Vic Chesnutt - The songwriter who flirted with death (but loved life)

James Victor “Vic” Chesnutt was a curious character. Sharp yet delicate. A mournful and hilarious master of self-deprecation thanks to his oblique, ultimately inextinguishable humor, the raw material through which he sublimated the dramatic impulses of his fierce, desperate existentialism. He was a humble, down-to-earth artist, but one who never shied away from the lightness of a poetic flourish, nor bothered to silence his joyfully surrealist streak. Above all, though, he was an author passionately devoted to concreteness and humanity, a stay-at-home Woody Guthrie by necessity, an extraordinary witness to the vast American periphery, as incisive as few others despite the hardships of his vantage point on reality. Vic was, in the end, his own limitation, his own wheelchair. And his skill lay in transcending it, in turning it into a transparent extension of his own self. It's impossible to trace any biographical account of him without starting from the crucial turning point of that car accident, the unforeseen event that instantly wiped out the ordinary prospects of an eighteen-year-old like any other, reshaping them into a completely different picture, into a new person, into the imaginative storyteller we would come to know and love.

Among the more unusual aspects of Chesnutt's human story, it's worth mentioning the chronicle of his life that he wrote himself in the third person, the skeleton of a list left online since the long-gone days of Myspace pages and still present on the singer's website, frozen at his second-to-last release and destined never to be completed. It's amusing to find, in strict chronological order, the stages of a highly peculiar artistic education, from the date and place of birth in the first line (Jacksonville, Florida, 1964) and that simple word just below it, adopted, all the way to the work and collaborations of his mature years, stumbling here and there on bizarre or marginal episodes evidently deemed precious enough for the album of his own memories: meeting the Cohens, the Dylans, the Cashes and Sgt. Pepper at a tender age, the guitar he received from his parents as a Christmas gift in 1980 to console him over the death of John Lennon, the writing of his first vacuous pop songs, producing the debut album of his niece Liz Durrett, or the little gem of being called an "idiot" by none other than Allen Ginsberg. Half-hidden in the middle of this abundant collection of anecdotes are two terse words — car and crash — next to the year 1983, marking the crucial turning point of his entire life.

Trying to understand Vic Chesnutt today without placing his formation and his work in context is an effort likely doomed to fail. The key to grasping his greatness lies in situating him within his own present. When he first appeared on the North American folk scene, different sounds were in vogue. Seattle was establishing itself as the undisputed capital, and even in the undergrowth of American singer-songwriter music, few truly significant figures would soon begin redefining the canons of the tradition — without real upheavals, but with greater attention to sonic texture (the lo-fi of early Smog), to curious crossings between adjacent genres (the roots explorations of Will Oldham in his Palace guise), or to the priceless charm of languid rhythms (the wonderful Molina-esque epic of the early Songs: Ohia, just a few years later) — rather than to the value of words and stories, entrusted to the spartan but indelible embrace of an acoustic guitar. For his part, the very young Vic had moved to Athens from nearby Zebulon a few years earlier, in 1985, to study literature at university. In the past he had actually played guitar and trumpet in high-school bands of which nothing now remains but an empty name — Sundance With 30 Years Old and Random Factor — not to mention his stint as keyboardist in a proto-industrial electronic duo evidently not even worthy of a name. He sang and wrote songs, but this was just one passion among many he'd taken up to forget the inexorable sentence of his own disability. He certainly didn't think he'd become a singer-songwriter. His true love was poetry.

Discovering the "Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry" was his personal Eureka moment, but the small town that had launched R.E.M., Pylon and the B-52's had a far more compelling destiny in store for him. "It was like a kind of Belle Époque, an incredible scene: poets, painters, rock bands and a lot of acid": in that exhilarating creative chaos, the shy Vic would have been content with a modest role as a spectator, but it was his friend Deanna Varagona (later a member of Lambchop) who, after hearing him sing, insisted that he perform live. Other now-forgotten bands (Angle Lake, La-Di-Das) were born and died with him in the lineup as brief parentheses, while his accidental solo career already had a turning point waiting just around the corner: at one of the rare shows he played opening for one of the many local bands, a certain Michael Stipe was in the audience, who years later would recall being electrified by that brief set.

Small Steps

The R.E.M. frontman later said he instantly took it upon himself, almost as a personal mission, to "capture" Chesnutt's songs before he "took his own life." Half-jokingly, half-seriously, Vic often talked about suicide. It was, in all likelihood, just one way among others to exorcise the painful ghosts of an existence populated by medication and operations, though it doesn't seem far-fetched to suggest that meeting Stipe actually extended his life, as well as upending it. Within the formidable Athens quartet, Peter Buck had always been the only one with any real producing ambitions. Michael quietly stepped in as an impromptu patron, proving in time to be an unexpected talent scout as well. That he was driven by sincere intentions seems undeniable, and the unlucky Georgia troubadour's first two LPs remain his only "exploits" behind the console, alongside Hugo Largo's "Drum" and Magnapop's eponymous album.

Recorded in a single day (October 1988) at John Keane's studio in town — the same one where R.E.M. made "Document" and several of their later bestsellers — Little was released in 1990 on the tiny Texas Hotel label. The title and outlook are emblematic of its creator's cautious nature, guided without any forcing by the hand of his more famous colleague, just enough to be able to express himself in his own way right from the start. "I did the rest, not juice, only well water," the ironic Vic writes in introducing himself to his listeners on the thank-you page: sparse notes compiled in an unsteady hand next to a couple of childhood photos of him (one of which was chosen for the cover) and his drawing of a snake hacked to pieces by a Swiss Army knife (referenced in the lyrics of "Danny Carlisle"), a crystal-clear metaphor for his own extreme fragility.

As expected, the tone can only be sorrowful, though never brutal. His gaze is turned toward the happy years before the accident, when every future possibility was still intact, or tuned into the frequencies of his own vivid dream impulses. And it's precisely a dream that has the task of introducing Vic's singing on "Isadora Duncan," already marked by a solid expressive confidence. With a bare-bones setup, very meager means, and unadorned recordings, the songs are nonetheless convincing, rich in good ideas, laid out with real personality and a singular attitude for a debutant of just twenty-four. The songs on Little are among the most intense, touching and personal in the singer's catalogue, written with a strongly introspective slant and packed with childhood memories whose wonder is nonetheless filtered through the eyes of disenchantment and the present. In this light, "Speed Racer" remains memorable, one of the genuinely strong tracks on an otherwise very timid record: a superhero cartoon watched in early childhood becomes the pretext for a painful but powerful reflection on the absence of God, or of some higher intelligence conveniently offering itself up as the true cause of his own misfortune. Vic shows striking confidence and bares himself through the sheer force of his words, without hiding behind reassuring third-person narration, and indeed doing away with any temptation toward easy self-pity. "I'm not a victim, I'm an atheist," he sings in the chorus, reaffirming his rejection of the "archaic rites of the spirit." A similar inclination, ultimately paradigmatic, also animates less sensational episodes like the intimate fragment "Bakersfield," which doesn't hide a deep, if not overwhelming, bitterness.

Compared to the more allegorical and elaborate work he would make later, the autobiographical slant on this first album proves decisive. This is confirmed on "Independence Day" — still within the framework of this unusual memoir — by the snapshot of a love that never blossomed, and even more so by the rustic yet moving "Giupetto," on the theme of adoption. A sad existentialist, yet never resigned, endowed with rare intelligence, tremendous dignity and an uncommon, sharp, subtle irony: this was Vic, still in bloom here, perhaps unripe, but already lucidly determined and convinced of his own potential. "Mr. Reilly" is another sketch that faithfully frames his authorial traits, with its evocative glimpses and that tart, pointed streak that would always be an unrivaled expressive crowbar for Chesnutt. Although the coordinates tend to stay the same, the album's short runtime plays a decisive role in softening its harshness and containing its gravity. Vic takes care of the rest. He's remarkably skilled at turning these brief songs into genuine emotional roller coasters, alternating calm passages with sudden flashes, using nothing but his unrefined voice and a gently plucked guitar; and it's quite fitting that he allows himself, toward the close, a couple of gentler, more lighthearted moments ("Soft Picasso," the ultra-lo-fi relief of "Stevie Smith," a tribute to his favorite poet), revealing an artistic personality that is nonetheless multifaceted and many-sided, admirable from this very first gallery of fragile little portraits, with its limpid melodies and effective refrains. Qualities destined to soon coalesce into a recognizable and, in its own way, compelling stylistic signature, making Chesnutt a folksinger genuinely devoted to the popular, more accessible than average despite an arsenal of daring metaphors, poetic ideas and lyrics that are never banal.

