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| Allison Moorer - Mockingbird |
| Written by Kev Acott | |
  Doing It For Themselves: Moorer Gives Us Pride, Passion and Cat Power. In a musical world in which the political- the expression of real people’s desires and real people’s demands for change and freedom- has been buried under corporate mock-rebellion and rampant celebrophilia, it feels odd to find some of the most overtly anti-war, anti-corporation stuff coming from a genre seen (not entirely erroneously) as hideously conservative and protective of the status quo. And yet country music- at least at its multi-racial borders with blues, folk and soul- has continued to maintain a sense of decency, class-awareness and a desire for progress built on respect for the past. Rock, r’n’b and reggae meanwhile have- it so often seems- sold their own legacy down the river. Maybe ‘modern’ music has just moved beyond sloganeering and us v them, maybe it’s more sophisticated now in its oh-so-bloody-knowing, post-modern, 'classless' way. Maybe. And maybe it doesn't matter: more significant, perhaps, is the fact that some of the most powerful music across all genres has been stuff where the personal is political and the political is personal; every aspect of this vital, incendiary strand of contemporary culture- from who’s making it to what they’re doing and how they’re doing it- has been about change- influencing, demanding, forcing an alteration in hearts and minds and behaviour. 'Political' music may rarely be lyrically overt anymore- in a Guthrie, Baez, Marley, Gaye, Clash, Specials or Sly way- but at its best, its desire for something more imbues every word of every line sung, every note played with promise and potential. Which is- you may have guessed- the case here. In many ways, actually, Mockingbird seems to bridge the overtly and the covertly political, to disintegrate the boundaries between the two. There’s a clear message behind its twelve songs by twelve female songwriters- its interlinking, overlapping narratives of change are aware and demanding and analytical- yet it’s fabulously personal and passionate. It’s the redemptive story of a woman- Allison Moorer- who overcame a death-black, bleakly traumatic childhood to become a singer and songwriter of integrity, imagination and humour; it’s a collection of tales and pleadings and cries of the women who’ve overcome the resistance, mockery and abuse of men in the music business and the reluctant opening up- and shutting-down- of the two pre-defined boxes they’ve traditionally been allowed to fit into (marked, as Moorer says, ‘whirly twirly girl’ and ‘too-angry raging woman’). Mockingbird is a document of intimate and universal sung-stories- passionate, oppressed, sexual, spiritual, redemptive- of women in love with and yearning for and moving on from men. It is, ultimately, a record of resistance and liberation. The most successful songs- as ever in Americana- are the sparest, the sparsest, the rawest, those with the least fuss, the least production between singer and listener: (male) collaborator Buddy Miller is an empathic and restrained partner and the musicians are sensitive and strong, supportive and largely unobtrusive as Moorer’s beautifully flexible, firey and soulful voice speaks and sails and soars . . . The least successful tracks- Ring Of Fire, say and Patti Smith’s Dancing Barefoot (which verges on a rocky-bluesy-punky outtake by Smith herself, so close does it feel to the original and so hidden seems Moorer herself)- lose themselves at times in a tentative over-reverence, but end up interesting, compassionate and engaging nevertheless. The album starts slowly, gradually building textures and histories from the nice, neatly melodic, though slightly-functional Mockingbird (Moorer’s own composition) and that less than convincing, tentative Ring Of Fire via wonders like Kate McGarrigle’s heart-tearing Go, Leave, a breathtaking version of Joni Mitchell’s profound, playful, affectively paper-thin and astonishingly confessional Both Sides Now and through to Gillian Welch’s hypnotic The Revelator. It finishes with Jessi Colter’s I’m Looking For Blue Eyes, a song which, in the light of Moorer’s own parents’ death and the fact this was the first song her father taught her, captures and pushes out an almost unbearable blend of hurt and hope. Along the way, there's country- of course- but there’s also theatrical nu-folk (Cat Powers’ Where Is My Love?) and old-blues (Ma Rainey's primeval, Steve Earle-driven Daddy Good-bye Blues) and slow-soulful MOR (sister Shelby Lynne’s scarred and lonely She Knows Where She Goes is made transcendentally wonderful by Moorer’s torn, tearful vocals). June Miller’s creeping, threatening, embracing, tentatively-optimistic The Orphan Train sounds like every working-class American song ever written rolled into one- both familiar and right-now-new- while Nina Simone’s I Want A Little Sugar In My Bowl is about as good as anyone who’s not Nina Simone could make it. So the musical and lyrical message of this album is as strong, as political, in its way, as the rage-blues of Steve Earle or Woody Guthrie or early Dylan or the Dead Kennedys. Yet it calls from different places and different times. The fact that Moorer’s married to Earle, now, of course, suggests further ways to understand the whole thing (and given his track record with life and relationships, there should be plenty of material for Moorer's follow-up to this album) and takes us away from any narrowly feminist slant. But let's leave all that alone: this is, fundamentally, a bunch of songs that acknowledge life's crapness while making it better. And that's politics. Release date: 18/02/08 Artist website: www.allisonmoorer.com Label: New Line  (0) comments - discuss in the forum |
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