Angel Olsen - An Indie Muse Out of Time

Half Way Home is a record that's perhaps still too bare-bones and monotone - tied as it is to the voice-guitar pairing, only occasionally chipped away at by incursions of bass and piano - yet open to everything it could become (and soon will): "It's known that the tiniest seed is both simple and wild," Angel Olsen warns on the closing "Tiniest Seed," almost prophesying the start of a great career.

Her name certainly began circulating with increasing insistence in indie circles, to the point that it was the renowned Jagjaguwar who released her second album. Burn Your Fire For No Witness (2014) marks a further step in Olsen's process of breaking free from the bare-bones folk dirges of her early work. Produced by John Congleton (Bill Callahan, St. Vincent) and written by the St. Louis singer-songwriter and guitarist for the first time in full-band form, the album was born out of a particularly vivid and instinctive session: ten fiery days in the deconsecrated church of Echo Mountain in Asheville, North Carolina, alongside drummer Josh Jaeger and bassist Stewart Bronaugh.

The result is a sound that's much richer, more abrasive and eccentric than its predecessors, even if still halfway toward the evolutions to come. To the original folk-country matrix are added hints of rock, garage, lo-fi and psych, while lyrically there's a notable attempt to break out of that cocoon of solitude - the comfort zone of her early work - to embrace more collective, if not universal, themes. A more "positive" spirit, in short, which is also reflected in a greater variety of interpretations.

The tracklist alternates between dirges that try to win you over with their maternal "vibrato" (the long, somewhat soporific "Enemy," the muffled, jazzy "Iota," the intense "Dance Slow Decades") and bolder experiments, in which the Missouri singer-songwriter explores new territory and tries to win you over on a wave of reverb, with the sarcastic outlaw country of "Hi-Five," playing with an attitude somewhere between the sulk of Scout Niblett (the unadorned, obsessive mumbling of "Unfucktherworld"), narcoleptic psych tones à la Hope Sandoval ("White Fire") and visceral suggestions close to PJ Harvey, as in the titanic "Stars," with its almost "pantheistic" breadth:

To scream the animals, to scream the earth

To scream the stars out of our universe

To scream it all back into nothingness

To scream the feeling ‘til there’s nothing left (…)

I’ll close my eyes and try to breathe for the world

The range of registers and styles she draws on grows with each track (the rough garage of "Forgiven/Forgotten," the Velvet Underground shades of the country ballad "Lights Out"). The listening experience benefits from this, giving an impression of greater eclecticism and originality, even if some tracks seem like they could explode at any moment without ever quite detonating, with Olsen trapped in a vaguely aching, visceral tone that spirals in on itself without ever finding release in a truly convincing melody.

Overall, though, Burn Your Fire For No Witness proves to be an interesting work, one that draws attention to the rebirth (if there had ever really been a recent decline) of female singer-songwriting, in its "slacker" guise or otherwise, confirming Olsen's relative authorial independence.

I want to die

right next to you

(from "Sister")

Scent of a Woman

Two years later comes My Woman (2016), the third album under the name Angel Olsen, which moves toward a decidedly more classic style, in a delicate balance with the American songwriter's idiosyncratic approach. Equally ambitious is the scope of the lyrics, which finally break free of the airless autobiographical dimension of her early work and open up into a genuine "commentary" on being a woman today, with a personal, unconventionally feminist slant in which pain and hope, fury and clarity, coexist: "Know your own heart well, it's the one that's worth most of your time" ("If It's Alive").

What immediately catches listeners off guard is the first single, the captivating "Intern": a Bush-esque number, with its final falsetto nursery-rhyme refrain, melodically "outlined" and instantly recognizable, built on lyrics that amount to one long melodramatic plea ("I just want to be alive/ make something real"... "Pick up the phone/ but I swear is the last time"). The Missouri songwriter nonetheless manages to hold on to her beloved "alternative" stamp, aided by a languid, grave chamber-music tone, as in the long, dreamlike manifesto of the enchanting "Woman", complete with lascivious vocalizing and a searing final electric guitar solo.