Little, in short, remains a debut not free of naivety, but a precious record for sketching the still-rough features of a dazzling singer-songwriter.

Just a year later, Vic and Michael return to the studio to record the sophomore effort, West Of Rome (Texas Hotel, 1991). Same protagonists, some meaningful help from a couple of other musicians (including his wife Tina on bass), but also far more self-assurance. In such a short span of time, Chesnutt proves to have grown enormously. Credit is also due to Stipe's more polished production, now up to the task, to greater variety in the arrangements, and to a confidence flaunted right from the sharp, insistent opening track. What strikes most is the depth of his gaze, clearer than ever, driving a songwriting style that never forsakes color yet manages to be remarkably spare and personal, without overindulging in mannerist flourishes or lingering on theatrical devices or sterile, pathetic poses. This is a more rarefied, balanced and considered Chesnutt — in a word, more adult — capable of presenting here, in tight sequence, some of the great classics of his catalogue. Compared to the debut, every song is longer, better written and less caricatured: not sketches, but songs in the fullest sense of the word, free of anxiety and more fully realized. The scope has become more universal, less confined and claustrophobic, even though Vic doesn't hesitate to still sing about himself in raw terms, casting dark shadows over his own future: "I was mumbling a rough draft of what I ought to scream, but soon I'll be silent and you won't hear a thing," he sings on "Sponge," a skeletal, crepuscular gem and a perfect testament to his songwriting of bleak introspection. He then follows it with that absolute masterpiece for voice and piano, "Florida," merciless in its disenchantment, caught between sarcasm and almost decadent, melancholic display: "And I respect the one who goes exactly where he wants, even if it's toward death that he's heading," perhaps in his native Florida, "the sorriest place in all of America," "the perfect place to take leave of life."

There's no shortage of connections with the previous record. "Lucinda Williams" is less defined than average, almost an outtake from Little, "Where Were You" returns to his most canonical standards of delicacy and intimacy, while in this light the intense "Stupid Preoccupations" is downright a showcase of his aesthetic, a clear example of how Chesnutt can set his creations ablaze in a stunning way without making any noise, relying solely on the crescendos of his voice. Some passages, like the truly masterful, measured "Panic Pure," anticipate by quite a stretch the desert-folk standard later set by towering figures of years to come (the mature Howe Gelb, David Eugene Edwards) in their persistence in offering up acrid, dusty sounds, set alight by that raspy, burning timbre. Within the monotony of its folk weave, "Miss Mary" is instead a track only seemingly more conventional, one where Vic patiently maneuvers before striking at the heart, soaring aloft with his anguished voice. The delightful "Steve Willoughby" finds him playing with country stereotypes, in one of his strangest and most sparkling explorations ever. The result is a very well-crafted divertissement, far less trivial than it might seem, further proof that the Georgia troubadour is equally at ease with less solemn, more playful approaches. A similar outcome marks the closing relief of the magical "Soggy Tongues," a delightful acoustic embroidery embellished by violins, by overall enthusiasm, and by small touches of surreal poetry that fans would come to treasure.

Rounding out the makeup of a surprising album, considered by many to be one of the peaks of the artist's long career, is a slow, dark title track shot through with radiant bursts of color courtesy of a minimal piano: further proof of taste even in the sparing use of resources, with a style that would not leave his future friend Mark Linkous indifferent, as "It's A Wonderful Life" demonstrates beyond any doubt.

The sad Peter Pan defeats his demons

Michael Stipe had got it right. The young artist he had helped pull out of obscurity seemed to have the makings of a great storyteller, unconventional and undeniably rough-hewn, yet also deeply genuine, far more accessible than many of his hazier colleagues, revered though they may be as sacred monsters. Vic, however, is above all a fragile individual, made erratic by depression, prone despite himself to self-destruction, and undermined by alcoholism — the very same demon that had irreparably wrecked his life ten years earlier. It's during a less-than-exhilarating period that Chesnutt decides to go back into the studio, two years after his previous outing. This time he prefers to do almost everything himself. He retreats with a couple of friends to a remote farmhouse and, for three days, records song after song in a state of perpetual drunkenness. The result is his third LP, unsettling in certain respects, emblematically titled Drunk. That things went differently this time compared to the first two occasions is revealed by the sharp, aggressive opening of the first track on the running order, "Sleeping Man," with its unusually rock-driven pace, bare yet nervous, in the vein of Wire's "Strange." It's only the first of a series of rough gems, electric passages full of drafts and interesting underlying tensions, however inevitably blurred — the most introverted and the noisiest of which inevitably remains the one that lends the record its title: a snapshot of Vic's human abyss during one of the most difficult and confused moments of his entire life; and despite this, or perhaps precisely because of it, among the most vibrant, authentic, bleeding things he ever made.

Drunk is a collection of verist snapshots that occasionally lacks bite as well as discipline, but where a strange, blissful sense of disorientation peeks through, amid slurred vocals and rough-and-ready arrangements, which in no way diminishes the Athens singer's magic. Over an uncertain, almost adrift musical backdrop moves the most insecure and ungainly Chesnutt ever (the barking howls of "Bourgeois And Biblical" say it all), intensely so, who nonetheless doesn't fail to deliver pages of great evocative power, like the beautiful "Naughty Fatalist," with its electricity bent splendidly toward emotion, simulating inner flare-ups and tangles. A significant preview of the formula that, developed years later in an even more radical way alongside the Canadian musicians of Constellation, would reach downright striking expressive results. The most resounding impression is of standing before a vulnerable songwriter, far from at peace but sincere as never before, here and there more reserved and even domestic, confirming the essential shyness of a truly anguished record: a brake all too evident on its creator's ambitions, but not on his spleen or his tattered, unforgettable, intimate poetics. Even within this difficult but fascinating context there's room for at least one of the great classics of his catalogue ("Supernatural") and for an ending perfectly suited to easing the unease, between oddball carefreeness ("Super Tuesday"), reassurance about his own quality while in peak form (the polished reprise of "Sleeping Man," beefed up in a southern-rock vein), and renewed intimacy in a lo-fi gem ("Kick My Ass"), perfect for sending his ghosts on leave for a while.

Drunk thus remains a unique work within Chesnutt's vast body of work, but in some ways also its most moving testimony. Definitive proof that for the wheelchair-bound folksinger, art and life were truly one and the same.

Having left behind the shallows of an unhappy conjuncture, Vic now enters an impetuous and fertile five-year stretch that would bring him the greatest satisfactions of his entire career. Despite the troubled genesis of his last album, critics seem to appreciate the American minstrel's plain, unadulterated style, and his name starts circulating in the specialist press. Lending him a hand above all is the former Husker Du frontman, Bob Mould, who discovers a real affinity with him and decides to bring him along on tour around the world, giving him the chance to open more than a hundred of his shows. Howe Gelb does the same for a European tour with his Giant Sand, but even more enticing is the chance to perform as opener for Soul Asylum and Live, two bands riding high at the time.

Encouraged by the positive live response, Vic manages to rein in his excesses with alcohol and returns to the studio to record his fourth LP. The title, Is The Actor Happy? (Texas Hotel, 1995), was inspired by the spontaneous but positive acting experience he'd just had on the set of "Sling Blade," Billy Bob Thornton's directorial debut, released only the following year and later awarded the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay. The singer gathers around him a small group of musicians rechristened the Scared Skiffle Band (with wife Tina, drummer Jimmy Davidson, and Lambchop multi-instrumentalist Alex McManus), and entrusts himself to the care of the experienced John Keane, who would prove essential in keeping his remarkable insights from burning out into sterile, solipsistic sketches.

