Basia Bulat - I Wanted to Be Natalie Merchant

Another American folk singer

A shy little girl in her family's living room. A radio keeping her company, always tuned to the same channel of old classics. The Stax artists, Sam Cooke, Stevie Nicks, Sandy Denny, Odetta, Abner Jay, committed to memory until much later, by now a young girl, she will realize that other stations exist too. In that same room in Etobicoke, a suburb of Toronto, the little girl soaks up like a sponge the piano and guitar lessons her mother gives to her students. No one could suspect it yet, but a talented singer-songwriter is spending her quiet apprenticeship this way, in the reassuring comfort of home. She's the daughter of Polish immigrants, Basia Bulat, and her features seem to do everything to confirm it: blonde, round-faced, delicate. The same look stays with her through her years at the University of Western Ontario in London, Ontario, where she graduates in English and practices with every kind of stringed instrument, from the autoharp to the charango, from the ukulele to the dulcimer.

It's during this period that her passion for music finds room to emerge, encouraged by her friendship with a peer, Olenka Krakus, who will soon find some fleeting success with her orchestral folk-pop band, Olenka & The Autumn Lovers. Small potatoes, though, compared to what awaits the unsuspecting Basia when one evening, talked into it by classmates, she agrees to open a concert for her accomplished fellow countrywoman Julie Doiron. It's a hit, and her name starts to make the rounds on the local circuit.

It's 2005 when Bulat's first release comes out. It's a self-titled, self-produced, amateurish six-song EP that reveals, in embryonic form, the young singer's expressive traits. There's naivety, true, the style is still unripe and conventional, but as a building block Basia Bulat still matters, since a copy of this CD-R is destined, through word of mouth, to end up in the right hands. During this phase the young woman forges valuable friendships and shares the stage with various members of three emerging Toronto outfits – Ohbijou, Timber Timbre and Great Lake Swimmers – and with Hayden, who will later oversee a first Canadian edition of her debut on his own small label, Hardwood. It's hard to reconstruct, a decade or so later, exactly what the lucky break was, but one way or another someone at Rough Trade catches wind of this voice, barely out of her twenties, and wastes no time signing her. In an instant the doors swing open to the famous Hotel2Tango recording studio in Montreal, the one that gave birth to the most acclaimed works of Arcade Fire and Silver Mt. Zion. It's one of its four owners, Howard Bilerman, who is chosen to produce her long-awaited debut.

From various quarters come cumbersome comparisons with the mighty Joni Mitchell, justified (to be fair) mostly by the vague aesthetic kinship suggested by the cover photo. That sweet figure seems to come from another era: an unusual hat, like some woodland creature, and a gaze without makeup yet nowhere near plain, bring to mind the same mythical past of muse Vashti Bunyan, brought forcefully back into vogue thanks to her belated rediscovery and the international success of the colorful niche known as so-called New Weird America. Compared to the likes of Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom or Jana Hunter, Basia Bulat's proudly Yankee outlook seems decidedly more placid and conventional, less inclined toward freak-folk eccentricities and, ultimately, genuine. The opening of Oh, My Darling leaves no doubt as to the artist's sincerity: on "Before I Knew" she puts her own torments center stage with clear-eyed disenchantment, and does the same in the delightful closer "A Secret", as though she'd chosen to sketch the ideal frame for her turn as a flavorful storyteller.

Inside the album bloom crooked but gentle miniatures, melancholy little vignettes that lie about their age (the title track, "Little Waltz" and "The Pilgriming Vine", a touch more mannered), a collection of voice-and-guitar pieces, spare and well-weighed, laid down with heart and soul. Warming them is the heat of strings that never overstep, or an almost transparent harmonica, favoring registers somewhere between Americana and the indie-folk primer that, around that same time, was starting to bring fortune to, among others, the kindred spirit Anais Mitchell. Treading lightly, buoyed by the caution of an unshakeable delicacy, the Canadian offers up her confessions, marrying intimacy and impressionism in the vein of a hushed, honest singer-songwriter style, never pointlessly over the top ("Why Can't It Be Mine") and never forced into narrow caricature.

