Jeffrey Foucault
The Universal Fire
Fluff and Gravy
The most difficult reviews to write are for records I really love. It’s rare that I “hate” any album I’m assigned. This is someone’s hard work. In many cases, their first published work. I’m not about to hate on it, but have to dig deeper for something to spill words over.
The love part is my current excuse for being slow. I listen over and over, repeating tracks to catch some layer I might have missed on the first round. I hyperfocus on lyrics and subtle riffs, elements that might not make the best radio single, but will rise up after the release-day confetti lands on the floor.
The Universal Fire, Jeffrey Foucault’s latest release and his first in six years, is stunning. It’s a slow move through grief, but not without hope and humor. It’s full of mood and reflection on life as an artist — one who lost his best pal. It’s also a portrait of things we hold close that can go up in flames without warning, as delivered in the title track.
Opening with “Winter Count,” Foucault gets right to the gut punch that loss is.
Tell me the word for winter where you’re going/ Come to think, it’s probably the same.
After his best friend and long-time drummer Billy Conway passed away in 2021, the songs on this album began coming together. The spare, tasteful, and signature percussion of John Convertino (Calexico) is a perfect fit for these tracks that honor Conway with all the empathy and sensitivity he was known for. Recorded at Wave Lab in Tucson and produced by Mike Lewis (Bon Iver) who also plays sax and piano, the album also features Foucault’s band with Eric Heywood on steel, Jeremy Moses Curtis on bass, and Erik Kiskinen on electric guitar. Background vocals are rounded out by Kris Delmhorst, Pieta Brown, and Barbara Jean Meyers. Tucson’s Sergio Mendoza joined for some ranchera-style accordion. The recipe came together beautifully. A mournful country-but-not-too-country steel, folded in with dissonance, saxophone, and a touch of ranchera? What’s not to love?
The Universal Fire has elements that those familiar with Foucault’s work will recognize. Greasy spoon blues shuffles and fingerstyle ballads meld with rock riffs. The jazz element of Mike Lewis’ saxophone on “Monterey Rain” throws a lovely curve ball, defying the playbook that we’ve come to expect in most Americana records. This is the track that stopped me in my kitchen on first listen. I walked over to hit the play button on the file again, and let it take me somewhere else. The same happened on “Woodsmoke.” As a Calexico fan from the early days, I was under the Convertino spell, with Foucault’s lyrics delivering the vignette that very few can paint sonically.
There are some lyric zingers that won’t let you go easily. Foucault is having a conversation with you. He’s telling a real story, wrapped in melody and unforced phrasing. He wants you to ask more questions, some that can’t be answered.
In the title track:
Gravity pushes down the stylus/ God disappears into the sky/ Electroplated silver cysts the master from the mirror/ Every one the iteration of a lie.
I am reminded of the imagery in Bruck Cockburn’s “Creation Dream” from Dancing in the Dragon’s Jaw. We are there as fire destroys the masters at Universal Studio, just as we are when Cockburn narrates the ultimate magic trick.
In “Solo Modelo,” I feel the grief as Foucault recalls life on the road with and without his friend Billy. “Night Shift” brings the road warrior story into a rockabilly vibe, lamenting the gritty side, but not forgetting to celebrate the privilege of being able to play music for a living.
My conversation with Jeffrey Foucault gives insight into this new record and what it means to him. The processing of grief, the slow pace of creating and expressing in a world that demands production, and the joy of surrounding yourself with those you trust to carry forward what you need to say.
Jeffrey Foucault has every right to take his time. The Universal Fire is worth the wait.
