One of a nexus of gifted L.A. writers and pedigreed players who populate each other's records and gig bands, Randy Weeks is a master of the dark mood and the edgy relationship. Filled with foreboding tones and suicidally wistful sentiments on lovers here and gone, Sugarfinger, Weeks's third solo album since his days as a Lonesome Stranger, is easily his most fully realized statement yet. Sporting Piggly Wiggly T-shirts and a sheepish, I-just-woke-up look, Weeks is one of those walk-softly-and-carry-a-big-stick artists, part J.J. Cale and part Al Green. If Weeks's work weren't so painstakingly constructed, we might be tempted to call him minimalist. For his first visit to Houston since the infamous Sunday night when he played three hours without taking a break at the Mucky Duck, Weeks will be working with a brand-new Texas ensemble. As his songs make plain, this is one guy who likes to walk the tightrope without a net.
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