In 2011, Harris loaded his van and trailer with every tool, guitar, and keepsake he could cram and moved to Nashville TN, shortly before the release of his debut album “I’ll Keep Calling,” which would win him countless accolades from various outlets and entities unheard of by the general masses. It was enough praise to keep him on the road, even if his largest reward garnered at the time was a sizable box of Taco Bell gift cards. He would go on to record 2014’s “Home Is Where The Hurt Is,” 2018’s “Sometimes Dogs Bark At Nothing,” and 2021’s Appalachian banjo-centric side project album “Don’t You Marry No Railroad Man,” under the moniker JP Harris’ Dreadful Wind & Rain.

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JP’s historic restoration carpentry has continued to be a baseline for his relationship to music; the yin to his yang, the Burt to his Ernie, the Dolly to his Porter. It was through this concurrent line of work that he met another twice-initialed singer with a penchant for old Americana music, obscure film, and overly elaborate ethnic meal preparations: one JD McPherson. The two became fast friends and would eventually, through many twists, turns, false starts, and biblically-proportionate plagues, enter a modest studio in Nashville to record Harris’ latest album “JP Harris Is A Trash Fire.”

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Over the course of nine months in 2023, they recorded a sometimes lush, sometimes sparse, and sometimes jarring country album of Harris’ originals, loudly and violently squelching any attempt to pigeon-hole a song into any sub-genre of country music. Only albums by Lee Hazelwood and an obscure folk album Waylon Jennings made when his hair was still short were allowed to be mentioned in reference. Featuring the guest vocals of Erin Rae, The Watson Twins, Shovels & Rope, and producer JD McPherson himself, the record is equal parts satire, reflection, and apology to those that would listen.

 

In a musical landscape of period-correct reproduction, “outlaw” internet posturing, and flavor-of-the-month variants on country, “JP Harris Is A Trash Fire” burns bright as a dumpster ablaze in a Walmart parking lot on a moonless night; some will fear it, some will gravitate to its acrid warmth, and most will have no idea what to make of the situation.​