Review Summary: My idea of heaven and a pistol by my side
In the five years since the release of her debut
Refuge Cove, one thing has become clear: any discussion of Grace Cummings’ music starts and ends with her voice. A searing contralto with almost preternatural resonance, describing the singular character and surprising versatility of Cummings’ voice to someone who hasn’t heard it is a nigh-on futile affair. Sure, there are shades of possible influences in there — the smoky sussurations of Nico and Joni Mitchell’s mellifluous vibrato are two touchstones — but whether hushed to a vulnerable sough, or stoked to an awesome (in the original sense) bellow, Cummings’ voice, and the perspicacity and assiduousness with which she employs it, render the young Melbournian almost incomparable to any other contemporary artist.
With a voice as striking as Cummings’ then, the success or failure of her music to connect with an audience invariably hinges on the quality of the arrangements built around it. That is, if Cummings’ voice is a bullet, packed tightly against incendiary propellant, just waiting for the hammer to fall, her music is the firearm with which she delivers her payload. To be clear, Cummings’ voice alone would be enough to elevate
St. Anger,
Chuckles and Mr. Squeezy,
Man of the Woods or even
American Life to captivating, essential listening. Nevertheless, though sophomore effort
Storm Queen’s austere, minimalist backings fostered a sense of intimate propinquity between artist and audience at their best, the limitations of the focus on purposefully sparse acoustic guitar meant that the songwriting could occasionally come off as half-cocked.
In response,
Ramona files off the safety, loads up a full magazine, points the barrel straight between your eyes, and dares you to blink.
“Something Going ‘Round” opens the show with a salvo of booming kick drums and muted electric bass bustling through a restless anacrusis before settling down to underpin a backdrop of swirling organ and reverent piano for Cummings to stride into the limelight atop. As strings, brass and a choir gingerly enter behind her, Cummings plays it straight, her restrained crooning bearing more than a passing resemblance to
Born to Die era Lana Del Rey with a sprinkling of latter-day Weyes Blood. It isn’t until two minutes into the slow burn that Cummings’ voice first swells, briefly adopting her characteristic rasp as she describes considering begging for tobacco. From here, all bets are off, and the next three minutes see Cummings repeatedly inch towards a full-throated roar before demurring at the last second, playing with the building tension like a cat batting a terrified mouse about, until finally going in for the kill and sparking off an extended crescendo.
And that’s just track one. Consider it a warning shot.
Musically,
Ramona’s commodious, resplendent arrangements see Cummings diving head-first into baroque pop, soul and gospel music from a board made of 70s-style wood grain panelling. Far from fulfilling the fear of overshadowing or crowding out her vocal contortions and filigree wordplay implied by the spartan accompaniment of previous efforts, the bombast and grandeur afforded to cuts such as the grandiose title track and the angular, bluesy waltz of “Everybody’s Somebody” sets Cummings up for bullseye after bullseye across the album’s runtime. Elsewhere, “I’m Getting Married To The War” shifts from a quirky throwback to 00s indie folk to a cacophonous, exultant climax on a hair-trigger, and the country-soul tinged “Common Man” sets bar-bursting singalongs squarely in its sights.
That’s not to say that Cummings doesn’t know when to hold fire on
Ramona either though — “Work Today (and Tomorrow)” for the most part restrains itself to tender string arrangements while Cummings examines her bullet wounds, while the misty-eyed “Without You” sees acoustic guitar called in to negotiate a brief ceasefire for Cummings to reload for the next fusillade. By the time penultimate piano ballad “A Precious Thing” finds itself in the chamber, one may be forgiven for expecting Cummings to end the proceedings by holstering her weapon — that is, until she instead opts to suddenly shoot up into the stratosphere with seconds to spare, dehiscing with all the effulgence and fury of a homemade firework.
If
Refuge Cove was the pop of a starting shot echoing over her musical career,
Ramona is by comparison the roar of a twenty-one gun salute for an artist who has truly arrived. By this time selecting sweeping, vibrant orchestration as her weapon, Cummings pairs her inimitable voice with music equally as theatrical, to devastating result.
Ramona is an album without misfires or dud rounds, and Cummings, ever the straight shooter, wields it flawlessly.
