While the world slept, Milo Jones was hard at work perfecting a singer-songwriter persona both earthy and singular. How this gentleman managed to escape not only my radar but that of the bulk of the world is perplexing, to say the least. My own awakening came via Chris Brokaw, the legendary guitarist whose work in Come solidified Brokaw, in my eyes, as a master of the brand of tough, angular guitar that occasionally populated the music of the 90s. Brokaw, in a social media post, featured a white album upon which a wizened, slightly disheveled, aviator-glassed character appeared either dazed, dusted, or in the midst of some transcendental revelation (perhaps all three simultaneously). Suffice to say, my attention was hooked.
Here was a fellow seemingly straight out of the seventies (my wheelhouse), attached to an album that indicated by its title that I had somehow missed his vast back catalog of endeavors. I’m still not certain that I haven’t. A web search reveals somewhere in the realm of a hundred videos of Jones performing not only his own songs, but sumptuous, often bent versions of the songs of others, from Serge Gainsbourg to Two Dollar Guitar. The dates attached to these songs are mindboggling, indicating that Jones has been “at it” for nigh on thirty years!
What!?
Why is this so shocking? Because, dear reader, Jones’ guitar playing is the equivalent of an amusement park ride gone amuck, a calliope chugging to maintain tune, or the musical equivalent of the Doppler effect. He not so much expertly attacks his acoustic guitar (which he does), but bends it into submission as if it were some unwieldy python clutched within the hands of a master reptilian (is that too weird of a way to say snake-handler?).
Jones’ playing style, impossibly, is outdone by his turn of phrase. One tends, initially, to lose oneself in the flinty warmth of his voice, until a phrase like “All dried up, can’t afford a lube/ Barely breathing, face down in colossal boobs/ Nightmares unfurl entrails in my pants/ Jesus yank me up, I still want to dance” pops out and has one saying…wait…what did I just hear? With lyrics like that, and tunes like “Dick in the Cloud,” “Pickle Sucker,” and “Whisk My Biscuit,” it becomes apparent that Jones doesn’t take himself too seriously, which makes his music all the more endearing (and formidable).
There is a sadness to Jones’ music, one that he dangles momentarily before shifting minor to major, a playful dance between the light and the dark that beguiles and charms the careful listener. This all boils down to the fact that, if you are a fan of Townes Van Zandt, Michael Hurley, early Kristofferson, or folksy outsider music of any variety, then I Belong to You is essential listening.
