Wilson’s
Vic Chesnutt is a very unique, peculiar personality and songwriter. He’s a charter member of that pantheon of brilliant songwriters and performers who are all defined by singularity, but are not ruled by quirk and never allow themselves to fall into self-parody.
West of Rome is a spare, skeletal record that’s inhabited by all of the aforementioned qualities, is beautiful in its simplicity and finds strength in imperfection. Chesnutt’s craggy voice, classical guitar, and outrageous imagination are his tools, and his performances were faithfully preserved by Scott Stuckey’s resonant living room production.
After a few spins, listening to Chesnutt and company sound like they’re playing in your living room, the record begins to sound familiar; its nooks and crannies, cracks and crevices start to feel homey and comfortable, like an old house or an old friend. There’s a humble magic that West of Rome perpetuates that is ultimately the most enchanting thing about it — it offers a gentle reminder of things that are far too often taken for granted to those who care to listen.
West of Rome Review by Bryan Carroll
For What It's Worth 
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