Tara Jane O’Neil — Where Shine New Lights (Kranky)
Not that you’d know it from listening. If most performances seem effortless coming from a stereo, O’Neil’s latest sounds inevitable, as natural and as spectacular as a sunrise. Five years gave her time to carve the excess from her songs and instill them with a fragile, suite-like continuity. They range from cloudy, barely-there instrumentals to pop songs painted in shades of white and shimmering yellow. One minute we hear a lilting voice and a sweetly plucked melody — at times accompanied by vibraphone, piano or violin, in one case by drums alone — the next we hear only a whispered tone held on a wire thin string, like a wisp of smoke drifting through the air. We’re carried away by it, sometimes into near shapeless abstraction, until the weight of the next song restores gravity and brings us back to earth. It’s as if the entire trip proceeded according to the laws of physics, not the whim of a songwriter.
That nine total musicians (counting TJO) could deliver such an unlabored album when it took half a decade to produce doesn’t necessarily break believability, except many of them never even stepped into the same room together. The five studios on the New Lights itinerary cover five different cities in three different parts of the country: California and Oregon, downtown and upstate New York, and Kentucky. Of its 12 songs, only one is truly solo O’Neil, and only one, a brief and richly colored instrumental, features more than three additional players. The majority of the songs utilize an ensemble of just two or three, but from the beginning to the end of the album not one of those ensembles repeats, not even once.
So where does that sense of ease come from?
It helps that the supporting cast is filled with talented musicians who know pop and rock music just as well as they know the improvised stuff. O’Neil has told interviewers in the past that she likes to work on her toes, and it’s reasonable to assume she asked her collaborators to make something up on the spot, without even a single rehearsal under their belt. Tim Barnes picks up the sticks and mallets on three songs here, just as he has done for the likes of Jim O’Rourke, Tetuzi Akiyama, and the Silver Jews. Corey Fogel, former member of The Mae Shi and Julia Holter’s percussionist for Loud City Song, adds his talents to a pair of tunes.
Three-quarters of the Ida core drop in too. Jean Cook alone has played with Evan Parker, Cecil Taylor, and Anthony Braxton. Here she adds “strings” and her voice to the mix; Dan Littleton and Elizabeth Mitchell play guitar, sing, and strike the pearly keys, and Ida Pearle pops in for two understated violin contributions. Anna Huff and, oddly, Wilder Zoby were called to the plate as well. It’s a dream band to have behind you, even if you can only have a few of them around at a time.
The other key resides, of course, in the strength of Tara Jane’s songs. They’re skeletal, bittersweet and exquisitely quiet — open enough to make the most of what her cohorts could offer, firm enough to have a semi-personal punch. When, during “Elemental Finding,” she sings, “We start alone and we go alone and sometimes together we shine,” it’s hard not to think of the dedication she gives in the liner notes. It’s a small list that begins with “in loving memory,” includes two former band mates and ends with a name that might be her father’s.
Yet the music is not dominated by grief. It’s too playful for that, a little too bright even when it sounds sad. Many of the lyrics are rubbed into a chalky blur anyway. They bubble to the surface only to evaporate in a steamy plume of half-heard vowels. If something private exists there, the grooves of the record hide it just as well as they hide everything else.