WHISKEY & BURLAP: Milkman

Whiskey & Burlap’s Milkman sounds like it crawled out of a forgotten roadside juke joint somewhere off old Highway 61—sung straight into an oil can, sun-baked, dented, and full of life. The album opens with “Cooped Up Goin’ Nuts,” a grainy, naturally lo-fi romp that immediately sets the tone. There’s a cartoonish bounce to it, something charming and slightly unhinged, like a Steamboat Willie reel flickering in the background. Camille Sallave’s vocals swagger and sway before giving way to a rip-roaring mandolin solo from Ethan van Thillo, announcing early on that this band’s rough edges are matched by real musical muscle.

Across its 11 tracks, Milkman unfolds like a series of short films. The trio—Sallave (vocals, percussion, ukulele), Van Thillo (mandolin, vocals), and Craig McIntosh (guitar, violin, bass, vocals)—weave their voices in and out with ease, creating a communal feel that never sounds cluttered. The compositions are simple on the surface but carefully arranged, allowing vivid, image-rich lyrics to do the heavy lifting. Each song feels lived in, transporting you directly into its setting.

“Beech and Bancroft,” the album’s third track, is a standout moment. Led by Sallave, it plays like a haunted lullaby—tender, unsettling, and deeply moving. Her voice carries a fragile intimacy, floating over sparse instrumentation that lets the emotion linger long after the final note fades.

Throughout Milkman, Whiskey & Burlap lean into honest storytelling and unpolished textures, trusting the songs to speak for themselves. In an era often obsessed with gloss and perfection, the album is a reminder that sincerity and quality musicianship still have a place in today’s musical landscape. Milkman doesn’t chase trends—it pours a glass of something strong, pulls up a chair, and invites you to listen.