Is The Actor Happy? doesn't disappoint expectations at all. It arrives with an immediately more serene, easygoing, storytelling tone, and it hits the mark. In just two years the growth has been significant, and Vic proves it by crafting a fresco that's altogether more harmonious, airy and comforting than its three predecessors. Operating on a scale that's not outsized but still able to showcase his authorial qualities, Chesnutt comes across as reinvigorated and charged with fresh enthusiasm. And he's smart enough not to scatter his energy, not to overdo it, to juggle his resources intelligently. Though it feels more like a genuine group project, he remains more than ever at the center of everything, perfectly cast as the melancholy singer-songwriter with a lively imagination, and remarkable at dispelling self-pity without hesitation. Great songs like "Sad Peter Pan" play a decisive role in sculpting the key lines of his persona and remain flawless testimony to his superb gifts as a self-portraitist. The album's first side is still among the most convincing things he ever did, a collection of some of his best songs: fresh, domestic, heartfelt and luminous episodes (as far as possible), revealing the hide of an artist who's spirited, stubborn, never willing to give in, here comfortable in the role of bandleader. The storyteller comes across as measured but also far more at ease than in the past, allowing himself flourishes that bring to mind, more than folk, a robust Southern roots-rock ("Strange Language"), pure magnetism and energy ("Thailand"). Of course his most authoritative expressive register is still the one closest to traditional folklore (as when a harmonica takes center stage in "Doubting Woman"), even though what really lands is always his extraordinary interpretation, magical and biting, with that strong accent and highly distinctive delivery that nonetheless never tips into caricature.

Among the album's memorable moments, special mention goes to the Chesnutt-esque songwriting gem titled "Betty Lonely," an evocative, surreal portrait sketched with pure novelistic talent. One of Vic's most genuine gifts thus emerges: his ability to depict a desolate humanity left to its own daily affliction, without even the comfort of some meager foothold in the transcendent. The spirit remains the same even when the author turns himself into the object of his own speculation, without sparing himself but, for once, also without self-flagellation. This makes room for one of the most spiritual, intense and personal songs of his career, "Free Of Hope," a cathartic stream of consciousness that's also a secular manifesto for a more mature acceptance of one's own limits, the best claim to freedom in every form, beyond material constraints and miseries. As "Wrong Piano" also shows, a splendid ode to his own imperfection, the more troubled side isn't neglected, but the Athens minstrel carefully avoids narrow solutions weighed down by too much despair: he holds back the wonder, chooses to blend spare picking with sudden electric flare-ups, as would happen often in the future ("Thumbtack" too is clearly ahead of the noisier drift of his final records), but he wins you over with the tears in his pained singing, the fullest expression of an uncommon dignity. The closing duet with Michael Stipe ("Guilty By Association") feels like a dutiful thank-you, but it also certifies the enormous strides he'd made without further help from his most famous supporter. A delightful track, made poignant by the surprise of hearing two voices so unique, cavernous and nasal come together, and by the nostalgic tone that touches important chords, laying bare the face of an author incapable of hiding behind masks.

Nearly twenty years after its release, Is The Actor Happy? stands confirmed as one of the cornerstones of his discography, the record through which Chesnutt managed to make certain songwriting conventions accessible, making compromises, sure, but above all giving free rein to a shining, childlike pop streak, pulsing at a brisk pace beneath the skin of a now-grown, seasoned folksinger.

A Taste for Collaboration

1995 is truly the turning-point year for Vic Chesnutt. Encouraged by the success of his most easygoing and ambitious record, the Georgia storyteller doesn't turn down an offer from fellow Georgians Widespread Panic to make an album together. It's a significant step, given that until then Vic had always worked alone or with a few collaborators, mostly friends, and hadn't actually been part of a real band since the distant, hardly fortunate days of La-Di-Das. The Brute project thus comes together in a relaxed, side-project spirit with no real stakes attached, but the absence of heavy pressure is a good thing and does wonders for the American artist's morale, especially during a phase of extraordinary creative vitality that would later be rewarded, surprisingly, with a major-label deal at Capitol.

On Nine High A Pallet, he takes part as singer and lyricist, a not-too-demanding role and the perfect chance to work alongside other top-tier musicians. Chesnutt finds himself shining with unusual lightness over a clean sound firmly rooted in tradition, a gentle, luminous backing in the style of '90s pop-rock à la Connels (or Toad The Wet Sprocket, same thing really). In an inevitably less personal context, his interpretation once again proves top-notch, serene and enthusiastic as the occasion demands. Alongside him is the solid backing band led by Michael Houser, a crew of skilled players, unobtrusive but sufficiently incisive. The naturalness of the encounter is admirable, and the songs on the tracklist hold their own too. The songwriter is given the freedom he needs so that his particular identity can come through without forcing. A good example is "I Ain't Crazy Enough," with its subdued, intimate tone in keeping with Vic's nature, which looms large thanks to his unmistakable mood of nostalgic disenchantment: the result is a genuinely great song that wouldn't have been out of place on his own remarkable records of the period.

"Cataclysm" is also Chesnutt in all his purity, restrained yet powerful in the register most natural to him, though with a bit too much overbearing folksiness (the raining accordions). Things go even better on "Let's Get Down To Business," where, served perfectly by very discreet guitars, percussion and piano, the minstrel firmly opts for a leaner, more domestic and languid cut that only three years later, on the record made in synergy with Lambchop, would be elevated into an unforgettable stylistic signature. Elsewhere, unusual solutions prevail for the Athens artist's music, though he again proves at ease as the carefree bandleader who doesn't hide, and shows he can adapt with versatility to the sonic directions set out by his bandmates, never hamming it up or giving in to the temptation of a merely routine performance. From the committed-folksinger pose of "Snowblind," even grandiloquent in its deliberately cartoonish emphasis, to the knowing, almost swinging vignette of "PC" or the calligraphic electric lines of "Miserable," everything incredibly works. So does the alternation between noisy march and disciplined clearings on "Sewing Machine": an uneven, restless performance, atypical for the orderly storyteller Vic was at the time, and therefore particularly valuable as evidence of an expressive anomaly, a hypothesis that wouldn't remain just a curious parenthesis (it's no coincidence the song would resurface fourteen years later, stripped bare, on his farewell album, the one made with Jonathan Richman). Episodes like these last ones confirm, in a sense, the usefulness of the Nine High A Pallet experience for a Chesnutt firmly intent on widening his horizons and testing new devices, both formally and in his writing.

A few months after the Widespread Panic collaboration, Vic becomes the subject of a surprising tribute from some of the brightest stars in the musical firmament. The non-profit organization Sweet Relief, founded by colleague and friend Victoria Williams to support musicians without health insurance, enlists a star-studded cast for its second tribute album (the first had been dedicated to the songwriter herself, who suffers from multiple sclerosis), with proceeds going entirely to Chesnutt. For the occasion, his songs are reinterpreted by, among others, Madonna, Kristin Hersh, R.E.M., Garbage, Smashing Pumpkins, Red Red Meat, and the then-hugely-popular Hootie & The Blowfish. Needless to say, this is an incredible springboard for getting noticed, first and foremost among his peers. One of the many artists involved in the initiative, kindred spirit Mark Linkous aka Sparklehorse, would become, thanks to this project, one of Vic's most trusted friends, eventually sharing, sadly, his bitter fate as well.

However, 1996 isn't only the year of the aforementioned "Sweet Relief II." In November, the Georgia singer's fifth LP, About To Choke, sees the light of day—his first (and only) release on a major label. The cast and recording studio are the same as on the previous Is The Actor Happy?, with the addition of a couple of session players and Bob Mould among the producers. Further refining some of the most convincing dynamics of its successful predecessor, and with a team firing on all cylinders, the album stands unabashedly as the most ambitious Chesnutt had written up to that point, as if determined not to let Capitol's faith in him go to waste. It opens about as well as it possibly could, with a simple yet surprisingly evocative song, "Myrtle," intimate and at the same time emblematic of the author's poetics. Minimalism and symbolist poetry fuse naturally in one of his masterpieces. Every word is weighed as in a haiku. Vic seems suspended, with his interior monologue, in a magical atmosphere, a blend built from childhood memories, and he doesn't hold back from further enriching his incredible self-portrait: ⟦Q1⟧. Irony aside, the album's mood leans radiant, helped greatly by an overall balance that feels almost miraculous, with exceptional acoustic guitar textures, effective harmonies, a limpid wonder at work across the board and a stunning precision in the lyrics. Of course Chesnutt wouldn't be Chesnutt if he didn't once again prove himself the usual master of introspection, the gentle pauperist who all but whispers ("Tarragon"). The starting point is the same as ever, but amid soft invectives and sorrowful, rigorously skewed autobiography, what moves here is a direct, razor-sharp songwriter, truly dialed in. One who perhaps lingers on a more pronounced nostalgic streak, but without self-indulgence or posturing. The harshness of his accent and that croaky voice keep the listener firmly tethered to the earthly dimension, to the material concreteness of the artist's not-easy lived experience, who with his battered acoustic guitar seems—paradox of paradoxes—like a tireless walker.

