home
***
CD-ROM
|
disk
|
FTP
|
other
***
search
/
TIME: Almanac 1995
/
TIME Almanac 1995.iso
/
time
/
011893
/
01189934.000
< prev
next >
Wrap
Text File
|
1994-03-25
|
4KB
|
84 lines
<text id=93TT2335>
<title>
Jan. 18, 1993: Reviews:Music
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
Jan. 18, 1993 Fighting Back: Spouse Abuse
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
REVIEWS
MUSIC, Page 60
Frets and Flourishes
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By RICHARD CORLISS
</p>
<qt>
<l>PERFORMER: SHAWN COLVIN</l>
<l>ALBUM: Fat City</l>
<l>LABEL: Columbia</l>
</qt>
<p> THE BOTTOM LINE: An urban folkie gets straight to the
heart with poignant ballads of remorse and resilience.
</p>
<p> One nice thing about female singer-songwriters is that
they don't have to pretend to be guys. Guy singers do. Dead
scared of being tagged sensitive, they get muscle-bound in
machismo; it cramps their style and muddies their palette. But
Annie Lennox or Bonnie Raitt or Mary-Chapin Carpenter can find
shading in passion, a smile in sorrow. Especially in sorrow. For
these artists, love is a thing felt most deeply when it's lost.
So their songs are mostly past tense: the awful stuff that
happened to them, the brave face they can put on it. They must
be survivors, because they sure can sing about what death feels
like. They were there; they're still here.
</p>
<p> With her second album, Fat City, Shawn Colvin earns entry
into this august group. For a start, she has a gorgeous voice
that ranges from the jazz phrasing of Anita O'Day to the
girlish soprano of primal folkie Carolyn Hester. Like her idol
Joni Mitchell, whose husband Larry Klein produced the album,
Colvin paints delicate word landscapes of analysand wonderlands.
Like Carpenter, who sings backup on the anthemic Climb On (A
Back That's Strong), Colvin, 32, has paid beaucoup dues,
working the Manhattan folk scene for more than a decade, in
between gigs singing jingles and touring in Pump Boys and
Dinettes. With Fat City she needn't worry about paying the rent.
Its 11 songs are strong, tuneful, as hard to shake off as a
wraith's visitation or a first love.
</p>
<p> But Colvin will worry; it's what she does for a living. It
makes Fat City a set mostly of frets and flourishes. Even the
perkiest number, the irresistibly Beatle esque Round of Blues,
hedges its best hopes ("I see lights in a fat city/ I feel love
again") by wondering if this buoyancy heralds "a new
breakthrough" or "an old breakdown." And in the soft, scary
Monopoly, about a departed lover, Colvin flays herself: "I'd
rather do anything/ Than write this song for you." She warns
herself not to soften the blow with irony: "Retreating behind
these lines/ The same old tongue in cheek/ Regretting that both
are mine." She swells into Faustian rage ("Imagine the nerve of
God/ Letting me let you in") before sinking with the admission
that "I would be anywhere/ Than here without you." This is
bitter poetry: passion recollected in futility.
</p>
<p> And then, at the end, she delivers a direct hit to the
heart. Colvin has already shown us how much she knows, so the
naked sentiment of I Don't Know Why startles: "I don't know why/
The sky is so blue/ And I don't know why/ I'm so in love with
you." The tune's long notes suggest a cathedral dirge, but in
the purity of Colvin's voice you'll hear an affirmation of hope
against reason, a declaration of faith in the unknown. It is the
boldness of a heart that has lived in dark places and is tougher
for the journey. And now it's in fat city, to stay.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>