Some musical journeys are fueled by endless ambition, others by metaphysical exploration—but if Mike Goodspeed’s “Family Truckster” had an engine, it would run on pure, unfiltered nostalgia. Not the quaint, sepia-toned kind, but nostalgia with muddy boots, stuck behind the wheel of a station wagon that smells faintly of old sandwiches and long-forgotten road maps. The kind that rattles along, broken air conditioner and all, but somehow still gets you there—wherever “there” is.
Goodspeed, Massachusetts’ own low-end philosopher, anchors “Family Truckster” in a swirl of rock and Americana with just enough jazz fusion to keep you off balance. And perhaps that’s the point. Life, like Goodspeed’s basslines, is never predictable.
The album wastes no time in calling in the cavalry. Kevin Stahl’s dry-snare drumming is like the disciplined heartbeat of a veteran road-tripper, contrasting with Ever Onward’s looser, rolling percussive flares that feel more like spontaneous exits off the highway. John DiStase and Mike Valeras share the passenger seat, their guitars trading witty banter—sometimes mimicking an old married couple, sometimes competing like brothers whose parents refuse to pull the car over.
But it’s the unspoken, the undercurrent, where “Family Truckster” sneaks up on you. This album isn’t really about a car. Or a road trip. It’s about the stubborn persistence of memory. The weighty expectations we haul around in the proverbial backseat, and the awkward but beautiful moments of learning to let go just enough—just enough to make room for the new. Each song is a snapshot from Goodspeed’s inner scrapbook, a reminder that family isn’t the starting place or the destination, but the rickety vehicle we ride in between.
And somewhere between here and there—release, growth, and perhaps even peace—just might be found tailing that beat-up, sentimental station wagon.
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