You’ve likely lost count of the amount of times some straight-laced authority figure has reiterated the importance of having something to fall back on through your life, particularly when regaling them with your latest harebrained career-building (or career-avoidance) tactic. A waste of time, you must have thought, when plan A is all but guaranteed! Joining a hitherto-unmanageable rag-tag 20-strong happy-clappy psychedelic pop orchestra in regulation quasi religious clobber is one such decision unlikely to gain immediate parental blessing.
St Vincent, aka Annie Clark, has played guitar and sung for The Polyphonic Spree – also racking up hours in Sufjan Steven’s band – which are both kudos winning moves from our perspective. And yet still, with the emergence of her debut solo album ‘Marry Me’, she proves she’s put in the hard work too and strung up that safety net, strung it up good and proper. It’s not exactly a foundation course in accounting, but it is quite brilliant and as close as you’re likely to get to a sure thing. Unexpected, you might think, when the overriding impression of the ‘Spree isn’t of individual contributions, but rather of willing wide-eyed pawns in place to realise cult leader Tim DeLaughter’s delirious vision. Not that this isn’t delirious either, because it really is, seeing probably even more stars than DeLaughter at points.
The stature of female singer-songwriters of late has been especially high; Feist, Joanna Newsom, Joan As Police Woman, Bat For Lashes and the veritable active old guard of Cat Power, Bjork and PJ Harvey, but St Vincent sails under, around and occasionally above the bar in a teasing psychedelic bubble, sheathed with that ever-changing soapy distortion that bubbles that hold their shape have. These are not at all lonely songs of contemplation, introverted or coy; they are pert, shape-shifting bonsai pop vistas, full of drama, delivered with the wide-tonsiled theatricality of a 1950 Hollywood musicals. Tie a line between Kate Bush, The Beatles and Judy Garland and then swing from it till you feel dizzy and slightly elated.
The closest reference point is probably Bat For Lashes, the opening track ‘Now Now’ attests to that; ritual rhythms, organic instrumentation fluttering independently, fairy vocals, a sensual massage overall. But where Natasha Khan rides the waves, Annie Clark seeks to control them. This is a very definite record. ‘Paris Is Burning’ has the commanding sterility of Portishead and Beth Gibbons, waltzing, in another century. ‘What Me Worry’ is in a different century too, but just the last one, with cinematic snow-capped swing jazz deliciousness, merged into alt-country and ‘Space Oddity’ sound effects with ‘All My Stars Aligned’. ‘Apocalypse Song’ is like an old Simon & Garfunkel song remote controlled from the mothership by Wayne Coyne. It’s a complicated record, but an instantly satisfying record of great depth. Fall out of one song and you’ll fall straight back into the arms of another. And that sounds like a sound insurance to us.