Loran Allen Smith is no stranger to new beginnings. Raised on a steady diet of itinerancy, fundamentalist religion, familial dysfunction, and unhealthy coping mechanisms, he spent much of his first forty years searching for that elusive “one thing” we’re taught is supposed to bring us an unrivaled sense of purpose, belonging, and fulfillment. That journey spanned multiple continents, a gamut of odd jobs, and a life of experiences with Asimovian breadth. A man with more class, intention, or success might, in some circles, be afforded the diplomatic label of entrepreneurial.
Smith, on the other hand, tends to spurn any label beyond “area dad and musician,” but still considers himself a bit of a polymath. In truth, he’s like a figure out of a story by Mark Twain or Jonathan Swift. Talk to him long and you may hear stories about living down the street from Brenda Lee, running a crime laboratory, filming professional wrestling matches, or crashing a film set to eat a free lunch with an actor from Empire Records. He even ran for Congress one time. And though he didn’t win—or even come close—he’ll be the first to tell you winning wasn’t the point of running.
For this tenacious, triple-named troubadour, whom friends know more informally as Allen, the real success has ultimately been in the perpetuity of the journey itself. And the real fulfillment, he has discovered, has come from getting to know all of the incredible people he has met along the way.
Today he takes comfort and pride in his insatiable appetite for new experiences as he ladles out heaping spoonfuls from every trough on the glorious Shoney’s Buffet of life. He finds a sense of purpose in harnessing the power of music and storytelling to help bring folks together and show them that we’ve all got far more in common than we think.
A devout bricoleur and wordsmith, he knits together turns of phrase and personal stories with literary and cultural references to create songs that are both complex and simple—catchy and memorable but layered with subtle shades and double meanings that let you enjoy something new every time you hear a song again.
With an eclectic musical style that draws from classic country, Appalachian folk, punk rock, ska, and jazz, Smith’s music doesn’t fit neatly into a taxonomical box or a radio-friendly format. Many songs clock in at over 5 minutes and generic conventions are often cast aside or used to subvert the listener’s expectations.
Songs don’t come out of high-pressure, weekend-long writing sessions. “I like to let them simmer on low for a while,” Smith often jokes, “while I figure out how to write them.” How long is a while? His most recent release, Move the Headstones is a collection of 16 songs recorded over a five-year span and written over the course of nearly twenty.
Smith likens this songwriting approach to the artisinal patience of vintners and master distillers. “Sometimes you’ve got a really great idea or lyric or groove in your head, but for it to become the song or story it deserves to be, you need to let it ferment and transmogrify like something in an old oak barrel while you keep experiencing life and learning how to tell that story with authenticity and heart,” It’s a choice of metaphor made all the more ironic—or perhaps especially befitting—for Smith who is a former alcoholic turned teetotaler.
Whatever culinary comparison you prefer, one thing is certain: this is music meant to be savored, enjoyed, and sung along to. Some songs are fun and a bit absurd, while others touch on thorny topics like grief, inequality, and war. If you listen closely, you’ll hear the influence from an expansive gamut of artists including Duane Eddy, Cake, Ray Stevens, Merle Haggard, Jimmy Buffet, Steve Earle, and Jonathan Coulton. For his part, Smith says he doesn’t try to hard to wedge his music into a particular box and eschews hit-chasing in favor of writing songs that, to a small group of folks, will no less be classics.