The balance of empty and full space, by contrast, is already remarkable and, though devoted to a strict economy of means, the sound often comes across as lush ("La-da-da"). The adult temptations the songwriter occasionally gives in to lead, moreover, to interesting and sufficiently intense developments, one sure step after another and never overreaching, given how the young woman shies away from clamor, expressionist drift or cut-rate enchantment ("Birds Of Paradise").

What emerges is a sprightly record, charmingly autumnal and tightly controlled, revealing unsuspected reserves of grace and warmth, careful never to force anything, never to burn its candid evocation of feeling down into cheap sentimentality ("December"). It's a work humble in its own way but heartening, with a few first tentative turns as a vocal tightrope walker ("Snakes And Ladders") that never strays from the comfortable rails laid down by the piano. The cleanness and restraint go a long way toward making the whole thing even more believable, and toward making Basia an all-round promise, a bet worth placing without much hesitation.

Oh, My Darling is met with flattering reviews, makes a good showing on North American college radio and earns a spot on the Polaris Prize shortlist. The time comes for her first tour of Europe and Australia, tagging along with far more celebrated artists, and between commitments the young Canadian finds time to release, again on Rough Trade, a three-track EP, In The Night, just to drive the point home. Brassy and radiant with her graceful, rustic folk approach, Bulat still presents herself as a conventional singer but shows she's taken to heart the lessons of old (Linda Thompson) and new (Gillian Welch) classics.

Enveloping country fragrances take hold with the enthusiasm of a new Victoria Williams, and the cover of her beloved Sam Cooke's "Touch The Hem Of His Garment" goes in the same direction: formally correct, but hardly transcendent. A minor release, then, more traditionalist in outlook, which nonetheless wins its author the favor of the organizers of the Dawson City Music Festival in remote Yukon, where she performs and stays for a short spell that same summer, drawing inspiration for several of the songs that will find a place on her sophomore effort.

Heart Of My Own, as it's titled, finds its common thread in springtime romance and sun-drenched outings, with a certain tendency toward a country-pop flattening that somewhat marks the distance between this effort and the previous, more essential and angular work. The Canadian puts her name to a record that does have, in its favor, a certain fragrant, even festive warmth ("Gold Rush", "If Only You") but that ends up delivering fewer surprises than one might have hoped for.

It opens with the fervor of "Go On", in which the young singer-songwriter brings back the tangible drum rolls of the previous record, in a jittery ballad that reveals new vocal gifts, and not just in her delivery; her voice is warm and assured (see, for example, the title track), embellished by an admirably controlled vibrato ("Sugar And Spice"). "Keep Running Back To Me", she then sings in the following "Run", a progression that carries Bulat's call of love through a layering of instruments that doesn't shy away from a certain orchestral flourish, kept in the background nonetheless. Behind this partial "change of gear" from the Ontario artist is once again the hand of Howard Bilerman, drummer on "Funeral" and collaborator on records by Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Vic Chesnutt, who had already helped her out on her debut.

The record proceeds, then, in a fairly predictable alternation between these more percussive numbers (the already mentioned "Go On", "Run", "Gold Rush", "If Only You") and Bulat's solo moments ("Sugar And Spice", "Sparrow", "I'm Forgetting Everyone"): it must be said the ideas rarely surprise, melodic hooks are in short supply, and so the record ends up acquiring a certain monotony, if not an unpleasant one. One really has to wait for the lovely "The Shore" to feel the first true variation on the theme: on the strength of the sonic evocation provided by the percussive dulcimer, Basia finally manages to dig deeper. It's probably the track that best shows the very short span in which the record was written, in that gold-rush town, Dawson City itself. An imposing landscape, a vigorous and lush nature, which nonetheless had a somewhat detrimental effect on the Canadian artist's music: whether out of haste or excessive caution, the young woman almost always chooses, in fact, the simplest expressive path.