All of this brings out the "arranged" character of this third album, in which the calibration of the instruments seems calculated to the point of artifice, as do Olsen's ostentatious "breathy" deliveries - at times a touch syrupy - a latter-day Emmylou Harris who is nonetheless also capable of tapping into a furious rock fervor in the style of Patti Smith, her characteristic strangled cry stamping authentic guitar-driven rides like "Not Gonna Kill You" - certainly unthinkable at the start of her career (though not for anyone who had followed her teenage punk-noise formation).

What also remains is the original, pleasantly anachronistic imprint of her singing, which wraps itself around infectious Sixties power-pop tunes ("Never Be Mine"), nostalgic soulful ballads ("Those Were The Days"), vibrant Cat Power-style invectives ("Shut Up Kiss Me", rough and alluring at once; "Give It Up" with its psych guitar flourishes), and long (alt-)country diva tirades ("Heart-Shaped Face"), while the driving "Sister", with its dazzling embrace of two electric guitars, almost feels like a rock answer to Lana Del Rey. Closing things out is "Pops", with its aching tremolo, in the vein of old-time folk.

Overall, the songwriting grows sharper and the sound more robust, helped also by Emily Elhaj's full-bodied bass, which underpins Olsen's singing, especially on the longer tracks ("Woman", "Sister"). And this last factor matters more and more: the Missouri singer now has complete command of her vocal range, moving skillfully from mesmerizing whispers to guttural explosions, from soft lullaby tones to a vibrant rockeuse register. There's still a sense of a record pumped up in the studio with hefty doses of instrumental embellishment, but all told the listening experience is decidedly more welcoming. Moving easily from one style to another, Olsen proves to be more eclectic and well-rounded than ever, though she risks thinning out that hard core of desperate existential drama that made her earliest work so striking and affecting.

2017 brings Phases, the first compilation from the St. Louis songwriter, gathering rarities, B-sides, demos and outtakes, focused mostly on the more folk-leaning, intimate side of her output. Reverb and bare-bones lo-fi textures dominate (the fierce love-manifesto of "Only With You"), though there are also tracks that show fuller band support ("Special", "Sweet Dreams"). The tracklist also includes two covers, "Tougher Than The Rest" (Bruce Springsteen) and "For You" (Roky Erickson), plus a stripped-down rendition of "Endless Road", from the TV series "Bonanza", pared down to the point of nearly losing its Western epic quality. Worth noting too are "Fly On The Wall", already featured on the anti-Trump compilation "Our First 100 Days", and the previously unreleased "Special", left over from the sessions of her latest studio album.

I wish I could un-see some things that gave me life

I wish I could un-know some things that taught me so

I wish I could believe all that’s been promised me

(from "Chance")

Self-Portrait in a Mirror

A reflection of a breakup with anything but uplifting consequences, All Mirrors (2019) is the album that turns that experience into a grand meditation on the dark side that takes hold of our personalities, on change and the uncertainties that come with it, decked out in a lavish, dramatic language that makes the most of its striking orchestral arrangements, resulting in a record that is literally "larger than life". A genuine turning point, in a career already full of standout moments.

Initially recorded in the secluded setting of Anacortes, Washington, then revised through the orchestral contributions of Ben Babbitt and Jherek Bischoff, the album is the perfect embodiment of a divided soul, weary of past suffering and aware of present needs, yet still unsure which path to take. The result is a wavering narrative, at times suspended in tone, that reveals the full power of its statements through steep melodic explosions, rising surges of color, sudden compositional shoves. This is a lyrical approach that rewards the effort put into the arrangements, the imposing malleability of an orchestra that knows how to spare itself tear-jerking ballad flourishes and cinematic commentary, taking unexpected turns, with a sure, vintage-leaning touch that's nonetheless fresh, vital, never resting on dull clichés.

