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Grown Man: Granada Theater: 8-16-07 :by Bill Ellison:

BIOGRAPHY

Sorta “Oh, it’s over,” sings the choir at the end of Sorta’s eponymous new record, and so, in a way, it is. Not in a they-planned-it-that-way sort of (sorta) way; not every band gets the luxury of a premeditated grand exit, a la The Band’s Last Waltz. Sometimes the tape just runs out, right in the middle of a solo, song or a band just getting good and warmed up, and, just like that, it’s over. Everyone looks around at each other, the same stunned, puzzled look on everyone’s face, and after a long moment, without anyone needing to say a word, it’s decided to just let it be.

In the late summer of 2007, the members of the Dallas-based band were well on their way toward completing their fifth full-length album. Producer/engineer Stuart Sikes (White Stripes, Cat Power, Modest Mouse) was relentless, pounding live take after live take out of the band, not in pursuit of studio perfection, but rather those magically ragged-but-right performances that sometimes surface when musicians are past the point of exhaustion and operating on almost pure instinct. It was brutal but exhilarating, and Sorta — singer-songwriter Trey Johnson, bassist Danny Balis, lead guitarist and piano player Carter Albrecht, pedal steel player Ward Williams, guitar and keyboard player Chris Holt and drummer Tom Bridwell (new to the band, but a longtime friend and fan) — all rose to the occasion. As would only be expected from six journeymen musicians in their 30s, and from a critically lauded group with multiple Dallas Observer Music Awards to their collective credit.

But then something unexpected happened: the tragic Sept. 3 death of Albrecht. A year later, his loss still seems surreal an unexplainable to everyone who knew him, and anyone who ever heard him play. Albrecht one of the most prodigiously talented, respected and beloved musicians in Dallas, whose credits included not only Sorta and his own band, Sparrows, but also work with Edie Brickell, Paul Simon, Charlie Sexton and the Dallas Symphony.

The rest of the band was still very much in mourning by the time they reconvened to finish the album (which was mastered in late 2007). The decision was made to “clean up a few loose ends” with minimal overdubs, but no more songs were tracked and Albrecht’s recordings were left untouched. For the album-closing song “Afraid of the Dark,” a group of friends was brought in to sing the aforementioned “it’s over” refrain through tears as Albrecht’s pre-recorded guitar line answered back through the studio speakers. Neither that song nor any of the others were written about their late friend, though of course, for all involved, the entire album will forever play like a bittersweet benediction — not only for Albrecht, but for the band Sorta itself.

“The future is uncertain,” the band writes in the album’s liner notes, “but the past is full of distinct memories, pain and pleasure, and most importantly, music made with love.” Frontman Johnson, who began playing as an acoustic duo with Balis eight years ago before Albrecht made it a trio and subsequent members helped fully define Sorta’s continually evolving sound, says that there are plans to support the album’s release with live dates, but notes that sorta will most likely stand as Sorta’s final bow. In the months since the record was mastered in early 2008, the band members have dispersed to work on separate projects: Holt — recently named Musician of the Year at the 2007 Dallas Observer Music Awards — fronts his own band, the Slack; Ward moved to Nashville to pursue session work; and both Johnson and Balis are at work on their first solo albums. Carter’s posthumous solo debut — recorded at the same time as the Sorta album — is due for imminent release, too. “Carter’s album will melt you,” Johnson enthuses.

So too will sorta, the last record this wonderful band made together before — nay, as — the proverbial tape ran out. Under different circumstances, it might have been a slightly longer album. Albrecht might have wanted to revisit some of his parts, many of which had only been recorded as demo or scratch takes before his death. But many of the songs here feature Johnson’s scratch vocals, too, chosen over later takes not out of necessity but because they best fit the sound of the band playing as a band, capturing the urgency and majestic beauty of Sorta’s live shows in a way that never before fully survived the translation to disc on the band’s previous studio albums (2001’s Plays for Lovers, 2002’s Laugh Out Loud, 2004’s Little Bay and 2006’s Strange and Sad but True). The songs here, too, are arguably the best the band ever worked on together — lifted both by the sterling performances all around and some of Johnson’s most engaging and — however ironic in hindsight — lighthearted and even playful lyrics. There’s sadness here — always a Sorta/Johnson specialty — but also songs like “Poor Little Child” and the wickedly sly, bouncy “Fool’s Gold” that sound every bit as fun to listen to as they were for the band to record. Even “I’ll Be There” — written about the death of another friend of the band’s — soars on the wings of Albrecht and Holt’s guitars, layered together in such a way you’d swear George Harrison was in the mix, too.

The end result is a snapshot in time of a band that had only just begun to truly realize its full potential, poised for what surely would have been only the beginning of its greatest output. Instead, it’s Sorta’s swansong. But it’s hard to imagine the band going out on a higher note — or saying goodbye to their friend in a way more fitting manner than to share with the world the beauty of the irreplaceable role he played in making Sorta the very special band it was, and everyone who played with him the best they musicians could be.

“The band did good,” Johnson offers matter-of-factly. “I mean, as not cool as I am with the ridiculous tragedy and loss, I’m very satisfied with what we did. The record’s a perfect statement and document of what the band sounded like, and for me especially, that’s very valuable. More than anything, I just want people to have the chance to hear it. It can be a very difficult to listen to — there are some moments on here that will make you cry, even if you’re able to forget the circumstances around it. But I think it’s a beautiful record. Everybody who makes records wants to make records that move people. And this one does; it moves me, and I hope it moves other people, too. I hope it finds a home.”

Richard Skanse, July 2008

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