SOLD OUT Call if you have any doubts.

Jeffrey Foucault has a record of outstanding records as long as your arm. The kudos can’t fit into cyberspace, so they are creating a new dimension.

THE NEW YORKER:
“Jeffrey Foucault, sings stark, literate songs that are as wide open as the landscape of his native Midwest.”

MOJO:
“Songwriting brilliance.”

THE IRISH TIMES:
“Quietly brilliant…”

UNCUT:
“The music of Wisconsin native Foucault is the kind so many aspire to but never attain: beat-up troubadour folk whittled to dolorous perfection…”

BEACONPASS:
“Jeffrey Foucault pronounces his name “Folk-alt,” and makes saying difficult things seem as easy as this straightforward pronunciation of his French surname. Praised for its tendency to combine raw, weathered emotion with measured elegance, Foucault’s music feels unadulterated and innate, with veins of pedal steel, the big-skied openness of Neil Young and the bizarre, haunting imagery that you might find in a Flannery O’Connor story.”

Longtime disciple of the rich and strange music that sings behind the American veil, Foucault has spent the last decade mining the darker seams of country and blues, producing a string of spare and elemental albums of rare power while garnering accolades across the United States and overseas for a tersely elegant brand of songwriting set apart by its haunting imagery and weather-beaten cool. He lives in Western Massachusetts. BUT HE HAS WISCONSIN WRITTEN ALL OVER HIM.

Opening for Jeffrey is the formidable Andy Friedman artist poet turned musician songwriter. VILLAGE VOICE: “Here’s what happens to twang when it steeps in Brooklyn gin joints instead of Austin honky-tonks: it becomes a bit darker and more gnarled, and though it likes the sun on its back, it can thrive in the shadows. Friedman’s new Laserbeams and Dreams is peppered with the kind of bluesy unrest that sets your mind reeling, and between the Jerry Jeff whimsy and Michael Hurley rumination, it’s a great soundtrack for the worries that arrive during late-winter dusk.”