Pop a Wheelie
If you took the New York folk movement of the 60s, stripped it of it's warbling melodramatic hypersensitivity and gave steroids to it's wit and political conscience, transplanted it into Zion National Park, then took it on a tacos-&-surfing sabbatical to Baja, you might get a feel for what Alex Peterson is doing. A songwriter is inevitably a product of influences. Some musical, some less musical. So it is with Alex Peterson when you're just as likely to hear traces of Greg Brown in his songs as you are to hear the tide coming in on a Baja beach at 8 am. The sound of a lone moonlight trek through the Tetons is as likely to creep into the songs as, say, the wit of John Prine, the conscience of Billy Bragg, or the melodic ease of Jack Johnson. But, fear not, we don't mean literally--you will thankfully be spared the sound of waves over harps and synths so common on new age relaxation CDs. You can relax. Just not like that. The songs and sound of Alex Peterson are an amalgamation of all those influences and more, with his absolutely unique angle, and they draw you in like a baking cookie dough tractor beam. By Paul Jacobsen.