Ben Harper’sgoal for his new album was simple, but it wasn’t easy.

“I wanted to dosomething that would push the limits of acoustic soul music,” says the37-year-old singer-guitarist, whose eclectic body of work stretches from the urgent folk rock of Welcome to the Cruel World, his 1994 debut, to the haunted gospel of There Will Be a Light, his 2004 collaboration with the Blind Boysof Alabama.Recorded and mixed on all-analog equipment over seven daysin Paris immediately following a tour with his longtime backing band,the Innocent Criminals, Lifeline finds Harper pushing limits bystripping down. “It’s as live a record as I think you’ll find today,”he says. We sat down with Harper at his favorite organic-foods spot inVenice, California.


You made Lifeline without taking a break after coming off the road. Had you wanted to do that for a while? For the longest time. But it was always a matter of the tours being superlong, or only having the time at the end of a year’s worth of touring, or just the expenditure of it all. This time, I just stumbled on a time in my life when it was all possible. We had the time, the place, the technicians, the instruments.

Even though they were recorded differently, do you think any of your older albums have Lifeline’s immediacy? The closest I got was the Blind Boys record. There was a week or two-week gap [between touring and recording] on that one, so you still had that grease on you and you still had your chops in your back pocket. I’ve discovered that the more time you take off, the more you really have to recommit to your chops. And then you end up leaning on technology: “Let’s do it over and put this there and the other thing in the other place.” Coming right off the road, it’s an absolute extension of touring; second takes don’t make sense. If you have to overdub harmonies or whatever, okay — there’s a certain amount of embellishing you do. But recording live gives the foundation that much more stability.

Recording with computer software such as Pro Tools, for instance, creates something less stable? I’ve recorded entire records on Pro Tools, proudly. So I’m not trying to insult the other process or say that one is better than the other. But this record had to have that sound for it to have its sonic, emotional, musical authenticity. I thought if I’m gonna make a record right off the road — and if I really want it to be as raw as possible — I’ve gotta keep that out of the equation.

Did the songs you’d written for Lifeline demand this kind of recording process, or did you write songs with the process in mind? A combination of both. I wrote to the goal. But also, I got to the first sound check of the first show and said to my band, “We’ve spared no expense to bring the best sound humanly possible to our fans. You guys are the best musicians in the world. Let’s do something constructive with this time.” So everybody brought to the table all the ideas that they had accumulated in their lives. As a band, we all wrote the music together; then I threw the lyrics on top.

Was everyone in the band on board with the idea from the get-go? Right off the bat. There was no hesitation. The only challenge was: Could we really be that democratic? There was a time when this band wouldn’t have been able to do this record. But we’ve grown and evolved to the place where we could actually hear each other instead of hearing our individual egos.

You’re able to lead the band and at the same time function as a member of the band? I think this record proves that I am.

Were there battles over the music while you were in the studio? It was 98 percent battle-free.

What did the two percent have to do with? Just a differing of opinion as to where things should start or end. You know, “Should we go this chord or that chord?” It was nothing that would derail the session on any level.

Do you think you’ll make your next record like this? You seem more interested in changing methods than sticking to one, even when the one yields good results. The thought of having to make a record that sounds like something else I’ve done terrifies me. That’s why when “Steal My Kisses” [from 1999’s Burn to Shine] came out, I was like, Okay, I won’t be doing anything that sounds like that for a while! It's not that I'm trying to avoid having a hit, I'm just not going to get tied into a formula.

