My path first crossed Vincent Cross's nearly a decade ago, when I reviewed his Old Songs for Modern Folk in this space (27 August 2016). I liked its setting of traditional melodies to topical themes, a practice with a long history, almost certainly beginning with early humans' realization that they could put a message or a story to a tune. I was impressed, too, with his The Life & Times of James "Rooster" Corcoran (reviewed 29 August 2020), a revisiting of the 19th century New York City of Irish immigrants, more or less through the eyes of a real-life crime lord and through the sounds of the music the Irish brought with them.

As I acquainted myself recently with A Place Where Songs Come to Live, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen an abundance of between-recordings coverage of Cross in my regular monitoring of events and personalities on the roots scene. It can't have been because he is undeserving of attention; quite the contrary. The reasons surely have to do with circumstance, fashion, the vagaries of the business. Or perhaps Cross's unexcited (if pointed) manner, which may require more than one listening to register properly. Only a relative few recordings sent out for review can count on full, attentive listenings by their recipients. Sadly, unique contributions such as this one, not quite the anticipated, are particular victims of this kind of neglect.

At the same time a turn toward the personal is pretty close to an inevitable course for singer-songwriters regardless of where they start. Place is that for Cross. Given my general grouchiness about these things, it could be a deal-killer at this end, but it isn't. Another difference is the no-longer spare acoustic production. Yet that new production approach, while centered on a small electric band, manages to be tastefully muted in a manner that sustains the compelling, uneasy mood.

This remains folk music in feeling, or a contemporary iteration of it, and so an apt carrier of the stories. "Wilderness" evokes "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad," but otherwise the melodies are Cross's. Only one, the light-hearted "Boombox," is pure pop.

Family and friendship comprise the subject matter of other compositions, combining affection, sincerity and sorrow but not narrative ineptness. Inside some, interestingly, is a recurring theme of farewell, not always clearly defined as distance in life or as distance in death. At times Cross's keenly literate lyrics leave the precise meaning ambiguous and consequently memorable. In the concluding cut, "The Bright Crystal Fountain," for example, he takes the template of an old hymn and blurs the boundaries that define parting in the two senses, to powerful effect. (One wishes Ralph Stanley had had a chance to cover it.) Also, though I've heard some outstanding songs about the state of Wyoming, "Horses are Wild" is the equal of any.

Anybody who holds that the singer-songwriter trade needs regular validation because it's too often boring and pointless, sometimes even infuriatingly so, needs to hear this. At their worst singer-songwriters can lead us to an exasperated question: Really, don't we have enough songs already? Then along comes a true artist like Vincent Cross to teach us there's room for more. I hope that next time I write about him, he's found the appreciation he has coming.