Basia discovers pop

2013 is the year of the turning point. Step by step, but Basia has already come a long way: two well-received records and an ever-lengthening list of established colleagues – Arcade Fire, The National, Nick Cave, Daniel Lanois, St. Vincent, Sufjan Stevens, Beirut, Destroyer, Tune-Yards, Sondre Lerche, The Tallest Man On Earth, Owen Pallett, Andrew Bird being the biggest names – with whom she's shared the stage. Three years on from her previous effort, the Canadian returns, not yet thirty, with her third full-length, the first not to see the light of day at the by-now familiar Hotel2Tango and the first to be released worldwide by the small Secret City label. For the occasion she enlists the help of Tim Kingsbury of Arcade Fire and Mark Lawson, who had won a Grammy for his most recent work with the Montreal band, and appears on the cover with the high-contrast sensuality of black and white, bringing to mind less the Joni Mitchell of old than the dark charm of a Nico. Never before have the choices made in the studio proven so fruitful, because they're tailored perfectly to the Ontario singer-songwriter: both the arrangements and the rhythmic backing are excellent, always fitting and never intrusive, a precious complement that avoids upsetting the wondrous balance of the compositions.

Proof of this is the song that lends the record its title and opens it, a small treasure chest with the delicacy of a music box that opens little by little, lit up by a warm voice incredibly similar to that of Natalie Merchant. The impression of being immersed in the magical atmosphere of "In My Tribe" is so vivid, and the feeling so genuine, that one can't help but be swept away and then applaud wholeheartedly. The same echo can be felt later on too ("Someone"), with still-flattering suggestions for the promising Bulat, at her best when free to work against sparer sonic backdrops.

Within the folds of Tall Tall Shadow, the Toronto girl moves with a light, skipping step through scenes firmly rooted in tradition, breathing into them a subtle yet stubborn breath of freshness. With a folk frugality made graceful by her singing, on "Five, Four" she makes her own the evocative essentialism of another young colleague with a solid present, the American Alela Diane.

A little further on ("It Can't Be You") the gossamer-thin weave spun by a fluttering charango brings to mind similar acoustic sketches by Josephine Foster – and, perhaps not by chance, here Basia aims decisively for greater lightness on the vocal front too. The result is commendable. If the crystalline purity of the Colorado singer isn't entirely matched, it's true we're not that far off either. Bulat doesn't promise the moon, and is in fact suitably restrained, skilled at not undermining the songs with excessive flourishes or dizzying leaps that might overwhelm. On "Promise Not To Think About Love" she doesn't shy away from donning the elegant, worldly vivacity of her fellow countrywoman Feist, managing to hold her own in an admittedly demanding comparison: little more than a fragment, yet one that weighs significantly in the record's overall economy, thanks to its vitality. The craftsmanship, in short, proves as admirable as on her earliest work, confirming the taste of an author still emerging but by no means naive.

Elsewhere the tone turns more austere (though never gloomy), or the sharp sobriety of her debut resurfaces, as in a rather surprising encounter ("The City With No Rivers") where the backdrop evokes the menacing shadows of an American desert painted by no one quite like David Eugene Edwards. The Canadian, however, doesn't let herself get swept up in it, and her interpretation remains gentle, personal, free of the feverish emphasis found in the work of 16 Horsepower and Woven Hand.

Perhaps Basia's sincerity shows through most fully in the more intimate, friendly moments – small but resonant – where her voice caresses the listener with the genuine power of simplicity. A gifted songwriter who by nature doesn't like to overdo things needs no tricks: her gift for gentle storytelling is enough. A classicist stamp and a modern touch coexist harmoniously here, in a record that carefully avoids flaunting its own virtuosity, though every now and then it struggles to keep it fully under wraps. That's not the case with the pulsing voice-and-piano piece that closes the album, evoking the proud, romantic, tousled songwriting of Azita, albeit with less exuberance. A final piece that doesn't exactly help us fully grasp such a multifaceted and interesting artist, but stands as further proof of a talent that deserves more attention: with a touch less shyness holding her back, this brilliant young woman from Ontario could now clearly aim for even more ambitious goals.

