Album review: Chris Stapleton’s latest ‘Higher’ may be his best music yet

During “South Dakota,” the second tune on Chris Stapleton’s splendid new album “Higher,” the Lexington-born song stylist spits out the title location of the song with a vocal howl as mighty as Mount Rushmore. It’s like he’s describing the Hotel California and the Highway to Hell simultaneously over a wicked, ragged and electrically swampy groove born at least five states South of where the song’s scorched earth saga unfolds.

In short, don’t expect the South Dakota Department of Tourism to adopt Stapleton’s rumination in any upcoming advertising. But, hey, their loss.

“South Dakota” is something of a curiosity on “Higher,” as much of the rest of the album, the multi-Grammy winning Stapleton’s fifth as a solo artist, is devoted to love songs. Granted, we’re not talking a move to Hallmark country here. We’re not even talking about country per se, as veteran studio pro Paul Franklin’s plaintive coloring on pedal steel guitar is one of the few nods to Nashville on a 15-song set rooted firmly in Southern soil and soul. No, a love song in Stapleton’s hands is a confessional. It’s sometimes open and reflective, but just as often becomes unsettled and, well, complicated.

Still, longtime fans will likely notice a downshift into a looser, lighter sonic terrain on “Higher.” With Morgana Stapleton now sharing full credits as producer alongside her husband and longtime sidekick Dave Cobb, the record wears a heart on its sleeve that is alternately welcoming, troubled and soulfully plain spoken. At times, Stapleton’s vocal expression is curiously reserved, but never is it smooth. That commanding buzzsaw of a voice gives even the tenderest of narratives a sense of urgency.

Take “The Fire,” for instance, where the musical framework is all subtle, folk-inspired soul. Here, Stapleton’s voices crackles like flames slicing through logs in a fireplace. Only an echo of synthesizer, which calls out like a distant whistle, reveals any sense of modernism. Similarly, “It Takes a Woman,” the kind of slow and solemn ballad Stapleton maneuvers through so masterfully, bears a vocal lead that reaches out of a warm electric meditation like an outstretched hand.

Then on “Think I’m in Love With You,” Stapleton decorates a slightly more pensive vocal inclination with all the trappings of a 1971 twilight R&B production piece, right down to its sleek guitar speak and tastefully cinematic string arrangement. Another Stapleton howl serves as the bow on the top of this luscious, commanding retro soul escapade.

Of course, those are the happier moments. “White Horse” deconstructs the whole knight-in-shining-armor myth with a vocal command big enough to light up a night sky magnified by blasts of pure rock-steady, soul saturated gusto.

Then there’s “The Bottom.” Takes a wild guess where that takes us. This is Stapleton in a rich comfort zone, one where he outlines the right turns to the wrong moves, where misery is measured by the depth of a whiskey glass. “I don’t have a problem if I don’t see the bottom” he sings with a truly sobering sense of denial.

That “The Bottom” immediately follows the title tune to “Higher,” with its more cordial Hammond B3 glow, in the new album’s batting order is surely no coincidence. That’s how quickly fortunes rise and fall in these songs. Irony, in Stapleton Country, is thriving.

There are a few deviations from these Loveland musings. “Crosswinds,” the most overtly country offering on an album clearly wary of country convention, is a straight-up truckers anthem but without any sense of ceremony. It details a life as unforgiving as the Alabama highways its hero travels (“Signs are saying ‘Jesus Saves,’ but the Devil don’t give a damn.”) And on “What Am I Going to Do,” the first song in an album-opening double shot that concludes with the aforementioned “South Dakota,” the unmistakable grit and grime of Stapleton’s vocals emerge like a ghost to lead a séance rich with gospel-blues fervor.

As wild as all this is collectively, “Higher” saves it finest moment for last. The closing “Mountains of My Mind” is performed as a solo acoustic incantation, a stark yet volcanic plea for salvation. It unfolds with stunning clarity: “There’s a testimony that no one’s ever heard. There’s circumstances that none of us deserve. No rhyme or reason waiting ’round the curve.”

As huge a cautionary tale as the song becomes, it ends with a sense of hope that sounds quietly defiant. For my money, this may be Stapleton’s single strongest recorded composition to date.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. But I still can’t climb the mountains of my mind.”

Higher, indeed.

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