Ed Askew Didn’t Want To Paint It Black

Ed Askew’s first album, a 1968 self-titled release (later issued as Ask the Unicorn), on the ESP-Disk label, was almost his last. ESP-Disk’s catalog of now-legendary jazz and avant-garde artists couldn’t keep it in business, and Askew had no luck placing his follow-up, Little Eyes. But Askew’s cockeyed guerilla folk gradually gained a cult following, and Little Eyes finally arrived on shelves in the early aughts, about 35 years after Askew recorded it. Albums of new material followed, showing that Askew’s briny voice and cynically whimsical songcraft had only deepened with age. The Final Painting almost didn’t get released either, but not because no one was interested; Askew died in early 2025, at age 84, before he finished it.

Askew’s health had been declining for several years, so Askew and producer Jerry David DeCicca, an accomplished singer-songwriter in his own right who’s helped several sonic elders (Frank “The Wild Jalapeño” Rodarte, Larry Jon Wilson, Will Beeley) make late-career records, must have known that time was short. The Final Painting fittingly has a contemplative tone, with slow, spellbound songs that seem both off-the-cuff and profoundly lived in.

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Askew has put aside his tiple, the small 10-stringed guitar whose bright, ringing lilt defined his previous albums. Instead, he mostly plays keyboards, enhancing the close intimacy of the material, which originated as home recordings in his apartment. As he did when producing a posthumous album by Bob Martin, another cult folkie, DeCicca brought in an array of simpatico musicians to add color, detail, and depth to Askew’s skeletal sketches. Some big names pop up: Bill Callahan blends his oaky baritone with Askew’s trembling but not frail high tenor on “Someone,” a weird ballad about bureaucracy and artistic illumination, while Sharon Van Etten harmonizes in the chorus of the funny, haunted “Gray Air-o-Plane.” Instrumental guitar maestro William Tyler does some exceedingly subtle work throughout. But the collaborators don’t push Askew out of the frame—his voice and melodic sensibility are front and center on reverie-laden slices of life like “Bacon and Eggs” and “Lost in the Kitchen,” both of which make stream-of-consciousness ruminations seem conversational. 

DeCicca strikes just the right balance with his arrangements, giving Askew’s spare keyboard lines and deceptively casual melodies heft without overwhelming them. Askew lets his notes fall like rain on a sunny day; Canaan Faulkner’s upright and electric bass, Ryan Jewell’s percussion accents and brass from Fulvio Sigurta (trumpet) and Dustin Laurenzi (tenor sax) fortify the rumble of the storm while magnifying the play of light. 

Last works are always carried out against the clock, pieced and patched together as time and energy dwindle. The Final Painting does have a palpable sense of things winding down, of forced concessions, less-than-ideal compromises and a rapidly shrinking future. But it’s never grim or desperate; Askew seems comfortable, if bemused, by where life has taken him, and content to go out on his own terms, making the best of it. The Final Painting doesn’t have the grandeur of a masterpiece, but as a testament to the serendipity and surprise of existence—an accounting of the way things do and don’t work out—it gives us the full picture. 

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