BEYOND AMERICANA
Kathleen Edwards expands her vistas with Bon Iver
Kathleen Edwards expands her vistas with Bon Iver
By Matt Ashare
Kathleen Edwards, Voyageur (Zoe/Rounder)
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| AFFAIRS OF THE SMART: Edwards deals deftly with romantic crises |
“Out of the cameras and out of the lights/I’m a chameleon, I hide behind the songs I write,” sings Canadian songstress Kathleen Edwards with stoic resignation midway through “Chameleon/Comedian,” the slowly surging second track on her new Voyageur. In the context of a song that artfully navigates the give-and-take of an imperfectly perfect relationship on an album — her fourth since 2003’s Faller — that fearlessly confronts the mixed emotions, the highs and lows, and the naked vicissitudes of falling in and out of love, it’s a telling rhyme, particularly since she recorded it with musical and production support from her current beau, Bon Iver mastermind Justin Vernon. Buoyed by a lush rush of strummed acoustic guitars, bathed in the kind of soft-focus reverb that are a Bon Iver calling card, she makes a sweet concession to her lover’s “darker side”: she’ll “smile,” she promises in the chorus, but “not for a funny joke.” Because, at least for this brief respite, she’s willing to concede, “I don’t need a punch line every time. . .”
When Edwards first emerged in the early 2000s, she was hailed as Americana’s next great hopeful, a Lucinda Williams in waiting, crafting empathetic characters with an economy of words and a natural gift for finding that sweet spot between spare, confessional folk and rocky country roots. Working with Canadian producer Colin Cripps (Sarah McLachlan, Bryan Adams, Blue Rodeo), to whom she was married to until last year, Edwards quietly delivered on that promise, growing into the role of the kind of critic’s darling who might also be asked to, say, do a few dates opening for the likes of Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones. But, with Voyageur, she’s taken a major leap forward (or, perhaps, it’s more akin to an intensely appealing left-hand turn), joining the ranks of the Wilcos of the world in redefining what constitutes Americana. Indeed, if Jeff Tweedy has led his band in the direction of avant experimentalism, then Edwards appears to be using a similar strategy to bring airy dream-pop ambience to her down-to-earth character studies and countrified constructions.
It’s a shift that manifests itself subtly on Voyageur. The opening track, “Empty Threat,” begins with a very Bon Iver touch — an indeterminate drone coupled with what might be a backwards-running loop of murmuring voices. But Edwards’ bright acoustic guitar strumming quickly emerges from the sonic mist as an easygoing backbeat kicks in and lines like, “This cold heart’s getting warmer/Maybe come September I’ll feel brand new” cast a hopeful light on the singer’s plans to get on with her life. “I’m moving to America/Moving to America/Moving to America,” Edwards intones with veiled anticipation of better things to come, before taking the wind out of her own sails with the admission that “It’s an empty threat.” Piano and a trio of electric guitars emerge in the mix to paint melancholy colors around poetic promises and poignant imagery (“In a city I once said never/I’m learning to say never never never ever/Cuz now I’m its favorite flower/I’m blooming through the concrete cracks of this condo tower”). By the end of the track, Edwards has made her move from one kind of country to another, yet it feels nothing if not entirely natural.
So, this is the point at which Vernon visionary’s role in elevating Edwards above the pack of perfectly solid singer-songwriters is meant to be celebrated. And there’s ample evidence of his handiwork on Voyageur, from the bleating synths that pulse behind Edwards as she reaches for the sky and cries, “Change this feeling under my feet/Change the sheets and then change me,” to the fragile vibraphone that underpins the mixed emotions of the gently turbulent “A Soft Place Land,” to the Omnichord touches that blend into the twangy backdrop of the desperately bittersweet blues rocker “Mint.”
But there’s an equally strong, if not stronger, case to be made here for Edwards bringing out the best in Vernon, whose penchant for studio wizardry as Bon Iver has, in spite of four major Grammy nominations this year, often led him into the more-is-more deep end. There’s no question he’s proven himself to be a master sonic sculptor, but there are times, even on his most recent Bon Iver disc, Bon Iver, Bon Iver, when you have to wonder if there’s really a song being served beneath all those layers of vocals and instrumentation. In Edwards, he seems to have found a muse whose songcraft provides solid grounding in clearly defined hooks and melodies for his pillowy wall-of-sound approach.
One thing’s for sure: there’s some serious synergy happening on Voyageur. And given the subjects Edwards elicits so strikingly in the songs here — from the failing romance of the plaintive “House Full of Empty Rooms,” to the snapshots of a broken marriage in the simply sad “Pink Champagne,” to the guarded rush of romance rediscovered in the rocking “Sidecars” — there are bound to be plenty of questions about the autobiographical nature of the album. Indeed, you get the sense that Edwards anticipated that, and you can find her answer in “For the Record,” the seven-minute track that closes out the disc. With tense electric guitar chords hanging on a modest, deliberate beat, organ tones filling in the gaps between verses, and Norah Jones lending harmonies, Edward conjures an hypnotic hymn from just a couple of loaded lines: “Hang me up on your cross/For the record I only wanted to sing songs/Hang me out to die in the sun/For the record I only wanted to sing songs.” She is, after all, a chameleon. . .
