I mentioned Annie Eve cap-hasually as part of a post on ‘Expressive Lyrics’, about a week ago. Since then, I have been harvesting a whole field of potatoes (sorting out rotten ones from good ones) and slept soundly each night. Indeed, on that sporadic mentioning, it does seem that the only way to present you this Annie Eve to a further, more insightful extent, is to produce the vital contexts of my previous /time/ that she has configured meaningfully with music, whether that was headphones/ipod, other people’s speakers, or those loud speakers of my past bedroom that I have grown to loathe. I should also mention now that this is a pre-amble of appreciation to the album that she released this summer; I haven’t listened to the album in its entirety yet. I am excited about doing so when the time comes. In fact, my initiation to Eve was 8 months ago, via a live recorded session she did on Daytrotter. This session etched itself, moulded shapes, indented on the soft stuff of a head, mine, and there it still remains, played regularly, tired rarely, awake and awash, clean and collected: I have clutched onto 3 songs of hers and listened accordingly, finding myself increasingly ready to purchase and hear her whole big deal album (and prior EPs) to waste hard on the /time/ ahead.
You can’t listen to and download the Daytrotter songs unless you are a member, this is something we have been, it is true luxury, do it. So, below, I have salvaged adequate analogs, although not quite the Daytrotter versions I am used to, via streams, whose logic, institutions and pretexts you can find out very easily. Annie Eve has, before this debut album, released to my knowledge two EPs called Annie Eve EP (ft. Elvis and Bodyweight) and Feversome EP (ft. Shuffle).
So let me recollect a wax-work model for the three songs I know very well:
Empty pockets and a raw hollow gullet, a bedroom stripped of warm walls, a still dead tongue, and a violent crashing through the ears of brittle breathes, preceding each sweet soft succumbing howl. I scramble, my fingers, against the keyboard of my door, knowing no-one can truly hear this thing, this other girl in the cellar speakers. She’s all “I feel like if if i ain’t careful, then baby you won’t be careful” and I’m all stitched with skin threads, needles aching slowly out of my sides. Somehow it’s an overwhelming therapy, a counselling crash course perhaps, a crowd of empty chairs full of past boys and girls bearing their scarry insides. But something else notes: the strings, of a girl’s spinning-top voice and the guitar it just balances, they note longly, pulled significantly by the dropped-head rhythm, a gravity of blue ripe blood-pumps, spurning wise life & low warmth; it’s something less exposed, a moulded 4×4 cube with curved caring edges. Something to fit my empty room within, without stress.
A train of thought disappears quickly, a thicket, a forest, the rows of pylons, the botched garden-views, the thinness of a snake’s tailing off; the train hisses and chokes, way after you no longer see it. And so it is, Eve’s recorded haste, as she heads the sea, legging it to a hide of surged and rippling sheets. Lifting a finger to my ear, her song transforms my train into its vague humble forlorn living inverse, and leads me along to the ground I keep trying to take me feet off. Some rhythm that frees, a moment of lyric exposed for the beautiful murky water it is, sincerely too, seeping from the soil, through the tracks. Slowly, through the snare of upward pace, I sense a chunk of vital organ emerging in my windpipe; something I thought I’d lost a while ago on some forgotten platform. I listen again and it thumps me once more on the back.
This one, the only one of the three to be featured on the debut album, is terrifically difficult to relay. It’s a maze to reciprocate a fraction of it’s combined components (as similar in matter to the above-mentioned), simply because it is in my mind an utter whole, complete, a number 1, of which there is no reciprocal. I couldn’t even quote lyrics to muster the sweats it harks under my skin. The context? I was humbled from a feelingless canvas, somewhere in a city, onto true white space, a cosmography, a ‘special place’, in palms, over the goosebumps, far away, a city within and withheld. There, we got there!
And, so here ends another post, although this one more than most, trying to do justice to meaningful times and the musician who makes them so. Moreover, with this fresh post, I relinquish the stench of 156 rotten potatoes from the cellar of my speakers.
I leave you with a link, if you wish to remain on the internet, and not only that but to return to Facebook (well worth the like).
A review of Annie Eve