“The Sky Chiefs” (Chimney Bird Records)
By Eleni P. Austin
“…There’s no happiness here for sale
well, how about a six-pack of heartaches to wash her memory down, maybe some
non-filtered sorrows, take a drag if you
think she’s around….”
That’s The Sky Chiefs, wallowing in the mire on “No Happiness For Sale,” a sharp treatise on heartache, off their brilliant self-titled debut.
Stephen McCarthy is best known as one of the founders Los Angeles-based band, The Long Ryders. Kevin Pittman made his bones in the Richmond, Virginia-based band, The Dads. They first met at an L.A. at benefit concert back in the late ‘80s. But they didn’t begin a true collaboration until nearly a decade later, when both were at loose ends back in Richmond.
It was then that the pair hunkered down in a 100-year-old bungalow, that also functioned as a recording studio, songwriting lab, and late-night speakeasy. Their vocal chemistry was immediate and electric, and they spent nearly a year writing and recording music together as The Sky Chiefs. But life intervened, and the music got shelved. Stephen began touring with The Jayhawks, and later, The Long Ryders reconvened. Meanwhile, Kevin had embarked on a rewarding solo career. Somewhere along the way, the recordings were lost to the mists of time. Recently, the tapes were discovered in a friend’s garage. Now, cleaned up and remastered, they are finally seeing the light of day.
The record opens with the one-two punch of “House Full Of Company” and “No Happiness For Sale.” On the former, bramble-thick guitars ride roughshod over wily pedal steel, thrumming bass and a thunking beat. Stephen and Kevin’s fraternal harmonies scale the heights of Everly, as taciturn lyrics inveigh against a crowd of freeloaders who’ve over-stayed their welcome: “Family heartaches came for the weekend, but I can’t get them to leave, got no job, and they just wanna rob me of my sleep and watch TV, with so many people at home, why do I have to feel so all alone?” Shaker percussion amplifies the angst and guitars tangle on the break. Things go from bad to worse: “Vanity has left the bathroom, and I bet that mirror cracked, swinging from the chandeliers, they’re going to make my home a shack.” Spiky guitars scrap and scrape, ushering the song to a close.
The latter shudders to life as reverb-drenched guitars are supplanted by sweet, jingle-jangle licks, rumbling bass lines and a locomotive beat. Stephen and Kevin’s keening vocals coalesce around lyrics that count heartaches by the number: “There’s no happiness here, could we interest you in something else? If it’s lying or crying, there’s plenty to fill up the shelf, if you need some assistance, the owner has on a black veil, there’s no one to ask, cause there’s no happiness here for sale.” Sparkly guitars spiral on the break, as the song winds down with a final caveat: “…You’ll feel like a prisoner whose just been thrown into his jail, there’s no chance for parole and there’s no happiness for sale,” even as a jangly outro contradicts this luckless lament.
Listening to this record is almost like traveling back in time. 70 years ago, when it was called Country & Western, it wouldn’t be uncommon to hear a song like “Shadow Blues” being played in a Grange Hall or the local VFW. A sprightly slab of Western Swing, it’s fueled by Shang-a-lang guitars, flinty pedal steel, loose-limbed bass lines and a do-si-do beat. The buoyant melody and arrangement belie sad-sack lyrics that deftly long for a bit of spectral company: “No what I’d like the most is to have back my ghost, I must have said something wrong, you don’t miss it ‘til it’s gone, now I’ve got to run, cause here comes the sun, used to box and knock me out, beyond a shadow of a doubt.” Nimble guitar licks navigate a few hairpin turns on the break, accented by impossibly peppy pedal steel.
Then there’s the back-porch ramble of “Where I Wanna Be.” Rippling banjo notes partner with burnished guitars and lonesome pedal steel as chirping crickets add some backwoods bonhomie. Kevin takes the lead, as wanderlust gives way to love: “I was looking for those wide open seas, then I fell into your bay, you broke my resistance, I was thin as a dime, and I’ve changed directions so many times, I ended up with nothing and you never seemed surprised that I’d been working toward you all my life.” Stephen chimes in on the chorus: “This time, I’m where I wanna be, this time, I’m where I wanna be, here with you.” A taut shuffle rhythm kicks the song into gear as soaring pedal steel embroiders the margins of the melody. A prickly guitar solo and banjo flourish closes out the track.