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Steve Earle Washington Square Serenade (New West)
Since relocating to New York City in 2005 with his wife, country singer Allison Moorer, Steve Earle has become a mini “King of All Media”: He’s the host of his own Sirius radio show, an actor on HBO’s The Wire, an esteemed playwright and a published author, and, yes, still one of roots music’s preeminent practitioners. Produced by John King of the Dust Brothers and recorded at NYC’s famed Electric Lady Studios, Earle’s first album in three years feels like a postcard from his new city. It opens with “Tennessee Blues,” a kiss-off to his longtime home base of Nashville, a place the rebellious and iconoclastic singer clearly never felt comfortable in (“Fare thee well, I’m bound to roam … Goodbye, Guitar Town,” he sings, referencing his 1986 ode to Music City, “Guitar Town”). The balance of the disc is much as you might expect: a collection of finely etched story songs in the mold of Earle’s late mentor, Texas wordsmith Townes Van Zandt, with music that offers spare folk-pop arrangements spiced up with modern backbeats and world-music flourishes. Though Earle’s first few postcomeback albums, including 1995’s Train a Comin’ and 1996’s I Feel Alright, were models of efficiency — there was nary a wasted note, breath, or thought — his more recent work has been occasionally uneven. The new disc is no exception, as it reveals its share of duds, namely the beat-poet exercise “Down Here Below” and the rather pedestrian entry “Satellite Radio.” Still, those few missteps are made up for elsewhere. Like his pal Bruce Springsteen, Earle pays heartfelt homage to folk legend Pete Seeger with “Steve’s Hammer (For Pete)” and the closing combination of “Days Aren’t Long Enough” (a gorgeous duet with Moorer). Those two songs, and his version of Tom Waits’s “Way Down in the Hole,” a menacing postmodern take on fire-and-brimstone gospel, are more than enough to redeem the record. — Bob Mehr
Joe Henry Civilians (Anti-)
Though Joe Henry is still probably best known as the man behind the early-’90s classics Short Man’s Room and Kindness of the World (and as Madonna’s brother-in-law), since the beginning of this decade, his own recording career has taken something of a backseat to his other musical pursuits. As a producer, he’s helmed various soundtrack projects (Knocked Up) and singer-songwriter records (Aimee Mann, Ani DiFranco) and has even helped revive the careers of soul veterans like Solomon Burke and Bettye LaVette. In between all that activity, he’s turned in his second album for the hip Los Angeles imprint Anti-, following 2003’s chaotic character study Tiny Voices. The new disc finds Henry in a more pensive and political mood, as songs like “Civil War” and “Time Is a Lion” implicitly and explicitly offer views on the current states of war and peace, love and hate. For connoisseurs of craft, Henry’s writing is an absolute joy, drawing effortlessly on classic pop, roots, and folk traditions and alchemizing these various strains into a single, sweet sound. Aiding in his effort are a group of tasteful studio hands — including pianist Van Dyke Parks, guitarist Bill Frisell, and Dobro player Greg Leisz — who imbue the tracks with a warm, lived-in quality that serves to highlight Henry’s sharp narratives and deceptively complex melodies. — B.M.
Harlan T. Bobo I’m Your Man (Goner Records)
In his early 40s, Memphis singer-songwriter Harlan T. Bobo seemed to emerge out of nowhere with his critically acclaimed 2003 debut, Too Much Love — an intensely autobiographical meditation on obsession, passion, and pain that was spurred by a failed romance. His long-in-the-making follow-up, I’m Your Man, is a somewhat less tortured affair. Much of the album sounds as if it were written under the influence of MOR godhead Lee Hazlewood. In many ways, the record plays like one of Hazlewood’s conceptual late-night platters — that is to say, it’s an album pickled in scotch, cured in cigarette smoke, and steeped in regret.When you hear the charmingly gruff Bobo sing-speak his way through the verses of “My Life,” lamenting how he won’t ever have the “family of his dreams,” it’s clear that the songs are less about being in the desperate throes of heartbreak and more about dealing with the dashed dreams and postmortem realities of a dead love affair. Bobo isn’t just a purveyor of musical gloom and doom, though. Several songs hint at a lighter range of influences: Check out the curiously loping title track, which sounds like Harry Nilsson recasting Billy Swan’s devotional “I Can Help,” and the intricate Beach Boys harmonies that flash across “Baptist Memorial Hospital.” It’s almost as if somewhere, lurking beneath all the bruised emotions, there’s a sunny pop tunesmith waiting to break free. — B.M.