Salt of the Earth

A couple weeks ago, a writer and a photographer were on the highway to Hell — Michigan Route 23 — driving away from Ypsilanti in a car that carried cameras, guitars, and bourbon. All for later. First, they had a record to listen to and some miles to cover. They were on their way to meet a guy who was already in Hell — pop. 266 — drinking a beer.

The car rolled toward a falling sun. The photog plugged the destination into his phone's GPS and the writer popped in Salt Year, Chris Bathgate's latest CD. They talked about the music. The writer considered it "a carefully crafted narrative." The photog responded that "it isn't just bad luck and heartbreak, though you will might hear it that way."

They agreed. Bathgate showed "poetic restraint," the writer thought. Something practiced. Sorrowful.

Silence swept over the car. Salt Year is a tough record to talk over.

The car passed packs of pickup trucks.

Rattling the speakers, Bathgate called out to a woman named Eliza and sang himself into some heartbroken nightmare.

The photog refreshed the GPS and broke the silence. "The record's kind of like a map, right?" he said staring at his phone, waiting for the blue dot to get back on track. "It takes you somewhere."

"But only a sympathetic listener can read that map," the writer added. "But, yeah, through the thickets of a dead swamp forest. Serene. Perilous."

He called it a "soundtrack for insoluble turmoil."

Somewhere far above in orbit, a satellite homed in on the car and the route was made clear again.

Photog goes a ways back with Bathgate. But the writer, from Detroit, had only met him a handful of times.

"I swear it's easier to get a read on the guy through his music than in person," photog said.

"He always sounds like he could use a drink," the writer said and canceled the cruise control and slowed the car as he passed Portage Lake on North Territorial road. He said, "Bathgate's doing better these days. He's got a big spring ahead of him. Did he tell you about Cyprus? Shakespeare? No? I'll let him tell you. But I'm sure he won't mind a couple beers. Wait until you see this bar."

The writer wondered aloud about the title of Bathgate's record, and what to make of Eliza, who more or less haunts the record.

"It's interesting," the photog started, "because we already heard the song 'Salt Year' on Bathgate's 2008 EP — Wait, Skeleton."

The redux saw a change in gravity. "Like, maybe Chris had no idea this sad bastard lullaby was a premonition," the photog said.

He told the writer how, just as Bathgate had begun to experience some career highs, he was met with a couple years of serial lows. Fractured relationships. And not just romantic ones. Financial woes. "Starving artist stuff," he said.

> Email Travis R. Wright