There's no shortage of a more painful, personal passage, though developed from the vantage point of a fine self-analyst, with an awareness that had been missing until now. "Hot Seat" confronts his usual demons, the temptations of suicide, with no filters or window-dressing, with nothing but the power of words, hugely powerful ones, his own ungainly voice and spare picking on nylon strings. It hurts, but the answers open up glimmers of light previously unthinkable. It's no accident that the following "Giant Sands" unleashes a much fuller sound, between folk and roots-rock, for a far more easygoing, band-driven passage, full of drafts, emotional surges and constructive restlessness. The band's contribution is truly precious here, yielding a result that feels collective, warm yet calm, and this is especially true of "New Town," a wide-ranging reflection on contemporary life, shared traditions and community living. No small effort for the introverted Vic, but also the right occasion to sketch an eloquent, affectionate portrait, drawn with genuine attention to the moods and flavors typical of Americana. The gaze is that of a contemplative soul gifted with practical common sense and unsuspected enthusiasm, though careful to dodge the traps of easy rhetoric and patriotism. About To Choke's realist sweep, which transcends the harshness of earlier times (the title and cover art are telling, partial retreats against despair), is a mature, precise, compelling authorial achievement, far removed from the self-pitying drift of some of the more naive passages on his early records. It's striking when it circles back to certain folk-mysticism eccentricities ("Threads") already explored before. This isn't a crowd-pleasing move or mere calculation on the part of a cynical mannerist, because Chesnutt's personality is strong enough to impose itself over any formal device, rendering convenient categories or critical stereotypes useless.

There's no insincere emphasis on About To Choke, no masks. Just a voice set free in flight from a heart full of holes and scars, yet stronger than ever. Otherwise there'd be no explaining, right in the album's belly, the ironic lightness of "(It's No Secret) Satisfaction" (with its puffing little organs, drum machine, loops and filtered vocal) and above all the pop gem "Little Vacation," one of the sweetest, most poignant songs of his career. The backward-glancing streak that recalls early-'60s America, the extraordinary interpretation and that mood of festive disenchantment make it a genuine gem, wonderfully alive and summery. For the farewell, the domestic, confiding, fragrant Vic returns, the fragile friend who apologizes for his limits as a communicator, and it almost sounds like a joke coming from him, someone so meaningful always and regardless, perhaps even despite himself. Yet another moving episode without being mawkish, in a work that's extraordinarily well calibrated, representative and sincere, while steering clear as if from the plague of theatrical overreach.

For Vic, the album is a degree earned with honors, a clean sweep. He manages to get Capitol to release it in a cardboard gatefold sleeve like all his previous works. It's a fixation he seems to have latched onto almost as if it were an antidote to his own fragility, at a time when CDs still arrived in stores strictly in plastic cases. "I hate those cases. They fall and break. And I know a thing or two about what it means to be broken." Digipak aside, Capitol isn't happy. It's unclear what the label's executives expected from him, but incredibly, the Athens songwriter is dropped without much ceremony at the first opportunity. As if that weren't enough, his previous label, Texas Hotel, suddenly folds, and his albums become impossible to find, just as they'd started reaching Europe and even Italy. Chesnutt, however, doesn't let it get him down. He goes back to dueting with Michael Stipe on the soundtrack of a (not exactly epoch-making) Wim Wenders film, "The End Of Violence," then lands a deal with Pinnacle, a label as small as you like but distributed across half the world by Virgin. Lambchop invite him to sing on one of their most convincing records ever, "What Another Man Spills," and even put him in charge of the artwork and cover. By now deeply bonded not only with Deanna Varagona and Alex McManus but also with bandleader Kurt Wagner, Vic senses the time is right for a new creative partnership. He writes new songs tailored to Nashville's rich ensemble, and, given the coherence of the new material, soon leans toward the idea of a concept album, complete with a storyline worked out down to the smallest detail. Wagner agrees, bringing along all his acolytes, and offers to produce what would become Vic's sixth LP, The Salesman And Bernadette. It's 1998, the year English band Hefner release a B-side titled "Goethe's Letter To Vic Chesnutt" (a cover of the little-known New Bad Things, as it happens).

"Duty Free" is like a small entrance door. It immediately draws the listener into the hazy, fragrant atmosphere of a truly special collaboration, all dim lights, delicate whispers and the warmth of a fireside glow. The sheer bareness hits the mark: the truly stripped-down arrangement, the songwriter's touching delivery in this delicate invocation. Lambchop operate in the background, but manage to lend subtle, impeccable shifts of mood that, however minimal, decisively amplify the charm of the whole operation. "Replenished" radiates all the festive warmth of the encounter, with Chesnutt perfectly at ease in the role of master of ceremonies and narrator. An almost magical sense of candor emerges forcefully, which the horn-driven breath of the burly Tennessee outfit gives soft contours and tender soft-focus tones. The fanciful tale of the traveling salesman and his beloved has the synesthetic texture of a dream, with the blur of distant memories fixed in a seductive elsewhere now frozen in the distance. That's the most vivid impression as the wheelchair-bound songwriter duets with country star Emmylou Harris on "Woodrow Wilson", for what he would later candidly call the crown jewel of his own repertoire. The Salesman And Bernadette feels almost like a record of Christmas originals even before it feels like a strange folk-opera with novelistic ambitions. Made jaunty by the horns, it's animated by a simple and simply contagious intoxication. Essential yet striking are the softness of touch, the taste in the orchestrations, and the Georgian's singing, graceful to the point of velvet-like smoothness: a vocal performance as unusual as it is demanding in its versatility, perhaps the finest of his career.

"Arthur Murray" brings him back playing the languid seducer, utterly calm yet insinuating, while the following "Prick" elevates him to the rank of caustic showman, duly backed by his travelling companions and their ineffable blend of orchestral country and jazzy swells. It's impossible not to view the album as a healthy holiday from himself for a happily lightened-up Vic, toned up in the guise of a true storytelling troubadour, a crooner sui generis inclined toward the sweetness of an occasional lullaby ("Maiden") sung with the necessary care. Lambchop's soft style remains unmistakable and is especially enjoyable in contrast with the real Chesnutt, the more tormented one ("Mysterious Tunnel", "Parade"), who resurfaces here and there, as if wanting to bring his small devoted following back down to earth. So in the closing stretch we find again the sober existentialist of recent times, in starker episodes (lit only by the occasional electric flicker) or in a dirge-like, choral number ("Blanket Over The Head"), a sad but not jarring note in keeping with the genuinely melancholy mood of the record. Finally, for the close, there's "Old Hotel", a song the artist would often revive live, opting for an even more jovial tone and a superb exercise in expressive mimicry of his ever-beloved Leonard Cohen.

Hard Years

Despite being perhaps the most sumptuous work in his discography, The Salesman And Bernadette turns out to be a resounding failure from every point of view, barely considered by critics (who, as often happens, would later reassess it with guilty delay) and incredibly snubbed even by Lambchop's own fans. Dropped by Pinnacle too, Vic takes the hit hard, but help arrives from fellow Athens residents Kelly and Nikki Keneipp, longtime friends and owners of the small Backburner label, who offer him the chance for a new collaboration: a record for which the folksinger will handle lyrics, artwork and vocals.

Merriment is therefore released quietly in 2000, with Chesnutt less recognizable than ever (at least up to that point) amid a mood of oblique grandiloquence. It's a strange album. Unbalanced, heavy-handed, marked by a production that's not quite up to par, and yet not without a certain askew charm. Certainly the peculiarities of Vic's singing seem partly diminished (or rather, defused) by the overbearing impact of instruments - the piano especially - that are always mixed too loud. Even in sunnier, more conventional passages like "Fissle", the sense of a not-quite-harmonious fusion lingers. The theatrical sonic stamp built by the Keneipp couple is perhaps overly constrictive, contrived and mannered for a free spirit averse to constraints like Vic. So, beyond the undeniable effort, the result is often alienating, lukewarm, below expectations, and smacks of homework diligently completed from an already set blueprint. With the musical side sometimes overloaded with effects and oddball instrumental touches (bells and chirping), the Athens troubadour's voice then sounds slow and confused, forced to chase along not without some struggle amid general chaos. More than one promising idea is, in short, squandered by miscalculations made from the outset.

