It’s been a full ten years since 2000’s Mercury-nominated Little Black Numbers and in that time Kathryn Williams spun one wispy yet deceptively strong web after another. Sentiment heavy but often full of witty observations about love and the patently daft tapestries it weaves, her light scouse drawl curls around the hurdy-gurdy of life in the North. But something’s changed. The coy and callow girl who sang about loving John, Paul, George and Ringo and never having anyone to take her home is now building the kind of sharp, weary and wintry ships ordinarily found in the harbours of cynical old mavericks like Costello and Robert Wyatt. New album, The Quickening is a little bit darker, a little bit chillier and the arrangements, decked with a slightly tickly selection of ukuleles, pianos, harmoniums, violins, xylophones and shuffly, brush-heavy rhythms, recall the salty old sea shifts of folks like James Yorkston and Dot Allison.
Whilst old fans may find no small amount of shy and withdrawing delight in William’s trademark ‘craving’ songs, the rest of us a more crusty maturity in ’50 White Lines’ and ‘Winter Is Sharp’ which have all the dark, ruby will as a crate of rum and all the quiet fury of a thousand fiery, sparks.
Recorded live at Bryn Derwen Studio in North Wales in just four days, with a self-imposed limit of three takes per song, and without her band members having heard any of the songs beforehand, The Quickening has the kind of volatile urgency not commonly associated with Williams, making it the loveable lass’s most direct and assertive release to date. It’s bold now, as well as beautiful, as only a woman with six-hungry children and a battleship of socks to clean can be
For once, Kathryn Williams shows no shortage of balls for a lass.