Pitchfork

The music writer's beloved "If ____ were ____" game is a slippery slope that can end in painful abstractions. "If Horse Feathers were two long, thin blades terminating in ring-shaped handles and joined by a swivel pin, they'd be a pair of scissors." But these musical madlibs can be useful if kept in check, and there are worse points of entry to Horse Feathers than imagining if Tracy Chapman were in Iron and Wine. A homely relic in sepia tones and rough grains, "Hardwood Pews" tools along on a dreamy twang, prayerful and serene, ultimately sweeping upwards in a gust of strings and singing saw. Never mind that Justin Ringle's a man with the beard to prove it; his winsome croak is humble and sexless, and his imagery-- hardwood pews, lovely ladies, bodies and babies and graves-- is dredged up from the murky depths of the same Southern Gothic swimming hole in which Beam has paddled so many slow, patient laps.