I have this preposterous fear that I will die without having heard an artist whom I was meant to hear. The music of Bob Woodruff, who’s been lurking in the shadows for twenty years, was definitely meant for my ears. His first album came out in the mid-’90s. It received rave reviews — the next Dwight Yoakum, they said — but a series of bad luck and bad choices sent him to skid row for a decade. A heroine habit nearly finished him off for good. But he’s back now, clear-headed and sober, with a new album that feels worn with wisdom. It’s reminiscent of Martin Zellar of the Gear Daddies and Jimmer Podransky of the Rave-Ups, two of my favorite roots artists of the early ’90s. Proof that there’s still great music out there, waiting for me to claim it.