While remaining a niche work, Tall Tall Shadow comes close to winning both the Polaris Prize and the Juno Awards, effectively the most important Canadian music honors. The time was ripe for a further step forward, and at the start of 2016 it's Good Advice's turn. Once again, the cover art tells us much about the record's mood: colorful, polished, even a touch mischievous behind that first, unexpected dab of eyeliner, Basia seems to have heeded the implicit "good advice" of those who accused her only flaw of being excessive caution, and shows she's shed a reserve that was fast becoming proverbial. Take the opening rush of "La La Lie". Infectious and luminous, still somewhere between Feist and Merchant, buoyed by all the warmth of sharing, of the popular, of the singalong, Bulat sketches out here a new pastoral vision, not free of innate melancholic leanings but at the same time emboldened by an overall radiant, engaged tone, far removed from the stuffy air of some of her past's overly narrow or introspective numbers.

She also comes across as sensual and authoritative in the album's forays, intimate yet now assured enough. This time around, the model seems to be the visceral, slightly valkyrie-like Neko Case of "Middle Cyclone". Her personality, in short, has emerged with real tenacity, and the young woman makes clear she has what it takes to avoid going unnoticed. "Long Goodbye", then, can be read as a long farewell to yesterday's excessive caution. Jim James is the new name on board. The frontman of My Morning Jacket and Monsters Of Folk plays just about everything, from keyboards to bass, from mellotron to saxophone, and his hand at the controls seems to have truly put the Canadian singer into overdrive, far from reserved and ready to let her talent bloom fully. There has indeed been a simplification on the songwriting front, more of a pruning really, and the range of nuances comes out somewhat scaled back. For an artist choosing, for once, to look more toward pop than folk, this isn't just not a bad thing – it appears a downright necessity, provided it doesn't mean losing one's true nature or giving in to banality. That's not the case with Good Advice, however, which is also commendable for a production that only emphasizes the truly essential details, with always well-judged accents and colorings, keeping the rest in the background (in the manner of the more recent – and actually more anguished – work of Nicole Atkins).

Here and there, subtle electronic touches poke through, as in the work of Hello Saferide, though with a far greater taste for ornamentation, quite alien to the Swede's restless enchantment. It happens, not by chance, in a title that openly calls for inclusion ("Let Me In"), but also in a farewell steeped entirely in angelic neatness and a suspended, candid, pure-white charm that almost automatically recalls Norlin's open-eyed contemplation and flou. Basia does the rest with that fantastic voice of hers, now bolder than ever in its twists and turns. Ornamentation, flourishes and craft are thus no weakness of hers, but it's above all the jubilant mood that takes center stage here, deeply marking an album that's infectious for the positive aura it radiates (without ever slipping into the saccharine poses of, say, a Sally Seltmann). The more fastidious "In The Name Of" brings to mind the fresh and equally successful synth-pop paths of the latest Sarah Blasko, albeit with the exclusive added value of a dazzling sense of peace that is this record's real selling point. Basia also doesn't shy away from a few more intimate passages, backed by a stylization and control that prove more than sufficient. The minimalist dress of "Time" still fits her like a glove, though it can't quite contain her new explosive verve, which in the end takes its liberties anyway, while "The Garden" is another song that unfolds little by little, emerging as if from the organ's hazy mist.

