That name. It conjures up such dark overtures: a family, set upon by some nightmare in man’s form, buried by the side of the lonely road where they fell, like an early Cormac McCarthy novel.

There is nothing new-fangled about My Son’s Home. It’s folk music buoyed by acoustic guitar, fiddle, off-kilter drums and piano. Above hangs John Gleason’s voice, a high, unsteady wheeze, like he was born to sing these songs of family and friends gone, of the loss of life and the comic tragedy of mortality.

When other voices gather behind Gleason on ‘Far And Wide’ and ‘Ruby’, it’s like a chorus of voices on the road. ‘Ruby’ is a midstream contender for song of the year, a shape-shifting, earthy concoction that rises and falls and rises again to near transcendence.

The Roadside Graves don’t deal in life-affirming moments, as if anyone would expect that of a band with that name, but this is one of those records to remind you why you ever loved music.

Mark Grassick