Anna Calvi
Anna Calvi

THE REVIEW

I am superficial, I admit it.

And as a good superficial person, one day, I don’t know where, as the cover of this album passed before my eyes, I had a flat impression of it.

Do I judge by the cover? Yes, usually it is the first thing that pierces what we call “feeling,” and in this case, I couldn’t help but associate two red lips and a red dress with something sexually non-alien, and thus corrupted, commodified, prostituted. And that's what appears on the cover. So you expect the usual little thing writhing and trying to extract money from the eye sockets of lustful teenagers. 

But, let me say, I am superficial.

Cutting short all that could be the context revolving around this new artist (2011), which doesn’t matter, I proceed to redeem my error in front of you, and to honor this substantial artist.

The debut is prophetic: a solitary guitar heroically casts its warm and shaky notes into infinite spaces, desert oceans, and radiates between the molecules of oxygen, while among the common mortals, empty cities materialize, built with such poor wood yielding among the cracks of desolate lands bordering the sky (Rider To The Sea).

It feels like one must detach from earth to whirl with the sandy dust over some distant crevice, when a swaying rhythm, marked by the soft plucking of the strings in the surrounding air, becomes the crowning of a soft and almost slithering voice, a whisper of sweet lust that hisses temptingly and becomes a soft and suggestive wail, made of boredom and sweltering immobility broken by the caresses of a fragile and hypnotic being (No More Words).

The voice becomes more assertive and engraves the ear with less bland and idle rhythms, moving at a quickening pace between the cracks of a more resolute drum, a voice that becomes exteriorized power and imposes itself with great mastery while not abandoning that sort of touching yet resolute lament, tinged with feminine determination and intransigence, ruler of an elusive world (Desire, Suzanne & I).

 The reality to be shaped dematerializes again into a restless yet sweet turning over between the sheets of a bed emptied of all love, and the cry does not lose balance with the advance of a furious desperation, oscillating between titanism and bitter weeping (First We Kiss).

Dreams break through, the metaphysical vision that circularly reprises the guitar that shaped space at the beginning of the record, this time accompanied by the voice that becomes its perfect bride, a cosmic union between flickering flames and an ocean of motionless water, tongues of fire that amplify and burn breaths, increasingly assertively, with commanding infernal vigor, a silky roar of a Hell made of souls damned for not having loved God, but one of his creatures (The Devil).

 The awakening is sudden and quick, the drum resumes haranguing the crowds, with a voice that becomes more attentive in calibrating the steps of its run which has become sudden and necessary, a run that does not leave too much space for tonal color, but rather seeks something empirically attainable (Blackout).

The melody becomes more eloquent and the guitar regains space flanked by a voice once again penetrating, but this time etched into the night air of a metropolis adorned with raindrops balanced on the ledges, under which passes a figure of pale spectrality wrapped in a long coat made of awareness, speaking to the masses of air it displaces with words of candid revolt (I’ll Be Your Man).

 A door opens to a room irradiated by the lazy morning sun, gently caressing the arms not protected by the greedy sheet of a girl the night covered in darkness, who now sings a melody of faint resignation, singing to the patient sun her wrong suffered, asking back the moth wings broken by the unyielding wind of the stars (Morning Light).

The epilogue could only be the charismatic dominance of a voice that over the course of an album lasting a lifetime has been stained with cruel awareness, which it mitigates with the maternal caresses of its voice, remaining untouched in its youthful aestheticism. The rhythm becomes darker and for a moment it seems that silence has snatched the banner of triumph with a ruthless blow; steps and metallic cheers rolling in anguish can be heard. But the voice bursts forth again, a ship with white sails blowing a kiss on the forehead of the castaway surrendered to the waves, transforming from an imposing vessel into a glorious vision, seraphic, a shining archangel wielding a sword made of torn illusions, of cradling dreams, of red lips and red dresses (Love Won’t Be Leaving).

                                                                                                          *** 

The rating reflects a linear performance of the disc, which despite its sublime sweetness, does not explode into unexpected peaks, which would grant it formal perfection. It is therefore a disc, an artist that involves sensorially and psychologically maintaining the emotional tone at high levels and forever vibrant in its tender power.

The triadic division Rider To The Sea, The Devil, Love Won’t Be Leaving (moments of particular instrumental intensity [in the first case] and vocal [in the second and third], punctuates the work with elegance and makes it less instinctive and roughly immediate. The alternation of soothing and vigorous tones structures the overall rhythm with extraordinary versatility avoiding any type of monotony, despite the not excessively varied tonal multiplicity overall.

A disc that would need not such an inconsiderate (and possibly pathetic) description, because it is decidedly a sweet anomaly from any perspective one views it.

 ° Forgive my verbosity, but it is my first review and I don't know how to regulate myself regarding length. I tried to cut as much as possible, but I believe it was useless.