First Impressions: Wish on a River Bridge by JM Stevens

We’re in the car, listening to Tobacco City’s Horses via Apple CarPlay. Even now, after all these years of iPods, iPhones and streaming services, I find it odd that Maxell-branded cassettes aren’t splayed across the dashboard and stuffed in the door bin. Way back when, it was routine for me to tape LPs and, too, create mixes I gave seemingly haphazard titles—Fire in a Quiet Sky, for example—to crank while driving. In time, tapes gave way to CDRs and then MP3 devices and, for me now, Apple Music, where most every album is a “Hey, Siri” away—when she understands me, that is. Diane can affirm that many of my requests initially result in frustration. That’s neither here nor there, I suppose, but it speaks to a larger point. Formats change. Music, too. But listening in the car? To take a line from Austin-based singer-songwriter JM Stevens out of context, “Nothing stays the same, but not much changes.”

Anyway, we’re in the car, Tobacco City’s forthcoming album done and the new one from Stevens flowing from the speakers. In many respects, it’s a straightforward singer-songwriter album—just him, his guitar and harmonica, though keyboards, accordion and overdubbed harmonies glide forth on occasion. The songs themselves were workshopped on his last tour, which saw him on the road alone, while the minimalist recording was inspired by one of many cassettes that melted in my old Chevette, Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska, and a CD noted for its warmth, Tom Petty’s Wildflowers. The acoustic guitar-harmonica interplay reminds me a lot of Neil Young’s Harvest Moon, too, while Stevens’ poetic lyrics conjure a slew of folk-styled wordsmiths. “He reminds me of Jim Croce,” Diane says, unprovoked.

Indeed, an early ‘70s vibe emanates throughout Wish on a River Bridge. These are songs of feeling alone and missing home, of wishing to overcome the literal and figurative distances that exist between him and his loved ones, his memories and dreams. One of my favorite singers, Rumer, once told me that life on the road led to a “loneliness like I have never experienced before.” Off-stage, at night, there wasn’t much to do beyond contemplate the state of her life. 

“Ain’t Gotta Be This Way” opens the 10-track set. It could be a song for and about his missus (ex or not), daughter or just a close friend, someone he’s let down. “Stop Moving On” finds him in bed and, like Rumer, hoping to transcend the stasis he’s stuck in. Hitting the road, after all, essentially puts one’s life on hold. “Pales in Comparison” continues the mood; as with the other tracks, if you close your eyes you’ll swear you’re sitting in a corner of his backyard studio, where he recorded it. “Stained Glass,” for its part, finds him wondering what went wrong in a relationship and praying that, one day soon, he’ll again be looking at life through tinted glass. “I Shoulda Kept Tryin’,” meanwhile, digs into the regrets that linger with many of us throughout our lives. In this case, it’s a girl he left behind: “You deserved more than I could ever give/but there’s no going back again.”

“Not Much Changes,” which I spotlighted a while back, is an insightful song about how life often leaves us feeling like we’re sideways bound. The uptempo “Ride With Me” sounds like a holdover from lockdown life, when many of us broke free from our prison homes by cruising around the neighborhood on weekends. “Hold on Heart,” for its part, delves into lonesome nights and love, while “OK to Let Go” is a reminder that turning off our internal alarm systems is essential to allowing others in. The album closes with “I’m Getting Close,” which finds him musing about how his broken heart is almost repaired. 

Thematically speaking, Wish on a River Bridge reminds me more of another stripped-down Bruce Springsteen album, Tunnel of Love, than it does Nebraska. It explores matters of the heart and soul in poetic fashion; one hear glimmers of one’s own life in his words, which are all set to melodies that linger long after the music’s stopped.