Review Summary: {Silent hymns of sorrow}
I have a vision of myself as a timid young junior high school student in art class, learning how to construct a drawing only by tracing the negative contours of an object; thus, gaining the insight that most of our sensory perceptions are,
a priori, determined by the elements of space, depth and shadow. The resulting product of the assignment was the image of a chair. Likewise, Essie Jain’s
We Made This Ourselves forms its musical shape through the negative contours of its object, resulting in an image of
herself; which is, thankfully, more impressive than my chair.
That being said, Jain’s album can much better be described by what it is
not. Thin on instrumentation, and lacking in vertical density,
We Made This Ourselves has all the characteristics of an album that, well…someone would make themselves. The modest debut was recorded within the confines of her Lower East Side Manhattan apartment, with a handful of inexpensive microphones, and some crafty production. The result is something intensely personal. Although the lyrics are woefully lacking in any sense of gregarious spontaneity or playful social dialogue, this in turn becomes the context of its hidden charm. You see, unless you were afforded the opportunity to see her perform, chances are that you discovered Essie Jain through a close friend, who handed you a copy of the album along with a delicately enchanting review. In due time, you then became captivated yourself on a long drive home, overtaken in a brief moment of vulnerability. It is, perhaps, no twist of fate that Essie Jain was destined to be carried by the forces of intimacy, somewhere in between the redeeming spaces of grace and regret.
Unfortunately, because I am also touched by these forces, I run the risk of becoming too personal and losing all editorial objectivity; however, Jain’s album was not one that was borne out of such austerity. I am drawn to Essie Jain’s music because; in an ideal sense, she is not a woman that I have ever known. Jain sings with a poised clarity that sounds too sensible to border on the mournful side. While musically, one might be quick to note comparisons to Irish troubadour Damien Rice, her lyrical subtlety cuts deeper by sidestepping the transparent angst and pleading tone that characterizes his music. For brief moments, such as the rubato opening of “Talking”, I catch glimpses of Joni Mitchell; yet Jain accomplishes greater feats without the use of vocal gymnastics and clever turns-of-phrase. As the track drives effortlessly towards the refrain, Jain’s voice begins to melt as it oozes over broad piano strokes, unfolding unto a dominant chord above unhurried, quasi-sloppy drum work, amounting to what sounds like an impromptu session from an early Pink Floyd B-side. Altogether, there is a Leonard Cohen-like patience in her vocal presentation that suggests years of poetic deliberation, as she carefully carves away all that is superfluous. On the album’s opening track, “Glory”, Jain gracefully laments, “I will rise up from the waters, where I’ve drowned”, as she confronts the need to forgive herself from the wounds of a dysfunctional relationship. God spare me the embarrassment of ever having to receive her with applause, because I would much rather lightly nod my head in resignation, and remove myself from her graces…
As her trusted mode of composition, Jain relies on the ostinato to form what will serve as the canvas for her one-word-titled creations. Often starting with an acoustic guitar or piano in its rawest element, the priority of her lyrics are confirmed through repetition of the musical subject, aided by the gradual addition of orchestral subtleties that are oftentimes painfully inaudible, as though she were to say, in a self-defeated manner, “If you didn’t hear me the first time, you weren’t really
listening.” Evidence of her British roots are unearthed as these minimalist structures evolve into a brief flurry of strings, triumphant horns, and percussive accents. “I am right behind you,” Jain assures her beloved in a tone that is stately; yet, painfully self-conscious - suggesting a steady loss of ground as her disinterested subject coldly removes himself from the situation. In turn, what should sound more like a bold proclamation of devotion ends up sounding more like a question…
…Which leads us to the central conflict of the album. After all the dragging, the pulling, the striving, the pleading - where does Jain leave her drunken subject? While the starkness of the album leaves the listener with an increased feeling of reflective anxiousness, such a question begs us to consider the fate of the artist herself. Is her lover left there to dwell there on the staircase, inhabiting the unswept crawlspaces of her memory? Do they continue onwards, fruitlessly pulling each other out of the mud of their shared ineptitudes? Where does the vicious circle of blame begin and end? Where is the line between self-serving love, and selflessness? Do the pangs of love merely perpetuate themselves in an all-consuming fire? As time might tell us, these are the heartbreaking details of a relationship that are oftentimes left unanswered. One can only hope to rise themselves up from the waters, and begin to fill in the contours with richness and color, as context gives shape to form, and vacant expressions turn, replacing them with fuller images of what we
are.
