When Erin Enderlin writes a song, more are born than melody and rhyme. Women and men leap from her music, as fully formed and real as we are, all blood and sweat, living, loving, killing, and dying.
“I love story songs,” Enderlin says from her home in Nashville. “It’s amazing to me how in just three minutes, you can create a whole character who wasn’t there before that you can really see and even understand.”
Enderlin has taken that love of story songs and upped the ante: her new album Whiskeytown Crier puts all the sad souls she’s grown so fond of singing and writing about in the same small, fictional city––Whiskeytown. She explains that the second half of the title is a nod to “a newspaper and the old town criers that used to deliver the news.” Over forlorn steel and haunting fiddle, the town’s secrets are exposed, sometimes with a sense of foreboding that nods to the Louvin Brothers, other times with an empathetic sadness that recalls Reba singing “Fancy.”