Somewhere in the seaside whiskey houses of New England, B.A. Canning finger-picks little ditties out of his guitar. He's been doing it for a while, and at some point he started singing too. Sometimes he plays alone, sometimes with what seems to him a man-sized fiddle (it sounds very low!), but now, ladies and germs, with a full band that harnesses the mysterious powers of electricity.
Dan Blakeslee walked into Laconia State Prison last year, not knowing what to expect. He'd always admired Johnny Cash and his affection for the underdog. Similar to Cash at Folsom Prison, Blakeslee was about to perform live for a house full of murderers and felons. Behind closed doors he could hear the prisoners stir, and he felt as though he was about to be fed to the wolves. But instead of inciting a riot, Blakeslee anesthetized the prisoners with his crooning voice and delicate charms, slowly calling out angels and demons alike with equal regard for both. Blakeslee walked out with a homemade recording of the event that night (Live at Laconia State Prison), a perfect blueprint of his own complicated soul.
The last great American Renaissance man is gone, but his likeness lives on the shores of Newburyport, Massachusetts. Equal parts musician and artist, Dan Blakeslee's soul core is woven from the fabric of his surroundings. More specifically, the tangled fields and forests from the town where he was raised, South Berwick, Maine. This enchanted farming community also schizophrenically possesses an artist's spirit, which, is embedded deep within him. While Blakeslee learned his Yankee ingenuity from the farmers, it was his parents who infused music and art into his being by singing the young Blakeslee to sleep every night as a child.
The skies over the Blakeslee childhood home hung heavy with stars. Anyone who has ever looked into a night sky unfettered by light pollution or a gazed at a horizon dotted with mast pines at twilight knows they're looking at the lightning seeds of imagination. In fact, it seems this environment has permeated every aspect of Blakeslee's music and art, one needs to look no further than his paintings and drawings to know they are deep seeded by his childhood surroundings.
After attending the Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore, Blakeslee ventured northward to Boston. He toiled with his acoustic in the smoke-laden subways before slowly rolling his influences (Leonard Cohen, Red House Painters, The Smiths, Jeff Buckley, Vic Chestnut, Radiohead, Tom Waits and the aforementioned Cash) into his own eclectic blend of music with chameleon-like appeal.
Blakeslee's live performances are wondrous. Similar to a beekeeper that spells smoke upon the colony before gathering honey, he rouses audiences with wit before subsequently throttling them with his deeply engaging voice and well-thought lyrics. He is unafraid to bare his very soul, emptying a loaded cache of emotion and passion onto the stage for all to witness, explore and devour. His conviction and love for life itself alone makes him impossible to ignore.
Blakeslee's music, categorically speaking, is impossible to classify. It sparks images of melted candles in city square vigils, lone tree hills or a shoreline drive at dawn. Blakeslee seems unconcerned with where the songs fall, only that he's tapped into their ghostly essence and emerged with a blinding account of life itself.
