without the somnambulant connotation.
The advice I have for Andreas should be obvious. Perhaps, due to your initials, you were teased as a kid, and you decided to make an Ass of yourself in response. But your music is way too compelling to be saddled with such a gangly moniker. Go by your own name – or perhaps even Salt Marsh, if it’s not taken – and you’ll find that a lot more people will give your music a chance. Be a smart Ass, not a dumbass, or be prepared for years of immature comments and a career weighed down by Google confusion and semantic distaste.
-Richard Allen