Spencer Cullum’s Coin Collection

From the beginning, the Coin Collection was always inclined towards the curio; a collection of folk tales and bedroom melodies that tugged a homesick Cullum towards the comforts of his roots in British folk traditions. Yet, you can’t take the Nashville out of him that easily, and the Coin Collection, more often than not, threads the seams between the damp and drear of the UK and the soft mountain meander of Tennessee country. Between banner runs in the studio from Dolly to Miranda Lambert, the works in Spencer’s trio have always acted as leather-bound chapbooks. There’s an intimacy to his works, captured here in stolen moments between tours and session work, documented as reel to reel field recordings, iPhone voice notes, and rough studio takes.

Like the best of the private press, what might seem like limitations to the uninitiated wind up as endearing earmarks, quiet charms that come across not as rough and unvarnished, but warm and woolen. Cullum has a way of dressing up the crackle and strain with entrancing arrangements, pulling in plenty of local friends to the album. A cursory look at the liners here scans contributions from familiar names like Rich Ruth, Erin Rae, Sean Thomapson, Alison du Groot, Oisin Leech and Hollow Hand. The family affair only stitches the tapestry tighter, a quilted wonder that sends Cullum’s triptych off with a fitting flair. While musically, this record might feel the most diverse, lyrically it’s one of his most cohesive, a treatise on nature, climate collapse, folk tales, curses, and consequences. The record works as a reckoning for nature, a personal plea that toes the line between white label wonder and Wicker Man narratives.

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