Carl Broemel - 4th of July (Deluxe) (2017)

In certain circles, My Morning Jacket’s Carl Broemel is a bona fide guitar hero, especially among guitar magazine subscribers and jam music enthusiasts most likely to appreciate an inventive solo. It was only after Broemel joined the group for 2005’s Z that they cemented their reputation as a powerhouse live outfit, and his dynamic shredding has propelled their most memorable shows, including the rain-drenched, nearly four-hour 2008 Bonnaroo set that’s taken on nearly legendary status among fans. Among casual listeners, however, Broemel is virtually unrecognized, and even many My Morning Jacket fans don’t give his contributions to the group much thought. Despite the mountains of evidence that My Morning Jacket is a true band, Jim James looms so large over his peers that it can be hard to think of the group as anything other than a vehicle for its enigmatic singer.

For his part, Broemel has shown little interest in challenging that perception. If he wanted to make the case for his talents, his solo albums would give him the outlet to prove that he’s the clear savant of the band—that he deserved his own entry in that Rolling Stone New Guitar Gods list, rather than having to share one with James. Yet Broemel seems perfectly content where he is, even if that means being in James’ shadow. Instead of showing off the same guitar heroics he brings to My Morning Jacket’s Das Boot-length live shows, Broemel opted for a more understated, songwriterly approach on his 2010 record All Birds Say, and his follow-up 4th of July is a similarly folksy affair, another pleasantly low-key outing from a musician with absolutely nothing to prove.

Just once does 4th of July toss some red meat to My Morning Jacket fans, hinting at the guitar lover’s record it could have been. On the panoramic, 10-minute title track, Broemel cycles through one buttery solo after another, each richer and more textured than the last. With Neko Case bolstering the soaring chorus, the whole thing feels that much more decadent. Those fireworks are the exception, though. Opener “Sleepy Lagoon,” with its drowsy tempo and sighing keyboards, is more representative of the record’s sticky, late-night feel (he kicks off the record by literally greeting the moon). From the finger-picked “Snowflake” to the Elliott Smith-esque “Rockingchair Dancer,” a lullaby that Broemel wrote for his young son, the whole thing sounds like it was recorded in an extremely comfortable chair.