The lively, heartfelt, all-in performance of the generous songwriter (there's even a spoken-word bit, an unusual detail for him) nonetheless stands as proof of the project's good intentions. The whole is chaotic, crammed with sounds, instruments and choruses that are a clear hindrance for an artist who has always been at ease with sparer means, but beyond this obvious limitation, the quality of the material remains dignified nonetheless. Even in shaky, lopsided and slightly over-the-top sketches, Chesnutt manages to shine through with his flair, even donning the unusual guise of a crooner unexpectedly attentive to refinement. Even in the electric, noisy moments ("Preponderance"), the acrid lyricism comes through heightened and rather fiery tones prevail. Rounding out a record enlivened mostly by its own imbalances is a curious, experimental piece ("Deeper Currents"), driven by a pronounced percussive undercurrent, which the songwriter would revisit to greater effect on one of his later works. On Merriment this remains, however, a marginal solution compared to the playful juggling that dominates overall, a stylistic trait that clashes quite a bit with the proverbial grounded nature of the American artist but which ultimately bears witness to his more crooked and ambiguous streak, representing in that sense the true merit of what is, in fact, a minor chapter in his discography.

Pitchfork reviews Chesnutt for the first time with Merriment, giving it an inexplicably high score. Despite this, as expected, the album is a dud. Disheartened, Vic withdraws into himself. He starts drinking well beyond any tolerable threshold again, but doesn't stop writing songs, some of which are later used as accompaniment for a puppet piece curated by Janie Geiser, "Josiah Meigs and Me: A Song Cycle for Puppets", staged in New York the following year. He then decides to self-produce his next effort, his eighth, and records a good deal of material on a Fostex X-15 four-track, at home and in a state of radical isolation, aside from a couple of contributions from his wife Tina. The title of the new LP, Left To His Own Devices, inevitably and faithfully reflects the introverted, depressed mood of the recording period. The packaging is extremely sparse, lacking especially on the vocal front, the writing pedestrian and unusually workmanlike, but what's most unsettling is above all the delivery, devoid of even the slightest emotional spark. Tangled up in echoes and reverbs in its lo-fi little outfit, Vic appears disarmed, without real ideas and without bite. The standard is listless and monotone. Yes, there's the rustic, genuine voice-and-guitar sound of his early days, but here it comes off limp, as listless as its author, and goes nowhere. "In Amongst The Millions", to name one, is just a pale echo of one of his typical songs full of spirit and pride. A photocopy of a style, essentially, but drained of life. As further proof of his watered-down talent, "Fish" doesn't even sound bad, yet it's colorless and mildly tedious because it's needlessly long-winded. When there are good ideas, it's the solitary development that holds them back: such is the case of "We Should Be So Brave", which, in a fuller, less embryonic version, would most likely have become a decent song.

The closing "Look At Me", nothing more than an a cappella fragment, is the emblem of the record's self-inflicted loneliness. Elsewhere he opts for distorted, misshapen, freakish performances, odd exorcisms lacking clarity and destined to miss the mark miserably. Titles like "Cash", "Twelve Johnnies" or the atrocious "Caper" are flimsy sketches good (at best) only for the most die-hard fans, and are remembered only for the sadness they convey, amid embarrassing production, an unrecognizable voice and assorted cheap effects in the background. Quirky weirdness simply doesn't suit the Athens troubadour, and the failed experiment of "Thought You Were My Friend" - somewhere between the shambling early Beck and an acid-fried Waits-like showman - confirms it in the most merciless way. "Chesnutt seems intent on destroying his own myth," Scaruffi declares, and for once it's hard to disagree. Only in the closing stretch is there any spark: the stumbling, touching miniature of typically Chesnutt-esque clichés ("Squeak") and the crackling murk from which fragments of greatness and lucid despair resurface ("Distortion"), foreshadowing the sonic habits of his future works with Silver Mt. Zion. Still, too little to redeem by far the bleakest work of the artist's long career, spared only - so to speak - by its chronic unavailability in stores at the time of its release.

It seemed impossible to do worse than Left To His Own Devices, and, at least from a formal standpoint, nothing the wheelchair-bound troubadour would make afterward could wrest from that 2001 record the unenviable title of nadir of his catalogue. In a phase of clear personal and emotional difficulty, Vic nonetheless finds himself involved in a project that, although far more polished than his dismal hermit album, would prove no less distressing a flop for all his admirers. It's early 2002 when Widespread Panic get back in touch with him, seven years after their previous experience together as Brute, proposing a new collaboration. Chesnutt doesn't need convincing, not least because his trusted John Keane has already been hired for the technical duties. The conditions for a happy reunion are all there, and Co-balt kicks off on a note of encouraging group energy. Vic seems to have found renewed motivation, but is soon overwhelmed by the sonic impact, amid gleaming hard-rock guitars, an overly hammering drum sound and intrusive choruses. The track itself, "You Got It All Wrong", is nothing more than a refrain. The illusion, in the better moments of a decent first side, is that they're trying to replicate the previous partnership. There's no lack of conviction, nor of chemistry. The songs sound correct, well-crafted and impeccably recorded, but what's missing, perhaps, is the spark, the thrill of the great songwriter's song. The first impression is pleasant enough, but the predictability of a sound still rooted in the early '90s is considerable, and it stirs little emotion. On "Expiration Day" Vic takes center stage with his harmonica, amid an air of quiet solemnity. He works hard to give the track color and backbone - and it's far from a bad song - but only because his bandmates' flowery flourishes are properly kept in check. Even so, the track suffers from some of the limitations that the Chesnutt of the years immediately to come would make listeners accustomed to: streamlined, polished in style but far less visceral than before.

Co-balt is a lavishly crafted deception that fails in its purpose. Here and there one finds what seem like the classic explorations of the humanist Vic, grafted however onto musical settings rather distant from his aesthetic (such as the saccharine, feel-good southern-rock of "Cobalt Blue"). The tormented folksinger and the evocative storyteller are forced to make way for an admittedly very capable entertainer, a bit like leaving a great artist to try his hand at the most disparate backing tracks of a karaoke machine: an undeniably curious experience, but the real Vic has to be sought elsewhere. Widespread Panic have grown a great deal over the years, shifting from a lively, traditionalist country sound toward a lumbering jam band existing for its own sake. On this occasion, unfortunately, it's they who gain the upper hand, breaking the delicate balance that should necessarily have been at the heart of the collaboration, with form ending up prevailing by far over substance. Things get worse step by step. The jaunty swing of "You Are With Me Now" is unsettling because one isn't used to hearing a Chesnutt so pointlessly frivolous. The sense of alienation is strong, especially knowing that the Athens singer was hardly the type to hold back. The winking (and pointlessly muscular) radio-rock of "Scholarship" shows him straining to contort himself to fit music that has little to do with him. He pushes himself and loses his own character as if to please his occasional bandmates, betraying the questionable and ultimately sad nature of the whole operation. The fan is spared nothing. Not the grotesque rendering ("All Kinds") of a nightmare à la Mad Season/Layne Staley (who, that very year, died forgotten by all); not the chloroformed parody of certain hard-rock clichés ("Puppy Sleeps"), nor the funky-soul number with experimental pretensions ("Morally Challenged") in which even the self-deprecating irony derails completely into farcical absurdity. Too much eclecticism all at once not to end up being an indigestible record, with music that rings too false and a Vic humiliated in the role of clown, made to perform as a shadow of himself without really wanting to. It's hard to believe Chesnutt could ever have been proud of such a record. Certainly, the premature death of Widespread Panic's leader, Michael Houser, which occurred before the album was even released, spared the Athens songwriter from further exposing himself to missteps under the Brute banner.

