3/5 stars
I was once told it takes three listens to properly digest a record. Upon the third eavesdrop, Monterey relics an easy-on-the ears variant of ’70s-era softly homespun folk, balancing an obvious reverence for The Milk Carton Kids’ sonic forebears whilst managing to feel natural and unforced.
It’s a touch limper than anything to previously fall from the duo’s branches, though its most valuable asset remains its vocals. With little more than a six-string on their shoulders, Kenneth Pattengale and Joey Ryan acoustically weave fluid melodies with an intuitive brotherly blend, reflecting on both the political and personal ground we’ve all covered.
However, Monterey isn’t their most impressive feat to date. It whirls in mediocrity, devoid of anything as memorable as on its predecessor The Ash & Clay.
Interestingly, this latest offering was not conceived in the ordinary confines of a musical workspace, but on stages – sweeping the dense echoes unearthed in toured concert halls, churches and theatres.
Monterey inherently conveys a sense of rawness in capturing a bygone sound, peeling back the aid of studio embellishments.
