JEFF BERKLEY: A Buffalo Trace

The ten tracks on A Buffalo Trace run just shy of 35 minutes, but are so full of thoughtful, poignant self-reflection and philosophy, the album plays like a lifetime. The project feels personal. I mean personal to me, although I can’t put my finger on the actual experiences—Berkley brings it in close, makes the connection, and somehow makes me feel like it’s my own. Intentionally spare, the production at times is no more than Berkley’s voice and acoustic guitar, which brings a sense of intimacy and vulnerability. It’s polished but not squeaky clean; it’s a heartfelt conversation, offered up with honesty and finesse. It is exactly as it needs to be.

Berkley plays acoustic guitars, six-string banjo, drums, and some electric guitars. Jason Littlefield is on bass, Ben Zinn on electric guitar and pedal steel, Melissa Harley Dow on fiddle, and Cathryn Beeks on backing vocal. Everyone solidly hits the mark, both with ability and emotion. They form a natural blend of luscious parts that complete the recipe. I’ll talk more about them as I go along. I don’t review the songs in album order; I place them where they hit me.

“Don’t Water My Wine” has got a license on edginess. Between the slight overdrive effect on Berkley’s voice and his gritty delivery, he is right there with it. After half a minute of just acoustic guitar and voice, Zinn comes scorching in with just five raw notes on electric guitar, pulling the drums, banjo, and fiddle along with him. It’s full of tension as they fill every space, pleasantly bumping into each other, riding out a storm of their own making. Berkley stands his ground, as he sings, You wanna feel the lightning, just put your kite in the sky, but don’t steal my thunder, don’t step on my lines.

Beeks joins him on the chorus in soothing tones of harmony, temporarily mellowing the angst—until Zinn’s guitar solo breaks the spell at 1:23. He plays dissonant chords, raucous and boldly impulsive single notes, yet stays within the swing of the song. At 1:33, he does an unexpected pinball walk-down that makes me grind my teeth and reminds me of a WWII-era German police siren. Dow follows seamlessly on fiddle with plaintive, fluid chords, driving it forward to return to half a chorus—barely enough time to catch my breath. They’re all playing on the last verse: the drums are insistently sparse and heavy; electric guitar and fiddle trade lines behind Berkley’s vocals, mixed to ride beautifully on top of it all in an agonizing, almost-whisper. You don’t know the danger of your own backdraft. Don’t fuel my fire, don’t blow your stack. Don’t water my wine, don’t hold me back. Believe me, I wouldn’t think of it.

Recorded in a live take, “Firewater” opens with fingerpicking on acoustic guitar, and its reassuring, rolling melody line draws me in. The verses are painful and desperate confessions: Firewater in my veins, whiskey pulls like a train. Firewater, nothin’s real. Gassed up, can’t feel. The chorus answers back with acceptance and trust: Something wild in the flower. There is lightning in the bug. Shadows glow in the golden hour and wrap around me like a hug. More intoxicating than a drug. And all I can feel is love, love, love.

Berkley’s voice breaks each time on that second line of the chorus and carries an earnest hopefulness and expectation of goodness. The last time he sings the word “love,” his voice dips so deep and resonant it’s like the ring of a wooden chime, or the low drone of a Tibetan monk. It melts me into a blissful state of release. The guitar’s opening melody line returns each time between the chorus and verses; it’s a comfort and lets me know things will turn out all right. The bridge pleads openly yet finishes with a declaration: Don’t run away and put me on the shelf. I will protect you always, even from myself.

Berkley is on a mission—he feels it, he knows it, and he’s letting me know. All the reasons, all the ways, getting better every day.

This is one of three songs on the album recorded in a live take. Berkley’s decision to keep them so stripped down and minimal speaks as much to his genius as a producer as it does to his ability to hold me with nothing more than his guitar and voice. I stand in awe.

