Joan Shelly’s new album, Over And Even, was written in the back of an abandoned beauty parlor on the island of Thessaloniki. The whole thing had something to do with Vashti Bunyan. That’s what Joan told me, but Joan Shelley is a poet, so she makes things up.

In a small, dark room that smells of expired hair-do chemicals, there is talk of hypnosis. All the windows are blacked out. “Look into my eyes.” White walls are blinding in the ancient sunlight. A bowl of oranges shines like solid gold, waiting for you. There is a small classical guitar, a sunburn, and a key that turns a lock, and songs come pouring out.

Maybe the Greek deal was really about Leonard Cohen. That’s Joanie’s jam: songs wide open enough to let the wind blow the curtains around, and solid enough to hang a ton of heartache on. She writes smart, beautiful songs full of poetry, history, mystery and nature. Like all the best sad songs, they will make you cry. Then they will drag you outside and leave you flat on your back, staring up at the stars.

Joan lands on a note like a laser beam on a diamond. Colors fly around the room, and her voice bends between them. People say her voice reminds them of Sandy Denny. It’s more than the vocal range. It’s a quiet power that draws you in.

Maybe Over And Even wasn’t written last winter on a Greek island. Maybe these songs were written a hundred years ago in a farm house somewhere in Kentucky. That’s where Joan is from, and that’s where she and guitar player Nathan Salsburg recorded all the basic tracks live.

All the people who played on Joan’s new record — and Daniel Martin Moore who recorded and engineered it — are friends. That comes through somehow in the sound of the album. Will Oldham and Glen Dentinger are genius harmony singers. They leave the perfect amount of space for microscopic shifts in Joan’s voice, without sacrificing their own awesome idiosyncrasies. Nathan Salsburg’s guitar follows every twist of the melody. When the song breaks your heart in two, Nathan is there with a high E-string to sew it back together.

Joan Shelley’s voice flows out like a river. It never travels in a straight line. It follows bends and curves carved by history. We are all lucky just to be swept away, and go with her wherever she’s going.

“But it’s not over by half
There’s a gold in your eyes blooming out through the black And you’re still standing, your hand on the map
No its not over, not over by half”

the end.

Michael Hurley grew up in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. As a teenager in the 1950s he fell in love hearing the music of Fats Domino, The Everly Brothers and Bo Diddley blast from the radio, and was enthralled by the records of Blind Willie McTell, Hank Williams and Uncle Dave Macon that he sought for his own. This love for music, true and unvarnished, supplied him with a finely tuned musical compass he has not wavered from for 50 years and counting. Hurley's music sounds old, like it has always existed, and simultaneously singular, like something you've never heard anyone else play quite like that before. This timeless quality ensures that Hurley's audience constantly renews itself. From the the beatniks in the NYC Village where he started in the early 60s, to the hippies in Vermont, to the Americana fans, indie rockers and freak folkers from the last two decades, Michael's music never fails to find fresh new ears. Pressed for a description, Hurley has called it "jazz-hyped blues and country and western music".

Hurley's early records were released on Folkways, Warner Brothers/Raccoon and Rounder, while in recent years stalwart independent labels like Gnomonsong, Mississippi and Tompkins Square have been carrying the torch. A new album on the Mississippi label is due this spring. Besides being a truly unique musician, Hurley is also a cartoonist and watercolor artist of note — the instantly recognizable results of which grace his album covers.

Hurley now resides on the west coast, so east coast appearances have been scarce the last decade.