Map (map) n. A representation, usually on a flat surface, of a region of the earth or heavens.

Tacit (tas-it) adj. 1. Not spoken. 2. Inferred by or implied from actions or statements.

Okay, so how does someone actually go about mapping tacit? I don't have a fucking clue. First off, tacit is an adjective, a description, a quality, not a thing itself. Second, it's a negative quality to boot. It's like being smallness or weightless-- you can only have it when it's not really there. Still, the idea of somehow mapping silence is intriguing; taking our muteness apart, laying it out flat and digging beneath every repressed impulse and self-censored idea we've ever had in order to see what's really going on inside our head.

Understanding these elusive areas of the human psyche is so large an undertaking for a rock album it sounds pompous. But given the cover art (featuring a 1880's style drawing of a mapped- out and cross-indexed human brain), that seems to be just what Shannon Wright is attempting. And surprisingly enough, singer/songwriter Wright does a respectable job of channeling the unspoken desires of humans into a workable and enjoyable sad-pop record here.

An intensely emotional and personal album, Maps sounds like the soundtrack to a nervous breakdown. That itself is nothing new-- sensitive people have been making depressed and angry records for as long as people have been depressed and angry. But as frantic, cagey and jaded as Wright's music is, it's also inspired and innovative, claiming its own corner of the overpopulated "musicians who tell us too much about their private lives" category.

The standard musical formula for records like this generally equals some variety of folk music. But early in the game, Wright scraps the clichés and proves that Maps of Tacit is a much more involved and contoured affair than the straightforward, uncomplicated guitar music that's commonly associated with singer/songwriters. Tracks like "Fences of Pales" come closer to the weird, complex jazz-rock of artists like Tom Waits and Laurie Anderson, rather than the spontaneous "I was sitting in a park in Paris, France, and I thought I'd write a song" style of acts like Joni Mitchell or James Taylor.

Sporting complex piano arrangements, instrumentation that varies considerably from song to song, innumerable (but intelligently employed) sound effects, abstract, insightful songwriting and some of the bleakest lyrics this side of a suicide note, Wright crafts each of these twelve tracks in painstaking detail. Each song comes tricked out with all of the musical and lyrical fixings, carrying severe emotional weight. This density serves the album well, allowing it to evolve from just another "angry artist" album into a truly original, emotionally riveting musical event.

Wright belts out her barely subdued songs in a voice that is at once heartwarming, breathless, sultry and really, really sinister. It's pure tension, like a piece of rubber being stretched to its breaking point, and it gives these songs an energy no folk music could hope to contain. The songs are held together by controlled tantrums, sung by a woman that sounds like she's on the verge of jumping out of a window.

But be warned-- while this album is quality, it has a melodrama quotient higher than a Fiona Apple acceptance speech, or a high school production of "A Streetcar Named Desire." It may be a very good "I'm so tortured" record, but it's still an "I'm so tortured" record, prone to all the weaknesses of the genre. It takes itself too seriously at times, and occasionally wallows so deeply in depression that it can be hard to find the joy in listening to it. If you don't like your atmosphere thick, dark and lit by candles, stay away from Maps of Tacit. But if you're that rare sort that howls in rage at the heartless night and then goes home to watch a few hours of PBS documentaries, propose marriage to Shannon Wright at the first opportunity.

-Steven Byrd