Erin McKeown
Distillation
[TVP]
Rating: 7.7
She plays the acoustic guitar. She's young. She's plucky. She runs her own
record label. And she's not Ani DiFranco. True, there's a similar penchant
for using the guitar as both a melodic and percussive instrument. But while
DiFranco's urgent and gaping fusion of quasi-punk/folk and blatant lyrics
are often assaulting, McKeown's blend of folk, funk and jazz (particularly of
the Tin Pan Alley variety) is sleepy-eyed and understated. Her first album
proper, Distillation, is testament to the advantages of subtlety for
singer/songwriters.
In lieu of the kind of confessional approach to lyric-writing that almost
always leads to histrionic ranting, McKeown often chooses to distance herself
from her words, and ends up sounding refined. In the-breezy-as-a-Sunday-ride-in-a-convertible
jazz number "Didn't They?," McKeown sings of a secret that's been revealed
about her, gossip-style, without ever explicitly telling the listener what
she's talking about. She's not being abstract, but intriguing and coy.
Similarly, "La Petit Mort" is a halfstep-away-from-bluegrass country song in
which McKeown takes the role of widower whose wife died amidst orgasm.
McKeown proves herself armed with an intelligent sense of humor, instead of
strident, oversimplified political convictions, when she explains the death:
"We both found heaven right then/ You just chose not to come back."
McKeown's charming elusiveness, however, only goes so far. The flimsy funk
of "Blackbirds" is only further bogged down by a beguiling extended metaphor
that explains new love in terms of the old "Sing a Song of Sixpence" nursery
rhyme. It's confusing, honestly, and any insight is usurped by the overly
"clever" wordplay.
It's when McKeown lets down her guard and allows her lyrics to venture into
visceral territory that she's at her most successful. "Fast as I Can" is a
self-aware examination of her career thus far, and McKeown is revealed as an
uncertain, perhaps ambivalent, young performer. The catchy melody sung over
muted acoustic guitar strings is augmented by more wordplay. In this case,
the cleverness is done right. McKeown personifies the construct of success
and sings about encountering it one night while she's asleep: "Slept I have
in the beds of middle America/ Life off the fat of the man/ I'm gonna go out
tonight/ I'm gonna try, try to make it/ Live as fast as I can." We've heard
folksingers' own tributes to their lives of travel and uncertainty before,
but rarely in such levelheaded terms.
McKeown's mastery of subtlety is evident in the fact that Distillation's
quietest moment is its loveliest. "Love in 2 Parts" starts out funky, full,
and upbeat before abruptly shifting into a soft, solo-acoustic ballad.
Her songwriting is strongest here, with its undeniably beautiful melody and
delivery. Her words shift from being merely lyrics, to fully realized poetry
with lines like: "I waved my hope around like a cheap flag/ Whose colors had
faded/ Whose emblem was laughable/ What is whiskey in the morning/ But a clear
path to the door?"
With Distillation, McKeown self-assuredly makes her mark in the already
overcrowded crew of American singer/songwriters, becoming part of a clique of
like-minded folkies that includes Rose Polenzani and Beth Amsel. They call
themselves Voices on the Verge and sometimes tour the country together. For
McKeown, though, the name of the group is a misnomer. Distillation
proves she's not verging on anything; she's not "almost there." She has
already arrived.
-Richard M. Juzwiak