A Slow Return

In 2003 things unexpectedly start to turn around. Vic finds a new home at New West, which the following year will reissue the first five - long out of print - albums of his catalogue, remastering them and padding them out with some thirty previously unreleased tracks from the era. Meanwhile, he puts together a new band of musicians who had previously worked with Daniel Lanois and Brian Eno (of the old guard, only his wife Tina remains involved, albeit marginally), and entrusts the production of his ninth LP, Silver Lake, to Englishman Mark Howard (who had previously worked with many great American artists, from Bob Dylan to Willie Nelson). It's an intimate, understated return, overwhelmed by the need to reopen himself to the world and truly start communicating again after a period of great difficulty. The result is an uneven record, full of words and insights not all of which hit the mark, but also among the most sincere and perhaps most urgent of his discography, enhanced by a truly moving cover photograph. Heavy-handed and undeniably slow but proud, rich in passion and dignity. The new five-piece ensemble proves up to the task, even though the emotional lacerations typical of Chesnutt's songwriting are notably absent here, an absence that weighs on the record. The support of a real band is undoubtedly valuable in recovering drive and enthusiasm, even if, conversely, it ends up perhaps softening too much a performance that's emphatically communal and not raw, harsh, bleeding enough. So it happens that, despite the right motivations, a generic feel-goodness prevails for long stretches, one that's ultimately too ordinary to truly touch the heart. The new songs are long, and the musicians tackle them with a marathon runner's mindset, at an extremely measured pace but always steady. What emerges is a collection of reliable, well-played songs, but not exactly thrilling, delivered emotionally as if on autopilot.

As "Girl's Say" shows, there's a bit too much calligraphic correctness and soporific drift, with certain poses somewhere between Dylan and Cohen that fail to impress, while enchantment and a bit of real pathos are missing. Irony and craft partly redeem this underlying shortcoming, but for someone like Chesnutt this remains a limitation that's hardly negligible. Silver Lake flickers to life intermittently with luminous openings, genuine flashes of brilliance, in a picture that, however, generally remains far too meditative and drawn-out, resulting in a disjointed, scattered whole. There are, however, some surprises, and among the praiseworthy exceptions worth mentioning are the unusual aesthetic cross-pollination and curious contemplative tone of "Zippy Marocco", as well as the unusual tightrope-walking of "Sultan, So Mighty" where, with his voice forced into an uncomfortable, narcotic falsetto, amid a sonic bareness not without its charm, Vic delivers one of the most extreme performances of his repertoire and earns genuine applause. Of course, with this register of songwriting hybridity he proves far less accessible than in his usual standards and demands no small amount of patience from his listeners. Right after, "Fa-La-La" is a more joyful passage in which the songwriter again proves capable of conveying his own fervor and manages to orchestrate the musicians' contributions at their best, finding a harmonious synthesis and a contagious warmth. The farewell track, then, is a genuine tour de force and bodes well for the future. The gaze turns clear, limpid, straightforward again, and the singer shines through the sincerity of his words amid a candid polyphony.

Only two years pass before his tenth album, Ghetto Bells, is ready. Vic largely keeps the same team of session players already at work with him on the previous occasion (this time John Chelew sits behind the console), but also calls on two top-shelf guests: jazz guitarist Bill Frisell and Van Dyke Parks, brought in to play piano, organ and accordion. On the surface things move along the same lines as its predecessor, though the commitment feels even more convinced, and Chesnutt seems to immediately rediscover flashes of languid, visceral poetry. He certainly doesn't abandon that pair of measured, serene, grandiloquent and slightly overlong episodes ("Vesuvius", "Forthright") that seek authenticity even at the cost of being less than gripping. It's a drawback inherent to the nature of things: there's no denying that this record and Silver Lake are more mature and less impulsive albums than anything released in the early '90s on Texas Hotel. That's an undeniable fact, but it doesn't take away from the fact that, on this occasion, the sense of artifice that had limited the previous work is nonetheless avoided. On "What Do You Mean?" Vic reclaims the gentleness of his touch in a chloroformed dialogue with his niece Liz Durrett, whom he himself had launched just a few months earlier, as well as a gaze that's finally relaxed and rapturous. "Rambunctious Cloud" reveals the opportunity of adopting a languid rhythm to arrive at results of astonishing balance and allure.

You can be incisive despite mild tempos. "Got To Me" confirms as much, a return of the sharp, pungent Vic amid a sonic atmosphere devoted to utmost sparseness. The coordinates stay the same on "To Be With You", a typically acrid, reverb-laden episode of his mature period, while "Ignorant People" stands out as one of the most convincing twilight passages of the period, another superb vocal performance from the folksinger at the height of wonder within a minimalist setting. In this light, the simmering "Little Caesar" is perhaps the most representative song on the album, with an exceptionally lively and at-ease Chesnutt set against a dark, molten backdrop, dominated by electric guitars and the accordion of his famous travelling companion. The result is an angular, atmospheric, nervy track dense with dissonance. In the closing bars there's room for the solipsistic noodling of a limping filler track like "The Garden" (complete with a revival of Vic's fake trumpet, whose first appearance dated back to the old "Little Vacation"), while the farewell is entrusted to the shadows of the bizarre "Gnats", possessor of a falsetto as pained as it is memorable, which helps make Ghetto Bells one of his most unsettling works ever. Not without effort, then, the wheelchair-bound songwriter is back to being serious again, even if the certainties about his future are growing ever shakier.

Last Gasps

2006 is, once again, a year of upheaval for Vic. New West drops him without much ceremony, but interesting opportunities aren't lacking. The Canadian Cowboy Junkies bring him in alongside Natalie Merchant for a series of commemorative concerts marking the twentieth anniversary of their "Trinity Session", and then the minstrel embarks on a stimulating side venture with Mark Eitzel of American Music Club, Will Johnson of Centro-matic, and David Bazan, better known as Pedro The Lion: it's the thrilling interlude of the Undertow Orchestra, a live project from which Chesnutt emerges reinvigorated, but which unfortunately never leads to any concrete studio outcome.

Once this happy experience has also run its course, there's no time to mope, since two other old friends - filmmaker Jem Cohen (who directed many of R.E.M.'s early videos) and Fugazi frontman Guy Picciotto - invite him to join them and a number of other Constellation Records artists (the full Silver Mt. Zion lineup plus Bruce Cawdron of Godspeed You! Black Emperor) for an experiment blending acid folk and post-rock. The proposal is so absurd and off-script that Chesnutt accepts without hesitation and moves to Montréal for the recording sessions. The experience that produces his eleventh LP is one of the most intense and exhilarating of his career, and it upends some of his musical outlook entirely. "It saved my life," he would later say, "it's as if I'd sketched a self-portrait in pencil, left it there on the table, and when I came back found it filled in with colours I never suspected I had."

Before being simply the product of a "supergroup's" activity, this North Star Deserter (Constellation, 2007) represents the meeting point of two artistic paths that, distant as they were from one another, had taken tentative steps toward each other. On one hand, on the preceding Ghetto Bells, Vic had steeped the essentialism of his songwriting in orchestral arrangements of epic dramatic weight; on the other, the pioneering Canadian post-rockers had already tried more than once to "give voice" to their dark sonic tapestries, succeeding admirably on the too-overlooked "Welcome Crummy Mystics" by Frankie Sparo, as well as on the more recent Silver Mt. Zion album, "Horses In The Sky".

As had happened the year before with the Carla Bozulich album, the musicians' "closed circle" opens up once again to crucial outside contributions from artists with different histories and musical backgrounds, embracing Chesnutt's voice and songwriting, to whom the album is rightly credited.

On the record, the promise suggested by the number and quality of the artists involved is fully delivered. It's an articulate, multifaceted work that doesn't settle for being a mere sum of the experiences gathered within it, but fuses them into a conceptually coherent whole, expressed now through the American minstrel's "classic" singer-songwriter approach, now through a sinister and often distorted orchestral sweep, now finally through the dramatic intensity of crescendos and electric spasms. These three ideal cornerstones of the record, which coexist within it intertwining in sometimes unpredictable ways, are clearly identifiable already in the first three tracks and in their progressive rise in tone and compositional complexity. The album opens quietly with "Warm", a subdued, essential ballad that doesn't add much to what Vic's restrained songwriting has always expressed; but the context begins to shift already on the following "Glossolalia", with its anguished vocal, first underpinned by distorted string flourishes and gradually flanked by oblique choirs; finally, the seven minutes of "Everything I Say" give rise to an orchestral tapestry of disorienting atmospheres, shaken by repeated electric jolts that seem to translate, into a vaguely bluesy setting, the slow and impetuous crescendos of Godspeed You! Black Emperor, evoking their apocalyptic aura and reaching a dramatic tension comparable to theirs. Throughout the rest of the album's scant hour, the Athens folksinger and his occasional companions don't merely replicate the modes of expression identified above, but continually reshuffle them, revealing their many possible shades.

