Lori Carson
The Finest Thing

THE REVIEW

I live a few meters from a river. To tell the truth, in thirty years of constant moves, I've always been near bodies of water. Whether they were streams or tributaries, the river is to me like the sea for an islander: rejuvenating, consoling. In a word: necessary. For this reason, an album like "The finest thing," despite deviating significantly from Lori Carson's usual narrative context, didn't catch me off guard. Quite the opposite.

Never before has the language of the New York singer-songwriter, a constant collaborator with great sonic educators such as Bill Laswell, Graeme Revell, or Anton Fier, confronted that praise of satisfying slowness that lights up whenever I approach "that" river.

It's not that she has ever been a great pasionaria. Lori has always played and sung delicately, putting her vocals and lyricism at the disposal of great musicians (let's remember the Golden Palominos of "Pure" 1994). On her own, she has always been able to create delicate sketches, so discreet that almost no one has wanted to notice them (but for those interested, besides the reviewed album, I would recommend her Best of "Stolen Beauty" or "Where it goes" from 1995).

In this latest (truly last) studio work, Lori has wanted to retreat further into her cocoon, letting minimal vocalizations and aquatic guitars outline the course of a "background" music, panoramic, never intrusive. Music where the idea of a song is completely subverted in favor of eight-minute suites capable of transporting the listener into dreamlike and perfectly alien spaces.

Without major shocks, Lori's voice tends to murmur, whisper, distill words sometimes incomprehensible, just for the pleasure of being fleetingly captivated. Just like when on the shore, observing the constant advance of a wave, suddenly a branch falls, and you, along with it, are sucked into the whirlpool.