When critics bandy about the precious hyphenate 'singer-songwriter,' they often use words such as 'confessional' and 'sensitive' to evoke the tone of the style, a populist amalgam of rock, country and folk idioms that emerged in the late '60s and early '70s to describe the music of artists as diverse as Joni Mitchell, Nick Drake and Townes Van Zandt. Fast forward 35 years and thousands of bad coffeehouse performances, the style endures, proving the public's invariable attraction toward intimacy as an aesthetic ideal.
Two new albums by popular independent singer-songwriters reflect the vanguard of the genre. For years a prominent figure within independent music circles, Chan Marshall, who records under the name of Cat Power, presents her curiously-titled seventh album, "The Greatest." Releasing her debut solo album "Rabbit Fur Coat" on the same date is Jenny Lewis, a one-time Hollywood D-list actress, better known as the lead singer of the popular Los Angeles-by-way-of-Omaha indie pop act Rilo Kiley.
With Cat Power, it's a critical cliche to focus on Marshall's unique public persona, a mixture of nerd sex icon and unstable art school dropout (she is known for on-stage breakdowns and tantrums). However, her place within musical culture is less compelling than her music. Her two best albums, 1998's "Moon Pix" and 2003's "You Are Free" seem to effortlessly intertwine folk, punk and blues, imbuing each genre with a subtle grace and aching lyricism.
It is unfortunate that her latest effort, "The Greatest", does not live up to its own hyperbolic title. The album represents a step back for Marshall. With a handful of thorough songcraft and an unfortunate imbalance of filler, the album cannot help but disappoint both new listeners and longtime fans.
First, the good: "Where Is My Love" is an effective mood exercise, with a beautifully articulated piano line and elegiac strings. Marshall's voice is trembling and soulful. Though the song tends toward adult contemporary pap in its sappy lyrics, it possesses an honesty most performers simply lack. Also effective are the vaguely Hawaiian steel pedal licks on "Islands," but the song's shocking shortness is disruptive. Other moments of glory are fleeting: the brass on "Willie" and bluesy chorus (and uptempo outro) of "Lived in Bars" stand out. "Love and Communication" starts out as an erstwhile "Where Is My Mind" before highlighting its cinematic strings and insistent rhythm. Best on the album is the title track, which effectively deploys guitar flange, a string quartet and graciously filtered backing vocals. The song's opening is nearly transcendent -- a testament to Marshall's manifold gifts -- but, tellingly, the song's ending disappoints, fizzling out on an unresolved phrase.
Too often, the songs play out unsuccessfully. "Could We" features repetitive saxophone which distracts from Marshall's able harmonizing, while other songs, such as "Living Proof" and "After It All", float along aimlessly, never channeling emotion.
It is perhaps the most meaningless criticism in the world to call something "dull," but too often "The Greatest" is just that, with Marshall squandering her talent in dutifully composed but ultimately uncompelling songs. "Hate" bounces but never pops; "The Moon" has a disappointing chorus and annoying vocal processing that makes Marshall's voice sound like a cheap Hammond organ. The uneasy tension between technology and nature fuels much of the album, but it also creates many of the album's problems, with hollow production that only belies the weakness of the songwriting.
Though the album "Rabbit Fur Coat" is credited officially to 'Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins', her collaborators' presence is barely felt on the album, with all songwriting credits given to Lewis (excepting one cover). This is perhaps for the best. Lewis has emerged over the past four years as one of America's more interesting songwriters, whose country-tinged pop is sprinkled with almost disarmingly literal lyrics. Lewis writes in full declarative sentences and uses an articulate matter-of-fact delivery on record, an approach that has proven alternately endearing and annoying.
"Rabbit Fur Coat" is no different, a song cycle that at times sounds like an experiment in various twentieth-century American musics, ranging from Gothic bluegrass a cappella ("Run Devil Run") to early '60s honky-tonk ("Happy").
Its experiments are not always successful; some are downright miserable. "The Charging Sky" feels like a deadweight Aimee Mann castoff, with an uncomfortably bland arrangement that highlights a flaccid guitar line. The lyrics here are Lewis at her worst, betraying her tendency toward careless banality: "If I run up hill I'm out of breath / If I spend all of my money then I've got no money left." Some mindless trifle about "The hypocrites and the Jesuits / And the blacks and the whites" ensues and you begin to understand why some critics despise Lewis's lyrics.
Also underwhelming is Lewis' power-pop reworking of the Traveling Wilburys' "Handle With Care," wherein she collaborates with shaky-voiced indie stalwarts like Ben Gibbard, Conor Oberst and M. Ward. The facile arrogance of the performance is angering upon reflection, but when listening to the song, it merely inspires a vague ho-hum. There's Gibbard doing the Roy Orbison part. Here's Oberst embarrassing himself trying to imitate Dylan (again).
When the album hits though, it works beautifully. The synthesized vibraphone on "You Are What You Love" is surely one of the album's highlights, but the rest of the song is equally intriguing. A sprightly and fun snare drum and subtle organ make the song rewarding on repeated listening, as does the catchy sing-along chorus. Equally potent is the album's centerpiece, the inverted gospel waltz "Born Secular." Over a stark piano-and-drum-machine arrangement, Lewis and the Watsons harmonize gorgeously. Here Lewis's lyrics succeed perhaps more than anywhere else on the album, evoking a state of religious apathy equally heartbroken and transcendent. The Hammond organ and drumwork on the song's latter half are restrained and effective.
Other songs offer slighter pleasures. "Big Guns" channels Appalachia with heartily plucked acoustic guitar, stomping and hand claps. Though its chorus disappoints, the song is nonetheless a successful mood piece. "Happy" offers a compellingly spare arrangement that allows Lewis to play at an aloof Patsy Cline. The warm guitar tones and chilly vocals are enrapturing, and the distorted guitar that quietly winds its way through the song is forceful without contrivance. Best though is Lewis' vocal performance; here she slowly abandons her canned overenunciation, slurring words together gleefully. It is the soul of an album filled with incorrigible heart.