If we set aside, in fact, the extremes represented by the no-less-effective quieter, bare-bones ballads ("Wallace Stevens", "Over") and the claustrophobic electric swarm of "post-hardcore-blues" unleashed by Picciotto's guitar on "Debriefing", the album successfully pursues the idea of artistic syncretism underlying it, alternating, around songs with a clear singer-songwriter stamp, the insertion of understated string and piano arrangements, electric loops, sketches of acoustic minimalism, uniform distortion layers and even hypnotic ambient touches. The result of these constant sonic transitions is particularly recognizable on tracks like "Fodder On Her Wings" or the masterful "Splendid", where heterogeneous elements merge in accomplished balance, crowning the Georgian songwriter's writing and vibrant delivery while also marking a further evolutionary stage in the path the Canadian musicians had set out on with "Horses In The Sky", an album with which North Star Deserter is clearly continuous. Even at a very subdued pace, with nothing but bare voice and guitar, Vic manages to be visceral and warms the heart. He achieves this in particular with the intimate folk of "Marathon", a genuine masterpiece of the record. Gone are certain excesses and certain unintended caricature-like rough edges that in the past sapped the strength from otherwise very worthy songs. Everything is more controlled, yet still vibrant. This is the new Chesnutt: less angry but no less aching, able to distill emotion with maturity and wise economy to reach full intensity even while going slow, like a marathon runner indeed. Thus the two artistic universes meet and, without colliding, merge into an album that can't be ascribed to one or the other, but possesses its own peculiar, tormented identity, whose expressive power makes its creators' gifts shine, revealing, track after track, detail after detail, a musical hybrid dense with fascination and increasingly well-defined character.

Despite the chronological unevenness of the songs that make it up (recent tracks alternate with others written at the start of his career and often already performed live) and the merely feared senselessness behind this crossing of such different styles and approaches, North Star Deserter stands, paradoxically, as Chesnutt's most cohesive and accomplished record in over a decade. It's also a formidable tonic. Back in Georgia, Vic invites fellow Athens residents Elf Power - veterans of the US indie-pop scene and a mainstay of the Elephant 6 collective - to collaborate with him on a new LP, offering to return the hospitality Andy Rieger and co. had shown him by having him sing on their "Walking With The Beggar Boys" three years earlier (the same period as his cameo on "Is All Over The Map" by Giant Sand). Rounding out the cast are a couple of former Porn Orchard members, here under the moniker The Amorphous Strums, and Derek Almstead of Circulatory System, acting as producer. Vic thus continues his personal path of recoding American folk in an alternative key with what can rightly be considered a minor chapter in his rich discography, though not without interesting ideas and solutions. Elf Power are happy to act as a genuine backing band on a project more off-the-cuff and devoted to improvisation than the previous one, with a modest package and no-frills production but a decidedly unusual outcome, at least considering the pop-psychedelic guise the songwriter's songs take on thanks to the Athens band's contribution. The somewhat subdued feel of the album's nine tracks, their quiet nature, free of particular expressive acrobatics and marked by rather spartan production, might seem enough to pigeonhole this Dark Developments (Orange Twin, 2008) as a record meant exclusively for fans of one artist or the other, but that would be a mistake.

A curious, patient listener who doesn't fit the above category would have no way to engage with a work that grows significantly with repeated listens, and would thus miss out on at least a couple of excellent songs, among the best in the catalogues of both the songwriter and Elf Power. There's the expansive sweep of the autobiographical "Little Fucker", written during a period of depression (over the end of the live experience with the Undertow Orchestra) but enlivened by the admirable positivity of this new collaboration: an excellent testament to the Georgian's magical streak, at his best for grit and inspiration, amid the subtle rarefactions of a slightly acid electric guitar, the reverberations of an oblique blues, and the genuine, submerged emotion the track is steeped in. No less notable is the funny closing parade of "Phil The Fiddler", set to the house's pop-rock, luminous as ever but streaked at times with unease due to the constant intrusions of menacing strings. It's the last and most interesting stylistic compromise between the artists involved, containing the most classic of Chesnutt-esque refrains and a development charged with plenty of good vibrations. Amid the folds of a sound less bare and more varied than on previous releases, Vic's unmistakable croaky voice struggles a bit to emerge but eventually manages to assert itself as the record's true beacon, the most easily identifiable element amid a sea of colours and band-like additions that are, all things considered, unusual for his aficionados.

It's inevitable, surrendering to the quiet waves of the opening "Mystery", to think back to the peaceful sound and warmth of The Salesman And Bernadette, with Elf Power here recreating that hazy, slow but reassuring atmosphere that Kurt Wagner's Lambchop had built exactly ten years earlier as the ideal setting for Vic's caressing vocal contributions. Even here, while making good use of the melancholy relief offered by harmonica and xylophone, Chesnutt doesn't give up the crepuscular tones typical of his guarded, nervous songwriting, leaving a clearly recognizable noir imprint that deeply permeates and contaminates the entire pop framework of Dark Developments. The crossing of these two distinct musical entities proves a valuable stimulus for everyone, as the fine results of "And How" and "We Are Mean" seem to demonstrate: in the former, Rieger's group's traditional power-pop sound slows down, avoiding caricature-like emphasis and adapting to the folksinger's calmer tones, without giving up its tasty easy-listening quality, which indeed shows off nicely in the excellent choral refrain; in the latter, Vic's light but pleasant singer-songwriter folk returns, bolstered by the backing of an experienced band, able to turn dark on the chorus before promptly being defused by the lively intervention of the vibraphone and the irony of yet another fake trumpet.

For the rest, one appreciates the usual excellent craftsmanship, the honesty of playing without the pretense of inventing anything new, but favouring instead the priceless pleasure of making music through encounter with the other. That explains "Bilocating Dog", the poppy digression one wouldn't have expected from latter-day Chesnutt, his giving up, for once, the bitter visceral quality that has become something of his expressive trademark, set aside here to allow himself a moment of healthy, pleasant frivolity. That explains the nocturnal intimacy of the dense "The Mad Passion Of The Stoic", a slow, almost narcotic piece that highlights the nuances of a voice in perfect focus: almost a long prayer in which Vic quotes himself (the recent "Rustic City Fathers") and manages to be touching even while indulging a bit too much in a shadowy, Leonard Cohen-like intonation. That also explains "Teddy Bear" and "Stop The Horse", where the hybridization should be read in the opposite direction. The pop blend of synth (on the former) and organ (on the latter), brought in by Elf Power, take on more austere, less carefree tones, conforming to the songwriter's introverted nature: grace is nonetheless not lost, because this Vic's voice can be thrilling as never before even just by whispering, able to conjure radiant suggestions out of nothing and steer the songs exactly where he wants them to go.

The Song of the Ugly Duckling (Who Refused to Become a Swan)

2009 sees Chesnutt intensify his efforts in several directions, as if he sensed the need to settle every remaining score before a drastic choice that could no longer be postponed. He embarks on a couple of long promotional tours (first with Elf Power, then with his friends Silver Mt. Zion) that bring him to Italy for the first time. He's part of the star-studded cast of the compilation curated by Sparklehorse and Danger Mouse, "Dark Night Of The Soul", which will be widely talked about that year. He scores the German film "Mitte Ende August" and then (surprisingly) returns to collaborate with the collective he'd made North Star Deserter with: he's among the protagonists of Empires Of Tin, Jem Cohen's video-concert filmed in Vienna in which he reinterprets some older tracks (including "Sponge" and "Distortion") accompanied by the post-rockers; he then goes back into the studio with them to shape the ideal follow-up to the acclaimed experience of two years before, convinced that that encounter needed to be repeated to give the new material a restless vitality, the best possible soundtrack for the startling words he carries within him. As in that case, At The Cut too comes out on Constellation and is once again a great display of syncretism. In the bare, arid setting of "Coward", magnificently introduced by his comrades, Vic opens up into a stumbling, exceedingly fragile vocal that grows ever more dazzling, up to the electric foaming brought by the Canadians. Submerged in reverb, he proves striking in his ragged, ulcerated lament, the revelation of a tragic intent, at least read in hindsight. Further on too, the tones remain harsh and nervy, marked by thunderous tears ("Philip Guston") or by clouds heavy with unease torn through by a ray of sunlight ("Chain"), his aching voice a guarantee of reason amid the coming night. The voice on "We Hovered With Short Wings" is reduced to the faintest lament and buried beneath a fine percussive sand, a breath of life spreading through the air like smoke of great purity.

