Listeners often only have two choices when it comes to the offspring of musical parents. On the one hand, we get Sean Lennon and Teddy Thompson whose lineage, while not promising greatness, at least affords them the opportunity to be heard. On the other hand, listeners are also served the likes of Lisa Marie Presley, Wilson Phillips, and to a lesser extent, Jakob Dylan. Rare is the occasion of finding one child whose talent promises to both reach and surpass that of his parents. Rufus Wainwright is one such example. Rarer still is it come across a family that boasts two such gifted offspring.
Back in 1998, when Martha was opening for her brother Rufus on the road, she displayed a willingness to let her songs take her where they wanted to go, often allowing the work to overwhelm her in the process. That difference between the two then was a marked surety. But on her first full-length album Martha Wainwright, she makes it clear that comparing her to Rufus would be doing her musicianship and her songwriting a terrible disservice. The strength of the set is Martha’s ability to lend her voice the emotion necessary to effectively articulate her material. Where a less capable singer might be heard bleeding all over her swelling rhythms, set opener “Far Away” showcases Martha’s knack for blending controlled lyricism and voice with visualization. As “green grass blades are all on fire,” layered vocals swell and retract as a wind would upon rolling hills. Nor does she stray from less pastoral vistas, allowing the pronounced drawl of “Ball & Chain” to take us down, presumably someplace where flowers clash with earth, only to jolt us out of our complacency with emotion bared loud, fiery, wild, and raw. That the force of this record is driving is not in doubt. If we grow comfortable with her drifting warble, she’ll come right at us with anger and vigor. Bringing the listener full circle on “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole,” a song intended for her father Loudon Wainwright III, a deeply personal and effacing Martha excises whatever she can, and because she does so in that cracking, soaring, little girl voice, we can do nothing but agree and forgive. It must be a terrible pressure to bear the expectations of a family as creative as Martha’s, but she succeeds. Martha Wainwright’s voice manages to work as well with traditionally folk material as it does with rockier fare. And so the record itself is an eclectic mix, but you get the impression that if it were anything else, it would only be stunted. |