A friend turned me on to Don Cavalli’s Cryland shortly after it came out (2008), which I then promptly slept on until about six months ago. This was, indeed, my loss. Cavalli’s debut, it turns out, is one Frenchman’s take on swampy, gutbucket, rock & roll so steeped in deep southern imagery you’d swear it was from Marigold, MS. But wait. Stop yourself from imagining Slim Harpo on the Champs-Élysées as to do so would immediately cut its contents short (as Cryland is far more interesting than pure pastiche). Sure, you can get farther away from Mississippi delta than Paris, but not by much. And it’s exactly this that gives Cryland it’s distinct flavor. It’s Cavalli’s idea of what this music is. It’s the past 6 decades of rock and blues filtered though various mediums across the Atlantic and into Cavalli’s psyche. A real bouillabaisse if you will.