Dear Blaine, I hope this finds you well. Just dropping this line to tell you that the night I was assigned to write a review of your new record, I was sitting at home with my wife watching the Grand Ole Opry live, and to my surprise, during a tribute to Barbara Mandrell, there you were. I hadn’t listened to your CD yet, but after hearing you perform the first few bars of your opening song — the catchy, Spanish-tinged “I Don’t Know What She Said” — my wife and I just looked at each other with mouths agape.
Wow, kid, where’d you learn to sing like that? At 21, you’ve already got the impossibly weathered, nuanced voice of a George Strait. And your songwriting is just as mature as your vocals. Your record’s poignant closer, “At the Gate”, which ponders whom you’ll meet first when you arrive in heaven, just isn’t the kind of song typically written by someone who, with all respect, looks like he still takes the bus to school.
Unlike some of your fellow golden-throated young country bucks, like Josh Turner and Dierks Bentley, your voice isn’t just resonant, it’s knowing, with the subtle country inflections of a seasoned vet. I especially like “I’m in Love with a Married Woman”, a sweet, clever take on marriage, and “Lips on a Bottle”, a stirring duet with Gretchen “Redneck Woman” Wilson that would fit comfortably in the George Jones-Tammy Wynette canon. And your cover of Mac Davis’s ’70s classic, “Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me”, is perfect.
Blaine, your new record isn’t new at all. And that’s why it’s great. It’s an eerily authentic-sounding retro work. You’re no crossover artist like Keith Urban or Kenny Chesney. In fact, your one real crack here at classic rock, the title track, doesn’t work as well. It has a nice anthemic vibe, but it sounds a bit forced, like you’re imitating Chesney imitating John Mellencamp.
Don’t rock the jukebox, kid, your home’s in the country. As long as you don’t let them slick Nashville music-industry cats force you into being something you ain’t, you’re gonna be a big star. You’ve got an amazing ear — even if you’re still a little wet behind ’em.
Sincerely, Jamie Reno
Dear Blaine, I hope this finds you well. Just dropping this line to tell you that the night I was assigned to write a review of your new record, I was sitting at home with my wife watching the Grand Ole Opry live, and to my surprise, during a tribute to Barbara Mandrell, there you were. I hadn’t listened to your CD yet, but after hearing you perform the first few bars of your opening song — the catchy, Spanish-tinged “I Don’t Know What She Said” — my wife and I just looked at each other with mouths agape.