The two lead singles, strategically placed to open the record, already make clear the finesse of its executional mechanics, honed with enviable care. With two excellent arrangers coordinating things, and the involvement of a producer like John Congleton, a track like "Lark" escapes the fate of a precious overture thanks to its handling of sound, a continual losing and finding itself again that underlines the narrating voice's desperate search for escape and contemplation, the perfect closing of a finished relationship, recalled nonetheless with aching bitterness. The counterpart represented by "All Mirrors" (complete with a gorgeous video with Bush-like tones) is a veritable parable on time, the past relived and processed with ever more unbearable intensity; the melodic core, shifting between major and minor over the course of the song, sharpens its aching communicative charge in an inescapable climax of synths and string streaks, modulated almost gothically, reaffirming the power of events one cannot escape. Where "Too Easy" channels the bittersweet retro feel of early St. Vincent into an illusory emotional castle, "New Love Cassette" soaks a song lost in the conviction of an impossible love with Gainsbourg-esque echoes: the impetuous string interjections, set against long interpretive passages, almost hint at the mistaken nature of a conviction built on premises already betrayed.

Elsewhere the anger comes through more sharply defined: "What It Is" mirrors Olsen's rock past, amid whirling strings and insistent guitar drones, as self-mocking support directed at her own foolishness. "Tonight", carried on a slow swing beat, smooths out the dramatic grandeur of "Impasse" (the most tragic moment of the collection, marked by the violent use of instrumentation) and finally lets a glimmer of light through the tunnel, rediscovering a sweetness that seemed buried forever. While "Summer" sharpens its blades in the manner of the great American songbook, between the country-rock gallop of the chorus and the synthetic openings (with expansive atmospheres à la War Of Drugs) of the verses, "Endgame" is a nocturnal piece, delivered through half-parted lips, amid streaks of violins and hissing brass, as if fearing that the force of desire might destroy everything in its path. All this, before "Chance" closes the album with a determined yet hazy, nocturnal classicism, a powerful conclusion to a memorable record.

The last in a series of albums that has turned back the clock on singer-songwriter pop, seeking a coexistence of styles and eras, All Mirrors is the most imposing expression of Angel Olsen's artistic stature, now a fully mature and self-aware artist, conscious of herself, of her mistakes, of the fear of falling back into them headlong, with renewed fervor. After all, growing older also means making mistakes, better ones, and with greater conviction.

Barely a year after its older sibling's release comes Whole New Mess, already mentioned back when the previous record came out, and it completes that vision, overlaying itself like a rough negative onto its predecessor's lavish synth-orchestral frames. Accompanied by little more than a guitar, the songs, recorded in a deconsecrated church in the state of Washington, stand bare before their forceful expressive core, recalling a frugality long absent from the author's compositions.

While it's true that the melodic cut, even when the songs don't go beyond the state of a sketch/demo (often significantly shortening the runtime compared to the final versions), remains almost unchanged, the raw nature of the sound, tied solely to guitar accompaniment, nonetheless heightens every single shift in tone and mood in Olsen's voice, closer than ever to the essentialism of her folk beginnings. And while it's true that the richly layered textures of "All Mirrors" are more than just a backdrop to the songwriting, the process of understanding and accepting pain here moves into a new dimension, speaking in a more elemental language that is nonetheless not without its own particular refinement, in the way the author's vocal phrasing fills and empties the available space, rising up as the absolute protagonist of the songs.

Where the chord progressions already fully reveal the song's final shape ("All Mirrors" above all, as well as the waltzing arpeggios of "Chance"), some of the songs have undergone far more intense reworking, to the point that the difference becomes much more obvious. Such is the case with "Summer", which gives in to a marked expressive languor before the vocal explosion at the end, as well as "What It Is", which synthetic boldness completely transforms compared to its basic folk blueprint. The only two unreleased tracks fit the collection with their rough-hewn energy, lending new meaning even to the parent project: while the title track introduces the whole album with its emotional charge, concisely covering its entire narrative arc, "Waving, Smiling" lands right around the territory of Half Way Home, returning to a Seventies classicism that Olsen knows how to interpret with due courage, displaying a personality that, ten years after her debut, appears more evident than ever.