“The Beavers and the Crows” begins with acoustic guitar accented with clean electric guitar single notes. From the opening lines, I know this a family history, a family tree, a calling out of a lineage that dates back more than 300 years. Benjamin Beaver and Mary Pierce, it was the 1700s, before the Trail of Tears. Banjo joins guitar at :48 with a crystal-clear tone, followed by pedal steel and bass at 1:04. William and Mary marched toward Tahlequah, known by Billie and Polly, in the hills of Arkansas. Up in the Ozark mountains, they got away, lived among the white man, in the land of the mighty Osage. Drums enter at 1:26, along with a short fiddle solo, played in lively single notes. Together, they bring a new vibe that seems to emphasize the steady, inevitable passing of time. The naming of names continues. James and Magie, the Beavers and Crows, had a great big family, that just kept on growin’. Life wasn’t so easy way back up in those hills. They got by with love and hope, blood, sweat, and will. Berkley plays a short, spunky solo on electric guitar at 2:03, resolute as the song is rushing toward present day. Fiddle backs the next couple of verses, and the layers of instruments keep building. A banjo solo at 2:42 is a clear celebration, full chords strummed with heart and determination. Fiddle picks up the banner at 2:55, playing chords and single notes in effortless solidarity. Pedal steel begins at 3:09 and continues behind the last two verses, where we have finally arrived at Berkley’s life and where he fits in. Jimmy and Melanie live off the land. They taught me how to shoot a gun, they taught me common sense. They fell in love in California, but it didn’t feel like home. Now they’re back up in the Ozark mountains, right where we all belong. There, he’s said it. Berkley has a strong love of family, of connection, and of his place in that long line. The fiddle begins an extended solo at 3:32 for the outro, starting with deep notes that rise and fall, growing in stature as if to count and rejoice in all who were part of those 300 years. They are all counted.

Another live take, “Abracadabra” is a love song. Berkley opens the song fingerpicking acoustic guitar with his usual perfection, it is simple and to the point, with playful hammer accents. This song bares an innocence and tenderness, as if sung to a child who’s now grown, by a father who will never stop being one. I wish I had the magic words, when your heart is black and blue. What’s the incantation that makes a miracle for you? I used to think I didn’t know, but maybe I do. Abracadabra, I love you. Berkley’s voice is prominently placed above the guitar, and it feels like it’s right there in my head. I can hear every vocal nuance—the breaks, the breath, and the way he hangs on his words—which makes me believe every word he’s singing. I don’t doubt the depth of emotion or the love he holds for this person. The bridge suggests she may be in crisis and he councils her. It ain’t calculus or rocket surgery. It ain’t a riddle or a code that needs a key. It’s just the words that tell you what you mean to me, but right now it’s way too difficult to see. He finishes with the line he first suggested might be an incantation. By then, I accept it as one: Abracadabra, I love you. Abracadabra, I love you.

“This Town Has Changed” begins with Berkley on electric guitar—raspy and distorted—accompanied by bass and drums. His voice is dark and gravelly, with a slight thinly EQ’d delay that contributes to a feeling of despair. The first verse is open between the lyrics, with only bass and drums providing the groove. Electric guitar picks up behind the second verse, adding an extra edge. They bulldozed the park and moved the bats. SoHo, NoHo can’t tell where I’m at. Even Willie effin Nelson can’t find his way around the way this town has changed. Things sound pretty dire until the chorus breaks. With Beeks back on multi-track harmonies, she lifts the sentiment, and it begins to sound like things may be okay. This town has changed for the worse and for the better. Rearranged by time and heat and weather. Just like me and you, it’s held together. This old town might go on forever. I haven’t noticed it before, but on the chorus, Berkley pronounces the final “r” of each line rhetorically, something I tend to do myself, and find pleasing to my ear. At 1:32, the electric guitar returns for a short, pensive solo with rough edges and long notes that border on harmonic distortion. I like that. It continues to whine behind the third verse on one note broken here and there, creating tension, until the chorus breaks again. The bridge follows immediately, sounding like a mantra or affirmation. The more things change, the more they stay the same. If you can’t help, just get out of the way. Something bright and beautiful is on the way. ‘Cause this town has changed, it’s rearranged. This town has changed, but we’ll be ok. Electric guitar and vocals do a sort of call and response back and forth as the song closes. Yeah, we’ll be ok.

Remaining songs include the title track “A Buffalo Trace”; the banjo-centric and album opener “We’ll Be OK”; the upbeat, swinging “So Are You,” with its low-note diggy-diggy guitar and pedal steel fills and solo; the snappy “People”; and “The Trail Untraveled,” written by Joel Rafael.

Produced and mixed by Jeff Berkley, the album was recorded by Robb Robinson, Ryan Finch, and Jeff Berkley at Satellite San Diego, and mastered by Robb Robinson at Robinson Mastering. It’s available on all streaming platforms and should be listened to profusely. I mean it.

Join Berkley for a special night of live music celebrating the release of A Buffalo Trace with intimate performances and guest appearances. Album release show is on Saturday, September 6 at 7pm, The Jazz Lounge, 6818 El Cajon Blvd, San Diego, 92115. Tickets are available at: www.thejazzlounge.live