I'll come right out with it: I think Jessica Bailiff's Hour of the Trace is overproduced coffeehouse folk, deploying drone, eerie space rock and aimless drifts of noise to fatten up what is really waifish songcraft. I'm amazed that none of these tunes are about vegetarianism. But hold on for a second. This might be exactly what you're looking for: emotive ghostly singing about daydreams and forgetfulness, wafting through Low-lite slowcore (Alan Sparhawk produced, Mimi Parker makes a guest appearance), suspended by gothic organs and stroked by odd incursions of pure and seemingly random noise. It's music that makes reviewers shamelessly resort to heaven words like "celestial," "ethereal" and "gossamer."

Sometimes in cartoons, a character smells food cooking and the vaporous trace of food-smell visibly snakes out from the oven and forms a beckoning (somewhat sinister) finger. This is analogous to listening to Jessica Bailiff's album, except that the smell is steamy, trendy latte instead of a big roast turkey. The first five songs smell pretty much just like that: acoustic guitar strum, spectral yearning vocals, weirdo Bowery Electric-like droning, droning, droning. It sounds like Windy and Carl playing at Au Bon Pain, and is occasionally quite pleasant.

Unfortunately, the sixth track, "Perception," is a sprawling but anemic layering of abstract sounds a la Philosopher's Stone which lasts for-- no shit-- 20 minutes. The last half of the song is slightly more interesting than the first, if only for the Rhodes piano and the subtle guitar work, but presents a nonetheless vapid soundscape that's supposed to make you think of sunrises and hugging. At this point, everyone orders their espresso to go.

The final track, "Across the Miles" returns to the precious strumming and sensual vocals that made you consider enjoying the album 20 minutes ago. This is Jewel-core, friends-- a musical Calgon bath of soft sounds and sudsy abstractions. And I know some of you are saying, "Take me away..."

-Brent S. Sirota