In which Jack White convinces Neil to play a bunch of acoustic covers inside of a coin-operated 1940s-era vinyl recording booth. The result? The 28th best Neil Young album. No, but really, there’s something comforting about lo-fi Neil. I wouldn’t want to actually listen to this on vinyl/great speakers since the recording quality is so poor; rather, this is an album to play at normal-to-quiet volume on your phone in bed at 1am. With this method you can reasonably convince yourself that Neil has inhabited the ghosts of Phil Ochs and Bert Jansch and is singing to you as you lapse into a dream state.

Alternatively, you can just treat A Letter Home as an album that a legendary 68-year-old guy would approach from the bottom of his heart. What’s especially precious about A Letter Home is that Neil frames the antiquated recording booth as a kind of magical device allowing him to speak to his late mother. This adds a note of earnestness to what would otherwise be an overly gimmicky project. It also explains the Bidenesque rambling (which I love) of the intro track and the beginning of “Reason to Believe”.

As far as song choices go, Ochs’ “Changes” stands out as an early highlight for its theme-appropriate wistfulness. Other tracks appear as memories from his youth (Willie Nelson’s “Crazy”) and/or later influences (Springsteen’s “My Home Town”). Neil approaching “Needle of Death” reveals its melodic influence on his own “Ambulance Blues”. Listening to the album 10 years later, I can’t help but think of Bob Dylan’s mid-2010s run covering pop standards (including the triple-album Triplicate). While Young’s choices are slightly more contemporary, both artists spent time in the mid-2010s sincerely channeling music of a bygone era. Neither project ranks among the respective artists’ greatest work, but they are worthy for their uniqueness and especially their maker’s honest connection to the songs.

Listen to A Letter Home here.