Authenticity means everything to music fans. No matter the genre, era, or format, few concepts can ruin a thriving career than an unfounded rumor about an artist’s bonafides in the eyes of gatekeepers. Conversely, the belief that an unheralded musician accurately lives out the values of that scene has been enough to keep that person’s career going a few more years. It’s a purely subjective quality that relies more on mythology and hearsay than actual musical ability. However, journalists, DJs, and PR firms have used it as the magic elixir connecting artists to their fans for decades.
After writing about music semi-professionally for 15 years now, including a break from the scene politics that defined my 20s, I should be immune to that shit by now. I shouldn’t care about how many boxes an artist supposedly checks off in terms of their dedication to a specific sound or style. My eyes and ears should be able to peel back the layers of aesthetics to see if anyone of substance truly lies beneath. You should be able to read a review to learn about the art and reject the artifice.
Yet, when I started listening to the music of John R. Miller, my brain and heart both immediately screamed, “He’s the real deal!”
His brand-new album struck all the right chords for me from the very first spin. Entitled Depreciated, it checked off all of those scene boxes: it’s released on Rounder Records; he wrote for Tyler Childers; he channeled Townes Van Zandt and Steve Earle; and he sounded like he doesn’t care about scoring scene points. His authenticity levels were off the charts, right down to his wizened voice and capacity to sing so earnestly over four chords in any given song.
My next reaction was one of disbelief. “Pull yourself together, Adam. Put up more of a fight. Listen again, and start poking holes in this guy’s music. Resist the charming qualities of these personal conversations as songs.”
I tried, dear reader. I wanted to be more cynical about this fantastic blend of ‘70s folk, ‘90s alt-country, and ‘60s country. There was no way Depreciated could be such an effortless amalgamation of Sturgill Simpson, Chris Stapleton, and Jason Isbell. No one’s languid baritone should be this approachable and appealing. Miller’s gut-busting sincerity had to be faked.
But I couldn’t do it. I was completely won over by this eleven-song project after a mere three times through my ears.
His sublime, road-worn tone couldn’t be denied, as it perfectly complemented the lyrical content of his songs. I heard all the classics – grief, heartbreak, and pursuit of a better life – but instead of regurgitated cliches, I heard deeply confessional stories that resonated in my soul.
Throughout Depreciated, the backing band brought John R. Miller’s tunes to life. Clean and supple lead guitar work danced with warm fiddle work. Comfy rhythm guitar strumming provided sturdy support for the psych-inflected pedal steel section. The mellifluous rhythm section offered a firm foundation for the entire affair, courtesy of crisp delivery and crafty execution.
On “Borrowed Time,” my ears basked in a loping confluence of warbling pedal steel, delectable lead licks, and Miller’s laid-back vocals. “Faustina” featured vintage acoustic guitar picking that accentuated woebegone lyrics about the hardships of life on the road without rest or respite. My favorite song on the album, “Shenandoah Shakedown,” fused a minor-key guitar groove to a dusty morality tale pulsing with religious allusions.
“Old Dance Floor” kicked in with a uptempo tune perfect for two-stepping even as it finds Miller pissed off about the hand life has dealt him – and how he hasn’t always responded in the best way to those events. “Half Ton Van” humorously recounted a negotiation for the band’s next broken-down touring vehicle, complete with an outstanding blend of pedal steel, fiddle, and acoustic guitar.
As much as I kept looking for flaws and cracks in Miller’s work, I never found anything.
Sure, everything on Depreciated has been done before, as people have written hard-scrabble songs about real-world scenarios for literal centuries. Miller represented that tradition to the fullest and with zero pretenses. Which was exactly why I wanted him to keep singing. I believed every word. It all felt true, honest, and coming from hard-won experience.
On Depreciated, John R. Miller created a first-person ode packed with details from his own life, yet he situated the listener in the heart of the tale. To me, that remains the hallmark of actual authenticity – when you let the story shine, not the storyteller. Yes, people want to like the voice telling that story, but they also want to see themselves in the story. An authentic storyteller doesn’t give you insight into their life; instead, they allow you to live out the story in your own imagination.