Justice Lonesome’s comeback tour is not what you’d expect it to be.
Unlike what came from Lonesome’s debut, Chain Link, after dropping her remarkable second album, The Miracle Mountains, she did not hit sold-out venues and press junket after press junket.
She went on the road.
Not on tour.
Just on the road.
Apparently, you can be anywhere from sea to shining sea, and if the music stars are aligned, shining on you the fortune of Lonesome, you might be having a beer at a bar and suddenly a woman, sometimes with a full band, sometimes with just a guitar and a microphone, will start singing.
And that woman will be Justice Lonesome.
She’ll rock her signature covers of Rondstadt. She might sing any of her father, Johnny’s, songs. However, as old fans and the new ones Lonesome is claiming along the way are avidly keeping track of on social media, she always sings Johnny’s “Never Missin’ Home.”
And, of course, each time she’ll hand you the jewel that shone in her first album, that album’s title song, “Chain Link.”
She’ll also do her new stuff and you will not be disappointed.
Lonesome stamped her talent of penning a rock ballad all over her first effort.
Spreading her wings, showing growth and maturity, the ballads from The Miracle Mountains are more nuanced, have more passion, more pathos, and clearly demonstrate from debut to album two that Lonesome has honed already epic storytelling chops, including “Knight in Dented Armor” and “(Ev’ry Time I Come Home) Life Begins Again.”
But The Miracle Mountains gives us even more.
Emerging from the very long shadows of the two legends who came before her, Jerry and Johnny, Justice Lonesome’s signature ballads this time are mixed with twangy, foot-tapping, knee-bouncing country rock Ronstadt herself set the standard for with Lonesome’s new singles “Pleasure and Pain” and “Gypsy Princess.”
The Miracle Mountains is not a successful second effort.
It’s transcendent.
But it’s not only that.
It’s the way she’s going about spreading that love that’s refreshing and unique.
With her current level of popularity and a loyal, solid fanbase who’ve been waiting over half a decade for her second collection, Lonesome could easily fill event centers and smaller arenas.
Instead, seemingly randomly, with no notice, no promotion, no press, and most surprisingly, no ticket sales, wherever the wind takes her, she’s walking into saloons or honkytonks and letting fly.
But Justice Lonesome is not crazy nor is she stupid. It’s not just handheld phone video that’s hitting download sites. Professionally shot videos are also spreading wide. Even so, the production is minimal. It’s Lonesome, perhaps backed by her band or just rock ‘n’ roll’s gypsy with her guitar.
If your stars have aligned and the fortune of Lonesome shines on you and you find yourself in that bar having that beer and Justice Lonesome takes that mic, request her rendition of the Zac Brown Band’s “Free.” Buzz backed by fan video is that it’s wicked good. Added bonus, every time she sings it, her eyes never stray from the man who took four bullets for her, a man who never leaves her side, her fiancé, Deke Hightower.
Unlike her grandfather, Jerry, who worked the road and the business with smarts, screaming talent and downhome sensibility, earning his crown as a rock god. And unlike her father, Johnny, who took up the family mantle, followed his father’s path and soared even higher, earning his own reign. In one fell swoop, Justice Lonesome has seized a new crown: Rock’s Gypsy Princess.
Long may she reign.
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Heart
Out in the middle of nowhere, nothing there but silver steel blinking in the bright sun, the door to the Airstream opened and the woman stepped out, the heavy waves and curls of her beautiful, long, dark hair lifting at the sudden warm wind that swirled around the trailer.
She wore a flowy, sleeveless, lacy top that hung down low over her hips in four points. Cut-off shorts frayed at the hems. Square-toed, dark-brown motorcycle boots on her feet, flowery socks you could see over the top rims.
She hopped down and a big man followed her, his beard thick, his hair long, pulled back in a mess, fastened at the back of his head.
The man stopped, one hand in hers, the other one lifting to lock the door of the trailer.
Dipping his chin, he looked down at her as he turned, tugging her along with him as he moved them both to the motorcycle parked six feet away.
He strode.
She skipped.
He grinned.
She giggled.
Positioning her out of the way, he threw a long leg over first, lifting the bike from its stand, kicking that stand back.
She mounted behind him with practiced ease, instantly pressing close, wrapping her arms tight around his stomach.
He fired up the bike, lifted a hand. Pulling some shades from the collar of his white tee, he flicked them out, slid them on.
She unearthed her glasses from that mess of hair and positioned them over her eyes.
Blue-lensed Ray-Ban aviators.