Finally, there’s the Grand Ol’ Opry grandeur of “All Broke Down.” Honky-Tonk piano collides with stinging guitars shimmery pedal steel, knotty bass lines and a chunky back-beat. While the melody and arrangement feel like a kissin’ cousin to Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight,” the lyrics take a page from Rickie Lee Jones’ playbook (specifically on “Last Chance Texaco”), as a wreck on the highway serves as a metaphor for a broken romance. A cavalier Cowpoke lodges a lopsided complaint: “I’m all broke down, on love’s highway, I’ve got a deflated heart since you went away…I heard about your lonely nights when you needed me, but I stayed out all night when you needed me.” Clearly, turnabout is fair play: “But now I see your headlights, coming fast, so Baby won’t you stop and see, I’m all broke down and I need a lift, and I could jump-start this love with just one kiss.” Guitars and keys cloak the break with painterly riffs and player-piano patina as this supercilious swain is left to his own devices: “I’m all broke down, what else can I do, I’m gonna stick out my thumb and hitchhike back to you.”
On a record stacked with superlative tracks, several stand out from the pack. Take “You Don’t Know What Lonely Means,” reverb-drenched guitars crowd raspy pedal steel, angular bass lines and a walloping beat. Hangdog harmonies strike an accusatory tone as lyrics like “Lonely, I don’t think the moon is blue enough so, lonely, I don’t think my heart’s been through enough so, never been alone it seems, cause you don’t know what lonely means,” take a selfish ex to task. A scraggly guitar solo on the break underscores the enmity.
Acrimony is also the recurring leitmotif on “Walk All Over Me.” Rangy banjo licks are matched by swiveling guitars, springy bass lines and a hiccoughing beat. This time, a neighborly romance fizzles and lyrics tip the scales toward voyeurism: “Let me tell you about this girl I know, she lives above me and I live below, I used to hold her in my loving hands, but now she’s holding another man’s.” Stephen and Kevin nail the Phil and Don’s trademark yelpon the put-upon chorus: “Why does she just walk all over me, walk all over me.” Roguish piano runs brush up against baritone guitars and sugary banjo on the break, leaving room for the inevitable restraining order.
“Come Back Ophelia” is a bit of a shapeshifter. Opening with a commanding banjo flourish, strummy guitars anchor Kevin’s low moan. Stephen jumps in on the chorus which pays homage to a woman who transcends time: “From those Model T years, she’s always changing gears, so who are you today, Ophelia, who’s that walking out the backdoor, who’s that marching to a world war, come back Ophelia, who’s that talking on the radio, who’s that telling her which way to go, come back Ophelia.” Along with a wheezy pump organ, a rattle-trap drum salvo is salted into the mix, locking into a stutter-step beat. See-sawing between a dissonant dirge and dulcet chorus, the arrangement swerves on the break, as a slashing power chords sideswipe some gritty harmonica. “The New Sara Jane” is another-somebody-done- somebody-wrong song. Dusty pedal steel, filigreed fretwork and roiling bass lines are tethered to a galloping gait. The betrayal is revealed in the opening verse: “Here she comes, with her new man, she wants everyone to know what’s going on in her show, but I know her all to well.” A coltish guitar solo is unleashed on the break, but the heartache remains.
Finally, with “Shine,” thin wild mercury meets blood harmony. The instrumentation is stripped-down as weepy pedal steel, bookended by tensile gut-string guitar. Front and center are Stephen and Kevin’s organic blend, which wrap around this oath of devotion: “Darling, you’re the only one, who could warm me like the sun, through the dark clouds of my mind, you will shine, you will shine.” Their vocals dovetail with an innate Louvin/Everly synchronicity that surpasses genetics and the result is simply thrilling.
Other interesting tracks include the hard-charging “Knocking Out The Daylights,” and the tender croon of “My Last Goodbye.” If The Beatles, The Hollies and The Everly Brothers could have conceived a musical love child, it might sound like “Engines.” Those magnificent harmonies thread through a lush aural tapestry that is equal parts Baroque and bespoke.
The record closes with “Standing In The Light.” Kevin perfects his best Blue Yodel and Stephen joins him on the chorus. Fluttery guitars lattice bendy bass lines, churchy piano and a brushstroke beat. Lovesick lyrics pine for a long-gone love from morning to night: “Standing in the light of the midday sun, my world is weary and it weighs a ton, and if I knew that you weren’t there, never count my blessings wouldn’t have a prayer/And I hear you whisper when I call out your name, I see you walking to me down a dusty lane, you blow the wind and the clouds across my mind, sweet dreams…” A Trigger-iffic guitar solo uncoils on the break, punctuated by acoustic arpeggios and ecclesiastic keys. It’s a poignant finish to a stellar debut.
While Stephen and Kevin perform nearly every lick of music, The Sky Chiefs are aided and abetted on different tracks by Charles Arthur on lap steel, guitar and piano, Mike McAdam on B Bender, Greg Perry, Soupy Sessa and Johnny Hott on drums, Clark Ball on bass and Gary Fralin on piano.
No need to mince words, this album is close to flawless. Stephen and Kevin have achieved a musical alchemy that feels effortless. The Sky Chiefs debut is the first great record of 2026.
