Owen Young? A fine arts and law graduate, turned songwriter… in Haldimand County, no less. That’s a plot twist worthy of a good, old black and white film reel. His EP, “Town Line,” is like walking into a slightly dusty antique shop – you’re not quite sure what you’ll find, but there’s a quiet hum of history hanging in the air.
Eight songs, it says here. Eight little portals into Southern Ontario life, past bumping against present, a gentle reminder of what’s built into the very soil beneath our shoes. You can almost smell the fields, taste the late-summer air. I keep thinking of those old Polaroid photos – the ones where the colours have faded but the memories remain crisp. There’s a familiarity, not of specific experience but a shared human condition, like that sudden moment you realize you know the smell of the ocean even though you’ve been hundreds of miles inland.
Owen’s male vocals don’t push, don’t demand. They’re more like… an invitation. To sit a spell on a porch swing, perhaps, and ponder things, or simply look at the clouds drift by, a celestial ballet always in performance, always new, even though the dance floor of the sky is the same.
There’s an unspoken narrative between the lines – you feel it rather than hear it – it’s not like looking at art it feels like getting a very clear mental picture – somehow.
This isn’t just some folk record; it’s an invitation to pause. A moment pulled from time. A quiet conversation in a loud world. And what is all our rushing anyway?
He seems to be asking us: what is the rush to?
“Town Line”, makes you think. About your own corner of the world. About things, really. Things. It does it so gently, too. I’ll bet he can cook a pretty good pie.
