Just re-listened to: Love Is The King (2020) by Jeff Tweedy. The homey, sentimental sound of a veteran American songwriter, fifteen years sober, sitting on the front porch of his family home at sunset with his amps, his sons, and his elder son’s drum set, strumming perfect little gems of songs into existence on his many guitars, but especially his nylon-string Martin, because he has pandemic time to kill. Some of the songs are sung to his wife. Half of them are honky-tonk. The album gets a touch sluggish toward the end, but that’s because the sun has set and it’s time to go to bed.