Greg Freeman

Greg Freeman deals in biblical deluges, apocalyptic fever dreams, Floridian miscreants, and green mountain malaise. On his excellent debut LP I Looked Out, Greg's voice takes center stage, creaking, crooning, and cutting through clouds of static. The songs are linked together by a palpable urgency, whether it is the punch-in-the-face, careening momentum of "Tower," the country-gazing guitar squall of "Souvenir Heart," or the singalong finale of "Palms." Careful arrangements and production choices bring out the best of the 7-piece band that ornament the album with pedal steel, horns, eerie strings, and tape warbles. Greg's strong narrative songwriting is equally effective chronicling the demise of a 1920s ocean liner as it is documenting his own interpersonal uncertainties. The sounds on the record conjure up the feeling of driving around Chittenden County in the middle of winter, high beams on, slush on the floor mats. It's hard for me to imagine a more promising debut record, and I can't wait to see where this band goes next.