Really, all she had to do was carry on. Her eponymous 2005 debut was a delightful set of timeless folk ruminations with intriguingly fraught seams. It was not at all difficult to like. But things are never likely to be quite that straightforward when you have sprung from the midst of a veritable musical dynasty. So equally, whilst her quality threshold was and always will be a practical foregone conclusion as a result, so too are the wild expectations thrown at her constantly, clawing for something extraordinary, or at least a spat of inter-family rivalry, freakery or dirt. Anything. Many of these expectations were intrinsically unfair considering for one, the miniscule percentage of her audience that must have even an inkling as to the nature of her elders’ musical history (as distinguished as it might be), and for two, how comparisons with brother Rufus’ overstated flamboyance are as useful as contrasting a tambourine with a peacock on a carnival float. Just not helpful.
But turns out she has not just carried on, as would have been acceptable. Nor has she stretched in inadvisable directions, beyond herself or become a spectacle. The Martha Wainwright that emerges in 2008, now that the world knows her name, is one set on forwarding her artistry (and there is a sense that this is more than writing songs for her – listen to how she loses herself amid strings and Beatles-esque psychedelic arrangements in ‘Tower’), forging a strong, clean identity and sinking her fingers yet deeper into the idea of timelessness, in a context that everyone can grasp.
There is a broader pop tendency pushing through, and the likes of ‘You Cheated Me’ and ‘Hearts Club Band’ hook onto the slick country emotion of Fleetwood Mac and have clear mainstream appeal. There is a more fascinating depth slowly revealed beneath the surface though, which is what gives the album real value. ‘So Many Friends’ for example sucks blood from Alanis Morissette on one hand and Kate Bush on the other, while ‘Niger River’ quivers and ebbs, fluttering between peaks with eastern trace-like vocal qualities. These are not flippantly arranged stabs at expectation. This does make for a lack of instancy, there are no direct equivalents for the first album’s effervescent ‘Factory’ or audacious ‘Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole’, but she creates a place for her creativity to swim freely. And she can probably carry on doing that, on this encouraging form, for as long as she pleases.