Alien Eyelid - Vinegar Hill LP

While many of their contemporaries chase the winds of Cosmic Americana, Houston’s Alien Eyelid have always been a bit more mercurial in their associations. Sure, the band’s found themselves slipping through the arms of Canyon Country at some point, Gene and Graham in the grooves, but their dial’s always been a bit more tuned toward classic sounds. More than a few songs have been rolled in the dust and rust of 80s airwaves, finding a freedom in jukebox gems that have ingrained themselves into the DNA of their songwriting over time. Just like Houston itself, the band are outsiders, even in an outsider’s game. They embrace and embody Houston and its place outside the usual musical boundaries, left alone as touring routes and contemporaries circumvent the city for more promising urban centers. Houston’s left to Houston, and Alien Eyelid have condensed themselves from it’s hazy aura.

Isolation’s not all bad, though. Sometimes, away from the crowded stage something pure finds its way into being. Expectations don’t press down so hard and fads tend to get carried off in the crosswinds. In that environment, the band began work on their third album, Vinegar Hill, a record that’s scarred by the soul of country. Yet, it feels just as indebted to an unlikely air of prog and folk, with songwriter Tyler Morris finding fusion between the stark loneliness of Pearls Before Swine, King Crimson, and the desolation of desert towns baked in heat and hopelessness. Morris’s songwriting builds the backbone of Vinegar Hill, but a more ensemble approach finds Brett Taylor, Will Adams, and new addition Mlee Marie Mains helping to carve the album into shape. South Texas legend Tom Carter (Charalambides) even sits in on the title track, lacing his acid and opal guitar tones around the song’s second half, adding to the album’s progressive air.

Themes of addiction and loss populate Vinegar Hill, tracking the tears spilled as friends are touched by Fentanyl and frustration. Petty crimes and bar regular ruminations butt up against more somber explorations of mortality and the measurements of worth. On Vinegar Hill, the band reassert their place slung between the scars of Blaze, Townes and Jim Sullivan, while mingling just as easy with the late Autumn laments of Bill Fay, Pentangle, or Roy Harper. Their last album found them pushing out of country’s pocket, but on Vinegar Hill, they’ve subverted the genre and expectations. The rest may have gone cosmic, but for their latest, Alien Eyelid have touched something truly transcendent.