The more spartan cut of Whole New Mess does justice to the subtleties of an artist who has grown up, one who, in any guise, knows how to stay true to herself and her creative instincts. There still won't be an answer to the questions the record raises, but the journey is certainly worth the effort.

A break at the supermarket

Headphones on, wandering endlessly through supermarket aisles, a playlist of 80s classics making the choice of cereal and the checkout line more fun: it may sound trivial, but the five covers that make up Aisles were born exactly like this, as a kind of break from her official discography, a playful detour through which to present another side of herself, yet another in a career already dense with turns.

In reworking Laura Branigan's version of the famous "Gloria" by Tozzi/Bigazzi, Olsen strips the track of its disco overtones, pointing instead toward the baroque grandeur of her latest album, but without the overwhelming emotional weight that characterized it. Ghostly, yet possessed of its own intrinsic lightness, the cover manages to keep the spirit of the original while distorting its stylistic trappings and vocal expressiveness. But the bar has been set too high for a deliberately lighthearted project to clear: not that it's lacking in skill, but the cover of Alphaville's "Forever Young" does little to make one miss the original any less. Where "Eyes Without A Face" retraces Billy Idol's classic while sanding off every guitar edge, "Safety Dance" is the only other moment that knows how to take its source material (Men Without Hats) and completely alter its vision, slowing the tempo down and laying down a hazy blanket that at times almost recalls the most evocative Goldfrapp.

When her interpretation manages to be intense and decisive, Angel Olsen has everything she needs to hold her own against the sacred monsters she's taking on here. But even in such a brief EP, there are too few opportunities to suggest she could push further in this direction. No great loss, though: this is still an addition that neither takes away from nor adds much to a discography already dense with far greater rewards.

Losses and redemptions

Pain doesn't necessarily need to be expressed through grandiose concepts or tragic tones. Not that those can't work, but sometimes greater impact comes from working with nuance, with the power of the right delivery. Released in the wake of one of the stormiest periods of Angel Olsen's life (coming out as a queer person, the end of a relationship with a woman, the loss of both parents in very quick succession), Big Time is an album built on exactly this premise, playing with the pastel tones of an endless melancholy. Her committed bond with country tradition, which has always run through her music but never quite took center stage, here takes on a new guise to reveal another dimension, marked by expressive control and flashes of brightness earned at a very steep price.

Patsy Cline, Skeeter Davis, Tammy Wynette: the heroines of an entire expressive universe come together across the album's ten tracks, which sit comfortably within the quintessential language of the American heritage, while still accounting for the shape of a career built around its creator's overflowing personality. That personality emerges without much difficulty, though what truly prevails here are the half measures; every idiosyncrasy, every impulse passes through a filter that flattens the extremes and favors instead the countless shades of emotion, of the new urgencies and changes it can suggest. The touch becomes deliberately classic, even mannerist, embracing pop's versatility without fear, even brushing up against danceable temptations on a title track that finds just the right step.

The danger is sidestepped with all the necessary class and expressiveness; the honesty is such that even the riskiest moments shine with genuine commitment. In this sense, Jonathan Wilson's co-production lends a thoroughly Nashville-style clarity to Olsen's imagery, revitalizing her lyrical material with painful precision: still, one gets the strong impression, especially in the various slow numbers scattered across the record, that the writing is often too much at the mercy of the era it's trying to capture. Thus "Through The Fires" dissipates its cathartic power in pursuit of a circularity that never offers any real resolution, and "This Is How It Works" — the weariness before the final goodbye — dilutes its strength in a nocturne stretched too thin to fully assert itself. Still, there remains the soulful weight of the broken phrasing in "Right Now", past and present in a sturdy pas de deux, and the firm reflectiveness of "All The Good Times", the awareness of a serenity that flew away too soon.

And yet there is never self-pity, never a sense of accusation, whether direct or not: the dizzying growth Olsen has undergone in recent years leads to a balance that may lack momentum, but it carries the artist to a different level of awareness, to a full recalibration of her being. This fresh start couldn't have begun with a clearer sense of direction.

Contributions by Lorenzo Righetto ("Burn Your Fire For No Witness", "My Woman")

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