Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit
Here We Rest: The first motto of Jason Isbell’s home state got changed in the early part of last century to a Latin phrase that translates to “we dare defend our rights”. What starts out as peaceful idyll descends into a defensive posture with the threat of bellicosity just beneath the surface. That’s what tough times will do to a people. Jason Isbell’s home is northern Alabama, a region that has been hit especially hard in the recent economic downturn. “The mood here has darkened considerably,” says Jason. “There is a real culture around Muscle Shoals, Florence and Sheffield of family, of people taking care of their own. When people lose their ability to do that, their sense of self dissolves. It has a devastating effect on personal relationships, and mine were not immune.” The characters that populate Here We Rest are wrung out. In “Alabama Pines”, the protagonist has found himself on the outside of the life he once knew. He is living in a small room and in a state of emotional disrepair – estranged from the woman that he loved, as well as friends (“I don’t even need a name anymore/When no one calls it out, it kinda vanishes away”). He is beginning to recognize that his own remoteness and obstinacy has played a large part in his current state of affairs, and longs for “someone to take him home through those Alabama pines.” He’s not quite clear how to get back there himself. Place plays a prominent role in the songs on Here We Rest. Jason was home considerably more this year, having toured less in 2010. After being on the road for 200 or more days for more years than he cares to count, he stayed home mostly to write and record this album. “I could probably live anywhere, but I love it here,” says Jason. “Being home is very different than being on the road. You learn a certain discipline that has its entire context within the touring lifestyle. This was the first time that I’ve been an adult in my own house, in my own community. Plus on the road, you have your whiskey waiting for you when you get to the gig. Here you have to go get it.” Spending all that time around his hometown, he could reacquaint himself with the locale and immerse himself with the rhythms of life in northern Alabama. “Being able to sit on my stool at D.P.’s, a bar in the building I live in, talk to my friends, and hear the problems that they have helped inform some of these songs.” Sometimes, people in that bar grow tired of hearing others bitch when they themselves were on the edge, and it would sometimes lead to fights. “Save It For Sunday” grew out of one of those experiences. A bar patron, unsure of the solidity of his relationship, tells his fellow bar patron that “we got cares of our own,” and suggesting that the he save his sorrows for his “choir and everyone” at his church. Our military draws disproportionately from areas that are economically depressed, and northern Alabama has more than its share of those that have served, not only out of a deep sense of patriotism, but also because of shrinking employment options. In “Tour Of Duty,” Jason writes of a soldier that is coming home from war for the last time, and will try, more than likely in vain, to assimilate back into civilian life. His soldier is voracious for normalcy. He admits to not knowing or caring how his loved one has changed and dreams of eating chicken wings and starting a family. But there’s a subtle sense that this craving for normalcy will cause him to suppress the damage done to him during wartime: “I promise not to bore you with my stories/I promise not to scare you with my tears/I never would exaggerate the glory/I’ll seem so satisfied here.” Seeming satisfied is not being satisfied, but it’s the best he can imagine.