It's a great lesson, this integrity preserved to the very end as a bulwark of his poetics and his creed, alien to anything transcendent, with human dignity chosen as the only everlasting pole star. In what has all the air of a painful last testament, the most intimate Chesnutt appears almost disarmed with his small, crooked guitar, barely plucked in the silence, fragile and bare as never before. That's also the sonic imprint of "Chinaberry Tree", where his passion is nonetheless pushed to the point of no return by a frame of electric flares. As in the old "Myrtle", we return along the thread of memory as if drawing an implicit reckoning, between a secular, boundless love for life and a sense of wonder with no more barriers. The defining song of At The Cut, though, is "Flirted With You All My Life", his sharpest, most touching confession, yet not without the extraordinary irony the artist is capable of. This is a towering Vic, disarmingly pure and sincere, while his comrades' contributions for once don't sharpen but soothe, almost turning his invocation into an overflowing prayer, finally free of shadows and fears. A final splendid self-portrait follows ("It Is What It Is"), drawn in the spirit of serene self-acceptance, of one's own limits and one's own otherness, with no more need to resort to the screens of humour and self-deprecation: a free, serene man, unburdened of his torments and his own demons, soaring in a radiant sky ("I ain't a pagan / I got nothing to worship: no god that ain't even there, nor the sun, who remains unaware"). The closing dedication, brimming with boundless affection, is however for his paternal grandmother, sketched with his unmistakable bare picking and nothing else: once again the sincerity of the words illuminates and strikes special chords.

Only a month goes by and Chesnutt is back in the recording studio, this time alongside one of his idols, Jonathan Richman, and his trusted drummer, Tommy Larkins. No one but Vic could imagine it, but this will be the last time. Like a vein run dry yet still present, the songwriter cuts away everything superfluous and strips his songwriting back to square one, a nakedness clothed only by his excellent, occasional travelling companions. Introduced by the paradigmatic "Feast In The Time Of Plague", Skitter On Take-Off (Vapor, 2009) shows a grave, austere tone, while the music, pared to the bone, embraces the essentialism of minimal, near-blues geometries typical of desert-folk. In the background, Larkin's brushes and near-imperceptible beats; in support, a decidedly understated Richman, while the spotlight is reserved for a splendidly incisive, pauperist Chesnutt, his sudden surges like rays of light or gusts of welcome fresh air, proof that even in the narrowest or seemingly most tormented passages, the small Georgia songwriter is capable of remarkable emotional flashes and formidable humanity. There are none of the sonic blasts of his recent outings with the Canadian ensemble; in their place, a soothed candour shines through, the minstrel's skittering picking, and a frugal mood lit solely by that still-astonishing voice of his. With a stripped-down melody obsessively repeated by an especially bitter Vic, hoarse yet stubborn, here's a spartan, dark song that embodies, in exemplary fashion, the twilight tones of this last, anguished work ("Dimples"). There's no resignation, however. There's still strength, despite the bitterness and the uneasy cast of the arrangements.

The harshness of the words is tempered by a renewed mix of irony, metaphor and stream-of-consciousness, as well as by a guitar touch that is once again reticent, elusive, held back. Sour, pointed, rough-edged and yet genuine, the songwriter does not always avoid a touch of wordiness. He also shows he doesn't mind the occasional lighter moment, as on "Society Sue", where he doesn't silence his colleague's more playful beat or caliente guitar, though without ever betraying an overall sober, measured framework. "My New Life", on the other hand, is dominated by a thin, disarming falsetto, with which Chesnutt sings his own loneliness in a way that leaves listeners unsettled. His sincerity reaches new, spine-tingling heights, and the almost embittered twist with which the song fades out ("Nella mia nuova vita non ci saranno più stronzi con cui sarò costretto a vivere") casts an almost prophetic shadow over his intentions. In expressive terms, the simplicity of the writing and performance is a natural return to the standards of the songwriter's earliest, bare but proud records, like a circle closing harmoniously. It can hardly be a coincidence, then, that the very song that closes Skitter On Take-Off, and his career, "Sewing Machine", is the only reworking of one of his own past songs (from his debut with Brute), as well as the occasion for a dazzling, moving return to the distant memories of a happy childhood.

Meanwhile, unpaid medical debts in Vic's name had reached $70,000. A figure that might not seem so exorbitant, but one that proves a relentless vice grip for an artist who can barely scrape by on his music. After once again calling for healthcare reform in his country, in an interview given in October to the Los Angeles Times, the songwriter admitted: "I could die tomorrow because of other operations I need and can't afford. I could die any day now, but I don't want to pay the insurance companies one more cent."

On December 23, 2009, the singer-songwriter fell into a coma from an overdose of muscle relaxants, medication he had been taking regularly for more than twenty-five years to ease the pain of his disaster-strewn life. He died on Christmas Day of that same year, in the early afternoon.

Messages of condolence sprang up online like mushrooms. The most bitter came from Jem Cohen: "The cliché of the self-destructive spiral is out of place here. Vic wasn't a victim of rock'n'roll but of sad circumstances and a healthcare system that simply doesn't work." More curious was the tribute from Jeff Mangum, mr. Neutral Milk Hotel: "In 1991 I moved to Athens looking for God, but I found Vic Chesnutt instead. Listening to his music completely transformed the way I thought about songwriting, and for that I'll forever be in his debt."

In 2011, Cowboy Junkies released an album of Chesnutt covers, "Demons". Lambchop would instead dedicate their "Mr. M" to him the following year.

Kurt Wagner would later say he wanted to return to music precisely after his friend's tragic act.

In his lyrics, Vic had often written about suicide. He had also attempted it more than once, always unsuccessfully. He loved evoking death as if to exorcise it, going all the way back to Little, the first of a very long series of albums released as genuine fragments of life, before being fragments of art. Music and literature, which he only truly discovered after the accident that upended his existence, had immediately established themselves as the lifeblood, the driving force behind his stoic resistance: to pain, to misfortune, even to the temptations of an easy way out. In his final period, Vic had intensified his efforts, as if he sensed he could no longer keep this "lifelong companion" from finally granting him the rest he dreamed of. His last two records, both released only a few months earlier, seem to betray a kind of weariness in the struggle, but they do so, paradoxically, with an authenticity of vision, a sharpness and an intensity that are ultimately the best testimony to what Vic was during the long years of his illness: a real man, strong as an oak, a fighter. This character comes through clearly in the lyrics, whose bluntness ("Coward", "Flirted With You All My Life") is a natural evolution of the metaphorical flights that weighed down his early, uncertain lyrics with a certain naivety – lyrics in which the discomfort and self-obsession, almost the artist wallowing in the role of the unfortunate outcast, carried, even unintentionally, a whiff of posturing and mannerism. Over the years Chesnutt learned to frame and portray himself through increasingly well-calibrated and subtler filters, holding himself in a dimension that was distant yet emotionally visceral, sidestepping the easy temptations of pathos with elegant irony while still striking at the heart of the listener most free of prejudice. In doing so, he managed very early on to sing about himself and the world around him as a cohesive universe, always tightly bound together, an exhilarating symbiosis as well as the sublimation of a point of view that was strikingly original even in literary terms, with an often incredible fusion of tender and caustic registers. Vic's humanity was the humanity of his songs, two planes never so interconnected as in his case, with a perfect coincidence between the person and the persona, the creator and the subject of his twilight storytelling, always clearly visible in the background. The music, too, served this need of his for truth, this will to finally lay himself bare.

Having hinted at it more than once beforehand, Chesnutt must have felt ready to go. And he did. But not before giving us a full twenty years of extraordinary songs.

Contributions by Raffaello Russo (“North Star Deserter”)

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