Will Foulke’s Charleston Blues feels like a record out of time. It’s not simply an exercise in nostalgia, but a celebration of the blues’ eternal heartbeat, refracted through the lens of a songwriter unafraid to stretch the form. From the woozy psychedelia that opens the album to its tender, harmony-soaked closer, Foulke proves himself to be both student and innovator. There’s reverence here, but never replication.
Highlights like “Dropped Out” barrel forward with dusty-road swagger, while “Still Alive” slows the pace to a soulful meditation, shimmering with Otis Redding’s ghost. The title track, “Charleston Blues,” is both haunted and haunting, a reminder that guitar solos still can summon storms. It’s in these spaces—between fire and restraint—that the album finds its emotional core.
What lingers most, though, is the warmth. By playing every instrument himself, Foulke turns Charleston Blues into something deeply personal: a one-man conversation with the giants he admires. Polished yet human, ambitious yet intimate, it’s a debut that feels less like a calling card and more like an invitation—step inside, take your time, and let the blues speak in new colours.
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