Possibly this review would not have happened -- at least it would not have happened now -- if I hadn't misplaced the album with which I'd intended to fill this space. When I couldn't find it, I searched for a substitute but encountered nothing to inspire me. Then I remembered an album that arrived in the mail the other day. Having nothing to lose except a few minutes of my time, I put it, a bit reluctantly, more than a tad skeptically, on the player.

The reluctance owed to the title and the cover photo (of a woman with an electric guitar). I live as far north as one can be from Texas while still living in the middle United States, from which perspective Texas's much-lauded charms occasion only cynicism triggered by its notoriously reactionary politics, which affect all of us, and by impatience with the Lone Star chauvinism that defines far too many songs from there. (There's even one about that: the Austin Lounge Lizards' "Another Stupid Song about Texas.") Moreover, from long experience I was certain that this was going to be just another blues-rock album. As a longtime blues geek I am continually reminded, not happily, that blues is being steadily swallowed up by guitar rock.

In short, an album titled Texcentric and bylined Marina Rocks has to overcome some deep-rooted prejudices to get me to allow it into my ears. So about half a minute into the first cut I was delighted to learn that circumstance had taken me to the most desirable of places. I don't listen to much rock and pop anymore, so when I began to detect what was going on, I did not immediately think to compare her to anybody else. An internet search brought me to a reviewer who thought she was somewhat like Lucinda Williams, which is not entirely unfair. At the same time, while I have been listening to Williams for most of her career, it didn't occur to me to liken the two. The more I hear Marina Rocks, the less I get Lucinda Williams. Your mileage may vary, of course.

Mostly, guitarist Rocks -- presumably not her given surname, but it's the one she's performing under -- performs with a rock 'n' roll rhythm that moves relentlessly and exhilaratingly but never veers out of control. As hard as the rhythmic drive pulses, her vocal is oddly conversational (albeit in the bluntest-spoken sense), sometimes directed at political/social issues as in the opener "Dummin' Down," maybe her answer to Bob Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues," unmistakably her rip-roaring execration of America in the Trump years. Few more powerful songs have been written on that subject, which even most so-called protest singers seem to find too intimidating to handle with the requisite courage. Not a problem for Rocks.

"Willie Hole" mixes humor, rage, autobiography, aging anxiety and Willie Nelson into one rich, thrilling song in which not a single cliche is to be sounded, just one fierce image and note after another. She covers R.W. Boyd's "Walking on Water" in a kind of acoustic folk-rock arrangement, leveling a statement that defies tired singer-songwriter sentiments at every turn. "Nameless," which opens with a hilariously bawdy couplet, addresses the quest for sex in startlingly original fashion. One would have thought there could be nothing original left to say, but as I hear it, the destination lands the seeker in a state of existential terror. Texcentric is not the home of happy endings.

The late folksinger-songwriter Townes Van Zandt's "If I Needed You" is among his sappiest songs, in my un-admiring minority opinion. Its appearance on the table of contents evoked a cringe, which immediately dissipated when I heard what Rocks has done with it. It's a much smarter, more grown-up song with a firmer melody, and it underscores, in case you hadn't thought about it before this, what a truly fantastic band she has supporting her.

Sadly, because this is an EP, not a full-length album, all ends after 27 minutes with "Blue Skies," the sixth cut. This time the artist, never one to let her listeners fall into apathy, rolls out a gorgeous acoustic instrumental, an original, that the late guitar wizard John Fahey would have been proud to write.

In the course of this day, I have managed to learn that Rocks is a name in Texas. With a talent so far removed from the ordinary, it is hard to believe -- or maybe it isn't -- that she isn't famous everywhere. The music industry's workings are beyond my feeble understanding, and I wouldn't want it any other way. I do know, however, what justice is, and I know it would be served if Rocks one day were to stand on the national stage to stagger all within listening distance.

[ visit the Marina Rocks website ]