Langhorne Slim might hail from Philly, but his soul is tucked away somewhere in middle America, in the nation’s Breadbasket, under the same pedigreed umbrella of our finest acoustic and harmonica-wielding troubadours that need no mention by name. He readily admits that the tunes on the album are “love songs,” but the incandescent collection that comes tumbling forward is the result of boozy late night jam sessions with game pickin and grinnin’ hep cats, the War Eagles. At the helm is Langhorne, a bowler hat-wearning lanky dude with a big, soulful voice, and one of the best American folk-pop records in recent memory that, like fields of grain and back porch jug jams and bonfire-lit tambourine-rattling, just gets more irresistible and vital with each listen. “Colette” is my pick for drinking song of the summer; “Hey There Delilah” has nothing on this, and it was a chart-topping megahit. With the right push, imagine what this one could do. I hope we get to find out. (Kemado) –Carrie Alison