Does Rj Bacon swim? That’s the question I keep asking myself as “No Name Lane” trickles coolly from my speakers like condensation down the side of a vintage cocktail glass, because this album feels like it was recorded at the bottom of an aquarium. Not in a bad way—I’m talking about the way sound gently wraps around you in that slick, enveloping way only bluesy jazz can. There’s liquid in the bones of this album, and not just because it’s “dry martini” music. Irony, huh? Dry and wet all at once. I guess that’s jazz for you.
This is Bacon’s eighth album, though you’d swear he’s been gliding through late-night lounges since the dawn of vinyl grooves. There’s that ease about it all, as if it could play forever in the background of your thoughts—or just as easily crawl into the foreground when you least expect it, stealing your attention with a sly riff. Could you taste a saxophone solo? Maybe you can here. It’s got that classic live jazz club feeling—like at any moment a clumsy patron might knock over a bar stool and make the band chuckle mid-note. Yet it’s all studio-polished in Bacon’s Sydney cocoon, dating right back from 2023 and 2024, though it grooves decades back.
Unlike so many who dip a toe into the jazz/blues pool, Bacon gets it. The smokiness, the shuffle, the conversation between instruments. This isn’t posturing—as Australian filmmakers turned musicians go, Bacon wears it comfortably. The album doesn’t screech, it doesn’t scream—it savors. Restraint is an art, and boy, does “No Name Lane” know it.
Could it be too smooth, too cool? It flirts with the edges of slickness. But there’s the catch: the subtle grit, a sneaky slide guitar with sweaty palms that reminds you even the smoothest road collects dust.
Final thought? It’s the soundtrack to your next late-night existential crisis.
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