It’s a clever start. Eric Church – The Chief, if you will – opens Evangeline vs The Machine by melding the passage of time with memory and music, grounding the album in reflection and reverence for the records that shaped him. But don’t let the nostalgia fool you: Church has something deeper in mind here.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that the closing moments echo Springsteen. Think “Mary’s Place,” with its spiritual yearning and communal uplift. But where Springsteen might offer a light in the darkness, Church dives headfirst into the shadows.
Not everything hits perfectly. The talk of “small town church pews” and “game day jerseys always being Carolina Blue” flirts with cliché – a surprising misstep for someone who’s made a career out of subverting the obvious. Church is, after all, the man behind the withering “Stick That In Your Country Song” and the no-holds-barred “That’s Damn Rock N Roll.” He knows better than to lean on Hallmark sentiment.
If this record is Church’s land of hope and dreams, it’s one etched in blood, grit, and resistance. Nowhere is that clearer than in “Bleed On Paper,” where he snarls, “[The Man] said all I had to do was change my tune / I could cash that cheque / But I don’t like the feeling of a rattlesnake / Boot heel on my neck.” That’s vintage Church: unbought, unbothered, and brilliant.
The album’s standout may well be the blistering reinterpretation of Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Here, Church rewrites the tale entirely – “The devils broke out of Georgia and he’s feasting on our souls” – painting a far darker picture than most of his peers would dare. While others stay in the light, Church chooses the edge of the abyss, and that’s precisely why he stands alone at the top.
Between the tracks, there’s texture – jams, ambiance, space to breathe. The transition between songs like “Storm In Their Blood” is soaked in an Elvis-like swagger, but with undertones of menace. That track itself explores inherited violence and brooding instincts, all delivered with a sense of grandeur that borders on the cinematic.
Even by Church’s boundary-pushing standards, Evangeline vs The Machine is a bold leap. “Darkest Hour” finds him singing falsetto soul, vulnerable and raw. Then comes “Evangeline” – tender, confessional, and philosophical: “I’m still the man I was, just a little more grey.” It’s here where the album’s thesis begins to coalesce: the eternal search for meaning, for “three chords and the truth.”
“Rocket’s White Lincoln” is classic troubadour storytelling – the car as dream, not transport – but Church dresses it in soul and strings, giving the familiar new colour.
And then, the end: a cover of Tom Waits’ “Clap Hands.” It’s a masterstroke. Chaotic, fragmented, and ominous, it doesn’t move from point A to B – it unravels. It’s a perfect mirror for the times. The chaos of 2025 in three-and-a-half minutes.
Evangeline vs The Machine isn’t easy. It isn’t polished for the mainstream. But it’s Church doing what he damn well wants, and that, more than anything, is what makes it so superb.
Rating 8.5/10
