B-Side Guys

Static crackles like kindling moments before a flame catches. Then, through the analog warmth of 2-inch tape, Conor Gleeson’s voice stretches across three thousand miles of American terrain, calling home to a Kentucky that exists now only in memory. “Kentucky Telephone,” released just under a month ago, isn’t merely a song about disconnection—it’s a deliberate act of reconnection conducted through methodically vintage means.

The collaborative project between Gleeson and producer Jason Abraham Roberts (whose credits with Spoon and Norah Jones signal a certain sonic pedigree) situates itself at a curious crossroads where psychedelia meets rootedness. This tension mirrors Gleeson’s geographical trajectory—from Louisville to Nashville to San Francisco—creating music that feels simultaneously untethered and desperately seeking grounding.

The track’s production decisions deserve particular attention. Recording analog to tape isn’t merely aesthetic nostalgia but philosophical alignment with the song’s thematic preoccupations. In an era of digital perfection, the choice to embrace analog imperfection becomes an extension of the lyrical content—a musical embodiment of the messy, imprecise nature of memory and identity.

What distinguishes “Kentucky Telephone” from standard indie rock explorations of displacement is how the instrumentation creates a specific sense of place without resorting to obvious regional signifiers. Instead, the psychedelic elements function as disorientation, while the garage rock foundation provides the emotional urgency of someone desperately trying to reconnect with something essential before it disappears completely.

As a preliminary taste of the forthcoming album, this single suggests a promising framework for the full-length “Flaming Purple Crocus”—itself inspired by Gleeson’s partner’s miraculous recovery from terminal cancer. This contextual information isn’t merely biographical footnote but provides crucial understanding of the project’s underlying ethos. Just as the album celebrates unexpected survival against medical prediction, “Kentucky Telephone” examines the surprising persistence of regional identity despite geographic and temporal distance.

The assembled personnel reads like a carefully curated collection of musical alchemists—Josh Adams (Fruit Bats, Cat Power), Ben Alleman (Marc Broussard, Dr. John), and Stephen Musselman (Sam Outlaw) create a foundation where each instrumental voice contributes to the carefully constructed sense of dislocation and longing. Their collective résumé spans precisely the range of influences evident in T.L.G.W.’s sound—from art-rock experimentation to deeply rooted Americana.

“Kentucky Telephone” ultimately succeeds because it transcends mere nostalgia for place, instead examining the complex relationship between geographic dislocation and personal identity. Through deliberately anachronistic production choices and psychedelically-tinged arrangements, The Last Gray Wolf creates a compelling sonic landscape where disconnection becomes its own form of connection—a paradox as American as the distance between Kentucky and California.