Out On the Open West

Frank Fairfield loves old 78s and he’s learned how to replicate them as a performer, his high lonesome voice and his halting, ragged guitar, banjo, and fiddle style making him sound like he was born in some Appalachian hollow a century ago. He was, in fact, born in the San Joaquin Valley a mere two-dozen years ago, and whether by accident or design, he’s found a style that resonates deeply with audiences hungry for a glimpse of a time they must imagine was simpler and somehow purer than a 21st century world full of gadgets, twittering, and digitally driven supply-side economics. It’s probably not accurate to say that Fairfield is posing — he truly loves his 78s and he’s simply playing music that he loves — but it looks like a pose nonetheless, because when you tour with the Fleet Foxes as their opening act, you probably don’t need to ride freight cars. In a way, Fairfield is like a Civil War reenactor, re-creating a past in the safety of the now, a literal walking museum of old-time music. He is, quite simply, a facsimile as a performer, and that generally leads to a creative dead end because, well, the only way to not be a facsimile is to become the thing itself, and that’s impossible. It’s not a century ago, and all the recordings that Fairfield bases his sound on have already been made and are readily available in the digital realm. He can only approximate them. With his second album, Out on the Open West, Fairfield may have glimpsed a way out of this time/space conundrum. He still sounds like a backporch fiddler from the 19th century, but this time out, he’s written most of the songs himself, which joins then to now in a way that covering old 78s doesn’t. Songs here like “Frazier Blues,” “Someday You’ll Be Free,” and “Poor Old Lance” may sound ancient, but they aren’t. By writing and recording them, Fairfield turns himself from being a facsimile of the past into a reflection of it. It’s a small difference, but an important one. Life is lived forward.