When Brent sings a phrase, I experience the odd sensation that I’m hearing her voice slightly out of phase with the lyric. At the pause, everything comes back together. Now you might think that this fractures the overall effect but somehow it enhances it. There’s a slight bit of breathy roughness in Brent’s voice, a texture that it’s easy to lose yourself in. And so the complete story of a relationship gone wrong shows up a short moment after “When you said goodbye I knew that I would die alone.” This introductory line is made all the more powerful by the simplicity of the early arrangement, with Bronwynne’s voice supported only by light strings. “When You Said Goodbye” also features this devastating look back: “My lips were so soft then/and your kisses/were so very hard”. A story within a story right there.

To call Brent a singer/songwriter is to put her in a cage that just doesn’t fit. Though there are plenty of places onStardust that show her Mississippi Delta roots, the music here goes far beyond just voice and guitar. “The Mirror” does begin with just guitar and ghosty keyboards…”You have my heart/When we’re apart/I walk the night alone…” But then a full band rumba kicks in, a sort of greasy shuffle reminiscent of Rain Dogs-era Tom Waits. I don’t generally get the urge to crank up “folk” albums, if you know what I mean.

Elsewhere, we have an assortment of lovers and miscreants (sometimes in one song) showing up in a variety of musical contexts. “Lay Me Down,” a tale of yearning, is introduced with acoustic guitar, counterpointed with a nice single horn line. “Bulletproof” is a film-noir blues, sleazed up with some Farfisa organ. Invert the boy/girl relationship of “Don’t Tell Your Secrets To The Wind,” and it’s not difficult to imagine it coming from Harry Dean Stanton in an alternate version of “Paris, Texas.” The full-band slink on this one is just fantastic.
One of my favorite examples of my “lyric dislocation” thing comes during “Devil Again.” Beginning with a foreboding banjo and guitar, Bronwynne sings: “Have you ever loved someone so much/so much it hurt?”. When I return from that voice reverie, I realize that she’s completed the thought with: “Have you ever kissed the hand of death?/And held your breath?/Just held your breath?”. Devastating.

Stardust ends with “Marrying Kind,” the sort of lovely country ballad you wish were still played on the radio. It’s full of longing and regret, and almost makes you wish you could relive the delicate parts of your past. Or maybe I should just listen again; Bronwynne Brent’s voice might have distracted me.

The reflection of memories, understanding of sorrow and personal resilience in these songs is palpable. There’s the mournful fatalism of ‘The Mirror’, the salutary lessons of ‘Don’t Tell Your Secrets to the Wind’ and the depth of understanding in ‘Devil Again’ – each serving as milestones of involvement. You have to live such sensitivities to express them eloquently. And it’s the distinctive way that Bronwynne conveys those sensations that make them stay with you. The recurring shadows of ‘Dark Highway’ or deep-seated sadness of ‘When You Said Goodbye’ expose a raw bleakness that makes no concessions to easing you into their stories.

There’s a fascinating edge to these songs. They slice with the spell of a silent blade. Before you know it the cut runs deep and you’re sharing the places, people, memories and moments.

The cover art portrays Brent as a flower garlanded hippie songstress with an ever so slight resemblance to Joni Mitchell back in the days. However one listen to her voice and thoughts of Mitchell fly out the window as Brent has an earthiness that forever eluded Joni’s rarefied atmosphere. Instead Brent has that seemingly untutored and effortless way of singing that borders on the idiosyncratic with the weight of emotion on its shoulders. Immensely attractive and engaging Brent’s voice is in the tradition of singers like Billie Holiday, Karen Dalton, Melanie and Alela Diane while at times there’s even a hint of the late Amy Winehouse on the more up-tempo numbers here.

The beguiling vocals are the entree to the album’s pleasures but Brent proves to have a way with words as she sings of loss and despair for the most part. The songs portray abandoned women, betrayed, trying to find some comfort in their inner worlds but condemned to relive their tragedies in their memories. It’s not a happy album but happily Brent has embroidered her words with some exceptionally fine music which ranges from the glacial folk noire of Devil Again to the rustbucket blues of Bulletproof and the tombstone Mexicana of Lay Me Down. She’s ably assisted in this by producer Johnny Sangster’s guitar skills whether it be twangy reverb or country picking while the drumstool is occupied by the unmistakeable cool of Calexico’s John Convertino, reason enough some might think to pick up the album. Add to this the presence of anther Calexico cohort, Jon Rauhouse on pedal steel on several songs and the album’s pedigree is impeccable. Well recommended.

Recent months have been remarkable for releases by female artists who do something a little different.

We’ve been charmed by Laura Cortese’s string-driven lushness and ear for the narrative with the release of Into The Dark and stopped in our tracks by Liz Lenten and Auburn’s dramatic genre-amalgam Nashville. Now, from the Mississippi Delta, Bronwynne Brent places her second album Stardust before us, and it too makes that ‘sit up and listen’ demand.

Bronwynne confesses that “she enjoys a minor key” and whilst that may suggest downbeat melancholy, that’s not the overall impression left by Stardust. Rather, from the torrid tales of relationships gone wrong, promises broken and emotional betrayal, Bronwynne seems to derive some sort of resilient strength and fortitude.

“I keep my heart now deep inside

It left a scar I cannot hide

But I will live to love again”

she confides in us in ‘Don’t Tell Your Secrets To The Wind’, a drama-laden Jaques Brel-esque mid-album chanson, where a friend has snared her lover, the heartless strumpet.

Johnny Sangster brings the best from Bronwynne’s top class material via his production and sparing but sympathetic heavily-reverbed baritone guitar, and the arrangements are a delight, ranging from the syncopated Jerry Allison cardboard box drumming on ‘The Mirror’ to the lush, brooding strings of ‘When You Said Goodbye’.

The vocal delivery, though, is what overwhelmingly captures listener attention. From beginning to end Bronwynne bares her soul, her vulnerable resignation and wretchedness via a voice that is timeless in timbre and phrasing, recalling in turn Sarah Vaughan, Peggy Lee and the ill-starred Amy Winehouse, much better company to be in than some of the scoundrels who have broken her heart.

Bronwynne Brent – Stardust 

by MIKE DAVIES

in ALBUM REVIEW