| There's an odd incongruity between
Ripley Caine's live show and her latest CD, "Corvair...the EP." The
singer-songwriter's new disc is full of moody, haunted acoustic poetry; all dimmed light,
dissonance and unsettled imagery. In concert, however, Caine dons a permanent smile and
spreads her lively chatty charm about like a sort of stand-up poet with a lifetime of
funny stories and a unshakeably up demeanor.
So it was, at any rate, on May 13 at the uncommonly comfortable Uncommon Ground in
Chicago's Wrigleyville neighborhood. Caine easily staked her claim on the affection of a
highly spirited roomful of trendily clad boho twentysomethings. Her actress' flair and
folkie's authenticity had as much to do with her success in wooing the audience as her
sleek, powerful alto and oddly tuned acoustic guitar. Bedecked in Midwestern downhomeyness
and a second city humility, Caine lends credence to Chicago's reputation as a wellspring
for unpretentious artists. Rather than hiding behind the sulky standoffishness of the
Seattle stereotype or
the Too-Sexy-for-My-Cattiness Caricature of the East and West Coasters, Caine simply makes
friends with her audience, introducing several songs with self-deprecating
autobiographical tales and raffling off free promotional stuff like the emcee at some
bohemian bingo parlor.
She even grinned straight through the most achingly angst-soaked of her new songs,
"Want it More." As she and her able drummer, Steve Langelau, flailed their way
through the song's aggressive dissonant strumming and gratingly strident, bitter verses,
Caine shrieked "made it on who you know, made it on who you blow" and never
dropped the smile. Afterwards she explained she couldn't stop smiling because in past
shows she always seems to be staring directly at someone's toddler as she sings that line.
But the smile never quite goes away, somehow defusing any angst overload with a lack of
self-seriousness.
The CD is not quite as successful in obviating the overload. But the 3-dimensional sound
quality, masterful use of reverb and evocatively sparse production put the emotion in
exactly the right context.
Comparisons to other artists do not readlily suggest themselves in Caine's music. I'm sure
she frequently attracts references to the Indigo Girls and Ani DiFranco with her strong
female vocals and somewhat overserious lyrics. But the esoteric imagery lies somewhere
closer to Suzanne Vega or Joseph Arthur, with a greater dose of unpretentious
autobiography. The unusual chords further complicate the search for analogies.
The disc's richest song is "Corvair," an achingly nostalgic snippet of musical
memory swathed in larger-than-life, cinematic acoustic guitar and an emotionally
transporting entanglement of ornamental violin. "Is this what I came back for?,"
Caine sings over the reverberating fractals of Zach Brack's delicate bowing. "Can't
see the faces that I saw before. A year of reckoning. A time to awaken: 1994."
It's difficult not to share Caine's bittersweet nostalgia for the year, even if one has no
idea what caused the rift--emotional or geographic--between herself and her friends.
The song is just too short, as is "It's Getting Late," a similarly haunting
little acoustic poem. Perfectly decorated by the unsettling apathy of the sleepy
instrumentation, the lyrics relate in bits and pieces a numbing nightmare of emotional
paralysis and pathos. In fact, the whole EP is too short. A few additional tracks blending
the dissonance with the ever-so-slight uplift of a little more melody would make for a
killer hour of mellowness.
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