Freedy Johnston, a humble storyteller from New York (born in Kansas), first gained attention with an almost punk approach to country, but later produced collections of electric ballads of great evocative power.

In the 1990s, Johnston was a breath of fresh air in an era flooded with singer-songwriters (especially female) who had nothing to say but delivered it in the most grandiose manner possible. Few were able to sing of betrayal, failure, and guilt without boring the listener to death.

Trouble Tree (Bar None, 1990) was his breakthrough album, a collection of electric and acoustic ballads whose complexity was hidden behind a rare naturalness of expression. Johnston showcases a vocal phrasing reminiscent of Neil Young and a punk approach to country that recalls the Pogues. The self-portrait of Innocent, performed in the rebellious rock’n’roll style of John Cougar Mellencamp, does not yet do him justice: the true Johnston is the effervescent one who pays homage to his rural roots in Down On The Moon, a pulsating bluegrass as the Feelies might have played it. From there onward, the inexhaustible imagination of the “innocent” shows no mercy: a Caribbean swing like Violins, a hammering boogie like Nature Boy. The jester paints with the playful, childlike spirit of a Jonathan Richman the nursery-rhyme-like Fun Ride. The tragic poet emerges in harsh meditations such as That's What You Get, ripped apart by hard-rock strikes, and Little Red Haired Girl, shaken by visceral distortions in which Mellencamp’s epic tone and Young’s desolate mood echo once again. The album is more vigorous and driving than much of the grunge of the time. In reality, it barely scratches the surface of the artist’s dark philosophy.

The Mortician's Daughter and Down In Love are the most compelling stories on his second album, Can You Fly (Bar None, 1992), a much “deeper” work that became a critical landmark. His tales of betrayal, failure, and guilt are carried by impeccable melodies, as if Simon & Garfunkel had turned to funeral music. His moral Calvary is sung in that clear, anguished country singer register that has become his preferred timbre.

Can You Fly (Bar None, 1992) was a far more profound work and the album that turned him into a critical sensation. The record collects a dozen personal vignettes that do not steer too far from your average Americana, but each burns of a secret fire that borrows from both archaic and modern popular jargons. The epic power-pop of lead-off track Trying To Tell You I Don't Know shivers with the raw blues-rock verve of the Rolling Stones. Another restless rocker, Remember Me, actually draws inspiration from gospel music. The vibrant soul-rock of Wheels completes a little trilogy of passion.
The tenderly nostalgic Tearing Down This Place, the softly jangling folk-rock of The Lucky One and the closing ode We Will Shine compose a balancing trilogy of lyrical and intimate confessions.
Finally, The Mortician's Daughter and Down In Love are philosophical meditations that show both tunefulness and depth.
His stories of betrayal, failure and guilt rely on impeccable melodies, as if Simon & Garfunkel were now playing funeral music. His moral Calvary is sung in a solemn, crystal-clear and mournful register that belongs to country music but the music contaminates Nashville with all sorts of pop, soul and folk elements, more often than not with enough electricity to power a hard-rock band.

This Perfect World (Elektra, 1994) even risked making him a star, thanks to intensely personal lyrics and music that rarely misses the mark. His country singer’s timbre cuts through with a funereal touch amid the moral wreckage of Bad Reputation (the first single), like a Tom Petty truly grown up in the Midwest, dominating sentimental choruses such as Across The Avenue that could form the backbone of splendid folk-rock ballads, and smoothing with shamelessly pop melodicism the edges of phrases like those in Two Lovers Stop that betray the rough manners of the South. And yet they all become disconsolate psalms to an infamous fate. Marc Ribot touches his renowned strings, and Jane Scarpantoni caresses her magical violin on the tender Evie's Garden (the second single), which indeed has the composure of a Baroque sonata, and on the title track both fill the atmosphere with dreamlike chimes—but the album belongs entirely to Johnston, his guitar, and his voice, which most of the time are accompanied only by the most discreet of rhythm sections. Indeed, the strongest impression comes from Gone Like The Water and I Can Hear The Laughs, where the man minimizes sound and speaks to the stars with the stride of a prairie minstrel.

Melody dominates Never Home (Elektra, 1997) as well, another intense and sincere album. Thus, while his early models were Mellencamp and Young, today one hears primarily the elaborate crooning of Elvis Costello, from the opening On The Way Out to the closing Something's Out There. And undoubtedly I'm Not Hypnotized represents one of his catchiest excursions into folk-rock territory. His most authentic self is the one who sings the acoustic anthem Western Sky with a hand on his heart and the one who whispers the delicate portrait of Seventies Girl. Here and there emerge the gritty edge of Mellencamp (One More Thing To Break), Young’s martial stride (He Wasn't Murdered), and Petty’s fatalistic lament (Gone To See The Fire). The accompaniment (Danny Kortchmar on guitars, Graham Maby on bass, and former Heartbreaker Stan Lynch on drums) is more subdued than on the previous album (on which Marc Ribot and Jane Scarpantoni often stole the spotlight), but the atmosphere remains equally confessional.

Blue Days Black Nights (Elektra, 1999), recorded with a humbler lineup, is an intimate, domestic album that rarely ventures beyond the boundaries of the lazy delta-ballad (Underwater Life, While I Wait For You). This is a genre Johnston elevates to an impressive level of sophistication—not so much in arrangement as in song structure (for example, the dreamlike soul-jazz of Pretend It's Summer, a stone’s throw from the Doors’ Riders In The Storm, or the almost noir atmosphere of Depending On The Night, equally velvety and jazzy). Yet here and there genius slips into lighter tunes more suited to the aforementioned Elvis Costello (Changed Your Mind). The catchiest folk-rock moment is Until The Sun Comes Back Again.

Over the years, his fiery edge, legendary eccentricity, and uncontrolled eclecticism have been tempered by a formal refinement that returned him to the classic format of the folk-rock and country-rock song. Above all, melody has come to the forefront, of which he is an old-school master.

All his music is deeply autobiographical, delivered with sincere, universal emotion.

A little jangling country-pop (Broken Mirror), a little poppy garage-rock (Waste Your Time) and a little Tom Petty-ian power-pop (Anyone), Right Between The Promises (Elektra, 2001) completes Johnston's transition to mainstream singer. The problem is that Johnston now buries his enormous talent in regular melodies and predictable tempos. Even the few vignettes that recall his past glory (Radio Heartache for voice and banjo, the blues Back To My Machine, the mournful, cello-tinged Save Yourself City Girl, perhaps the standout) have no bite. Not the slightest trace of genius.

Rain On The City (2010), the first album in nine years, is devoted to both skeletal emotions (the somber ukulele-tinged Lonely Penny, the bossanova dirge The Kind of Love We're In, the contemplative Rain On The City) and restrained bursts of energy (the power-pop of Don't Fall in Love with a Lonely Girl, the country-rock of Livin' Too Close to the Rio Grande); but the former greatly outnumber the latter and soon become a distraction instead of an attraction.