Why do we love Chan Marshall so? Because love her we do. Who doesn’t? Because of her beauty certainly, inside and out, and its juxtaposition with her brazen imperfections and blind cathartic strides. Her louche demeanour and sometimes arrogant way. Her unpredictability and the sense that everything hangs by a thread. The fact that she’s been known to let people down, but for you, when she’s alone in your ears, inside your head, in the corner of your darkened bedroom, she’s everything you want and possibly more; a bruised angel. She sounds accidental, like she really shouldn’t be so perfect. And there’s that voice, unique in its laden, wounded, eyes-shut-tight delivery. There are no sharp edges, even when the words are. It’s soft like candlelight. It’s a voice that seems to leap forth from her mouth with considered urgency, only to be snatched away by an invisible hand a fraction of a moment later.
Only something’s different this time. The voice is still truly intact, but in a way that is all. The uncertainty has given way to something altogether more certain. The impression of living on her impulses, wavering on them in fact, has been replaced by a mellow conformation. She leads, there is no doubt whatsoever of that, but she’s leading full-bodied arrangements, band pieces augmented with brass and strings that don’t immediately scream her name because they could fit almost anybody. We’re reminded immediately of Rilo Kiley, Mazzy Star and traditional Motown templates, before we are Cat Power. There is little evidence of the spontaneity that has flavoured her previous work. But that said, these songs are undoubtedly still quite beautiful. Only how far below surface level we’re unsure.
As a showcase for her enchanting vocal though, this is at least adequate, sometimes better. ‘Where Is My Love’ purrs like a misty arrangement of Joni Mitchell and Karen Carpenter over gentle Tori Amos keyboard excursions, backed with subtle orchestral flourishes. ‘Lived In Bars’ is the same developed up into the heartbreak blues that the title hints at, much the same with ‘Willie’ and ‘After It All’, though the last does also have some pretty cool whistling to boot. ‘Empty Shell’ is traditional country that wouldn’t skip a beat if it had Ryan Adams up front instead, but you do always believe her voice, that’s what you hold dear. ‘Hate’ is more what we’re used to, with her pacing around in a bubble of pointed introversion over deftly struck chords, the kind of thing that influenced Scout Niblet’s eccentric musical exorcisms. Cat Power used to be a stepping-stone to her, now they stand more clearly apart, separated aspects. This is still a beautiful album, but she’s sacrificed her identity to get here. Perhaps just a little too much.