John Craigie – I Swam Here (Zabriskie Point) (13th Floor Album Review)
John Craigie taps into the hypnotic tones of bossa nova on his latest record, I Swam Here, but the warmth of its glow remains unmistakably Californian.
The Getz/Gilberto-inspired cover art, as well as the classical nylon-string guitar that welcomes us on gentle opener Mermaid Weather, may suggest I should be conjuring coast lines a little closer to Brazil, but the samba touches aren’t enough to shake the indelible sense of place Craigie’s melodies, lyrics and delivery evoke. And this is a good thing – few musicians represent the Golden State as enticingly as this folkie charmer who now calls Portland home. A bold claim perhaps, given LA sprouted troubadours like they were palm trees in the 1970s, but such is the candor and colour of Craigie’s stage persona and his talent for spinning glorious tales with stellar comic timing and zero appetite for pretense or artifice. He’s like an anti-Ryan Adams.
But that live experience, whether witnessed in person on his 2025 NZ tour or through his records, is so vibrant and communal it has overshadowed his studio output, which is extensive. And for a fan like himself who was introduced to Craigie through songs like I Almost Stole Some Weed From Todd Snider (RIP Todd), it can be challenging to reconcile the freewheelin’ vagabond on stage with the more plaintive and insular version on him on the “proper” albums.
I find the closer his records can sound to his mates showing up unannounced for a laidback session (such as 2017’s No Rain, No Rose), the better. But if you were to reach into his vast catalogue for a roadtrip companion, as you most certainly should, you would still invariably favour one of his “live in Portland” chronicles, Opening For Steinbeck (2018) or Capricorn in Retrograde (2016).
Now, there is a definite case for I Swam Here to slip into the rotation. Dreamy and tender, it’s akin to being lost in a languid sunset, with an empty wine bottle or two at your feet. The album was primarily recorded in New Orleans, though three tracks that didn’t measure up were later re-cut in Astoria, Oregon. Craigie recorded with a nylon string guitar for the first time in his career, but retained the steel acoustic for one song, Edna Strange, an album highlight. Inspired by the sound of Marty Robbins and other western balladeers, it is a mournful yet amusing account of a one-night-stand that ends in bloodshed. Craigie brings more dust and grit than Robbins would have, and a weary ruefulness that recalls Bob Dylan’s Pat Garrett & Billy The Kid soundtrack.
The other early singles, Fire Season and Dry Land, a romantic ode to the ocean, sung from a city pavement, and buoyed by piano and organ, are also from the top shelf, while the bluesy and atmospheric Claws, a reworking of a song that predates Craigie’s debut Montana Tale (2009), brings a welcome change of tone late in the record. I expect some indie folk fans will find I Swam Here a bit too mellow, too often. There aren’t the turns of bitterness or bursts of commotion you would find on a Conor Oberst or M. Ward record, or even Craigie’s compadre and collaborator Gregory Alan Isakov. Even the most overtly political song, Call Me a Bullet, is a fairly tranquil response to the slew of pro-life and pro-gun billboards that assaulted Craigie’s senses when driving through the midwest.
But if you’re in need of a warm calm, I Swam Here is capable of turning a dreary drive home from work into a sunkissed escape down the Pacific Coast Highway.
Matthew Dallas
I Swam Here is out now via Zabriskie Point Records
