Weyes Blood
Cardamom Times

Sumner Mering. Singer and guitarist, with an obscure career as a session man (often uncredited, naturally) in late '70s and early '80s Los Angeles. He too recorded his own album, though. Just one. In 1980. Released by Asylum (quite a label) and simply called Sumner. Produced by Jack Nitzsche, the same producer of Neil Young and many others. On the cover, a handsome pose reminiscent more of Stewart Copeland than Sting (whose last name is also Sumner). On the grooves, an adult rock of more than decent quality. In an indeterminate territory halfway between Steely Dan and the power-pop of the Cars. It naturally ends up forgotten. Except for a few maniacs of certain ultra-rare vintage AOR. Nothing more is known about him, except that he leaves music because concerts and success are not for him (there was no real danger there, to be honest…) and chooses the path of Faith. Without the internet, I wouldn't even know he existed.

He would have deserved something more.

Years and years later, two of his children appear on the scene. Both talented, and not just a little.

He is called Zak, and is a small shabby Todd Rundgren in low fidelity. He records a handful of pieces and more than one album under the name Raw Thrills, playing almost all the instruments. Rarely above 2/3 minutes, and they are listened to with immense pleasure.

She, Natalie, goes by Weyes Blood and embarks on a completely different path, one that leads to an arcane folk laid on soft modulations and acoustic suspensions. Both ecstatic and subtly haunting, aided by a declared passion for all that is esoteric, oriental and alternative to the conservative (and somewhat gray) orthodoxy of her parents. There is an interesting interview about it. Naturally introverted, she reads about as much as she composes music.

Already a repertoire of some substance, despite her very young age. But the present four-track EP, released a few weeks ago and the result of the most spontaneous home session imaginable, sounds even purer and more essential than her previous work ‘The Innocents’ from a year ago. Soprano voice growing in maturity—deep, solemn, loaded with expressiveness on every syllable of singing. Yet even more exalted by the perfection of every detail. The organ in ‘In The Beginnings’, for example. Magnificent, touching if preferred. The one in the hieratic 'Take You There', the sole accompaniment for the voice over nearly 8 mesmerizing minutes. The flute in ‘Cardamom’, far from any shadow of stereotypical Celtism, and the vaguely Jethro Tull-esque in ‘Maybe Love’, a ballad that on ‘Songs From The Wood’ would have found space—except for the angelic choir (or are they ghosts?) that emerges in the second part, a soft cushion for evolutions that concede nothing to the predictable.

Never an accent of easy nostalgia, never a note of banal sweetness, never does the dream—of a timeless place—interrupt.

It's the trance of someone who is elsewhere, away from here. Far away.