I saw Gregory Alan Isakov perform with Blind Pilot at Great American Music Hall many moons ago, and the man blew me away with his ever perfect pitch. It was one of those kismet moments where I’d stumbled across his album The Empty Northern Hemisphere the day before the show, had mental-noted an intent to return to it in earnest later, and then…magically…he was unexpectedly in front of me. Kablewie, a new love was born.
Since that fateful night, Isakov has been a steady companion of mine. The music, not the man (of course). He’s there in the morning as the gears beging to grind when I embark upon my work that draws a wage; he’s there in the dwindling twilight as I sit down to my leather-inset desk, cup of coffee in hand; he’s always there for whatever I need: a shoulder on which to cry, a gentle nudge towards the day, a soft siphon for the day’s agressions as I sink under the covers into sleep. A contemplative, supple soul to unwind a weary one with song.