Magical and intriguing, Bulat also reinvents herself as a skilled creator of synesthetic landscapes. The only exception is the slightly precious calligraphy of the title track, little more than the essence of a whisper that slowly dissolves into the usual embrace, with one or two clichés too many. It's a striking oddity to find the two singles, "Infamous" and "Fool", placed almost at the tail end of the tracklist, but it also speaks to real self-assurance: the first is in keeping with the festive yet resolute mood, brimming with the necessary sense of wonder and an evidently irrepressible choral virtuosity, forcefully haunted by the echo of the lady of 10,000 Maniacs at her most irresistible and sugary (think "Our Time In Eden" territory), while the second brings back her more purely ecstatic incarnation ("In My Tribe" or "Tigerlily", that is).

Not an easy birth, Are You In Love? marks Basia Bulat's return four years on from Good Advice, an album shelved after her father's death and then set back in motion once Jim James was confirmed at the production desk. The stylistic approach is even more charged with pathos, the voice almost overwhelms the music itself, and the emotional flow is so intense that at times the artist seems unable to contain it.

The romantic sweep of "Electric Roses" and the carefree, unusually danceable pop of "Your Girl" serve as a gauge for the Canadian singer-songwriter's latest shift, which proves most convincing when she rediscovers her devotion to Natalie Merchant on tracks like "Light Years", "Pale Blue" and the title track.

Jim James takes Phil Spector as his model, framing Basia Bulat's voice with near-exotic, old-world atmospheres on "Homesick", or making a genuine leap back in time with the funky soul of "No Control", which, in this spirit of renewed mood and style, turns out to be the most convincing track on the record.

Are You In Love? is without doubt Basia Bulat's richest album, but also her least incisive in terms of songwriting: too much going on at once, and vocals that often tip over the top, frequently put the listener to the test, torn between trusting and admiring an undeniably gifted author or giving up on the new project's obstacle course. There's no shortage, in truth, of genuine gems, like the magical, hazy, unhurried ballad "Already Forgiven", and the closing "Love Is At The End Of The World" also revives some good old vibes; in the end, Are You In Love?, for all its ups and downs, confirms the Canadian songwriter's talent.

Her gift for mimicry astonishes once again, but it takes nothing away from the expressive power of a singer we now feel, more than ever, belongs among the brightest of her generation.

Having put away the bucolic scenes of The Garden, Basia Bulat finds, within her own four walls, her "palace" in the world, to twist a well-known phrase for a moment. Basia's Palace (2025) is born, in fact, as an intimate retrospective of her own shattered dreams, of memories to caress once more, and of objects scattered around the room or tucked away in the closet, waiting to be admired again. Whether it's an old Nintendo or a Hayao Miyazaki drawing makes little difference. To make this strange journey backward, the Canadian singer-songwriter adopts Leonard Cohen's approach, who liked to compose at dawn, just before his children woke up – in other words, while the family sleeps and thoughts struggle to fall asleep.

This is, more or less, the compositional bent behind Bulat's work here, across nine songs capable of real epic sweep thanks to strings and words that aim to sketch a close focus on her own romantic relationship ("Right Now"). And then there are pop hooks worthy of a radio hit, like "My Angel", or sudden forays into the most fairy-tale-like folklore, as happens in "Disco Polo", a song named after a genre of Polish dance music much loved by the Toronto musician's late father. Basia's Palace openly displays the full maturity reached by one of the most complete singer-songwriters of recent years, and is in some ways also the most outgoing album of her career. Credit for all this also goes to one of Bulat's regular collaborators, Mark Lawson, and to the final mix by Tucker Martine (Beth Orton, Neko Case, The National).

Basia's Palace, according to its own author, stands "as a soundtrack that tells the story of a journey through time". It's no coincidence, then, that stylistically varied echoes crop up here and there. That's why "Laughter" and "Curtain Call" sit side by side - the former elusively concise, the latter melodramatically composed - placed at the tail end of an accomplished record, notwithstanding the odd missing gem. Songs that Bulat will no doubt intensify live, as is her habit, bringing them to their full radiance.

Contributions by Lorenzo Righetto ("Heart Of My Own"), Gianfranco Marmoro ("Are You In Love?"), Giuliano Delli Paoli ("Basia's Palace")

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