Aimee Mann - Folk-pop with a scent of magnolia

The captivating Aimee Mann has for years been one of the leading singer-songwriters of the North American scene. Born in Richmond, Virginia, she soon moved to Boston, where she studied at the Berklee School of Music and quickly began her career as bassist and singer of 'Til Tuesday. A typical one-hit wonder of the Eighties, deeply tied to the sounds of the decade, the Boston band combined the sweet folk-rock ballads of Rem and 10.000 Maniacs with a touch of energy borrowed from Chrissie Hynde's Pretenders. Their debut was the album Voices Carry, driven by the title-track single – followed by the murkier "Love In A Vacuum".

It was, however, with the follow-up Welcome Home that worldwide success arrived, thanks to the infectious "What About Love" and the poignant "On Sunday", both prime examples of catchy, typically Eighties folk-pop.

1988's Everything's Different Now veered toward a melancholy-laden singer-songwriter rock, tackling the theme of Mann's relationship with Jules Shear ("Rip In Heaven", "J For Jules").

But blonde Aimee felt ready to go it alone, and decided to leave behind the gentle pop of 'Til Tuesday to launch a solo career whose beginnings proved far from easy. It took her three years to convince record labels to release her debut album, Whatever (1993). A record built on elegant, auteur-driven pop, with sophisticated vocal lines and smart songwriting, following in the footsteps of her "godfather" Elvis Costello. Among the standout tracks are the accusatory "I Should've Known" and the reflective "4th Of July". Behind the scenes, the work of ex-Byrd Roger McGuinn and guitarist Jon Brion gave the album an unmistakable Sixties flavor.

Signed to Geffen, Aimee Mann returned with I'm With Stupid, again produced by Jon Brion. The songs here are more intense and dramatic, as in "You Could Make A Killing" and "Ray". But the album's standout track is "That's Just What You Are" (featuring vocals from Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook of Squeeze), which also appeared on the soundtrack to the TV series "Melrose Place".

1999 is a pivotal year for the Boston singer-songwriter: nine of her songs become part of the soundtrack to Paul Thomas Anderson's "Magnolia," winner of the Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival. One of these tracks, the gorgeous ballad “Save Me,” becomes an international hit and earns her a Grammy nomination. Anderson compares the role of Mann's music in the film to that of Simon & Garfunkel's songs in “The Graduate,” and some have even suggested that it was Aimee's poignant songs that inspired the script in the first place. “I wouldn't say that Magnolia's story was inspired by my songs,” the American singer-songwriter replies. “I'd say instead that the director listened to my songs a lot, which helped him put the film together. Since we were good friends, we'd talk about the story he was developing, but I was never aware that my words or my songs were inspiring him to that extent.”

The songs on Magnolia showcase a songwriter who has now reached full maturity and command of her craft. But Mann also became a performer of real class, able to bring all her tenderness and energy to the stage during the Lilith Fair tour. The follow-up, Bachelor Nº 2 – Or, The Last Remains Of The Dodo, marks another step forward in her career. The album was initially set to come out on Geffen (later absorbed by Interscope/Universal), but Mann isn't the type to bow to major-label diktats: “I like the idea of being a professional musician and protecting my work through a clear set of ethics,” she says. So her manager Michael Hausman (former drummer for 'Til Tuesday) bought back the masters and released it in the US on her own independent label, SuperEgo.

The thirteen songs on Bachelor Nº 2 – Or, The Last Remains Of The Dodo draw heavily on the American folk-rock tradition: they're sweeping electric ballads, true to a disillusioned idea of songwriting, little “puzzles hiding secret messages.” “How Am I Different” is almost a manifesto of her restless, rebellious personality, “Deathly” is a bitter parable about the failure of communication between men and women (“Adesso che ti ho incontrato/ Avresti da obiettare/ Se non ci vedessimo mai più/ Perché non posso permettermi di scalarti/ Nessuno ha così tanto ego da spendere”), “Nothing Is Good Enough” is a pastel-toned waltz, “Red Vines” is a wistful autumnal melody, while “The Fall Of The World's Own Optimist” (co-written with Elvis Costello) shows off the poise of a jazz chanteuse. The chamber-pop of “Just Like Anyone” and the stirring “Calling It Quits” further confirm that this is a thoroughly accomplished record. All the songs are written by Aimee and feature contributions from guests such as Benmont Tench, Juliana Hatfield, Grant Lee Phillips and Brendan O'Brien.

Bachelor Nº 2 – Or, The Last Remains Of The Dodo marks a further departure for Mann from 'Til Tuesday's pop sound. “That's music I no longer really relate to,” she says, “except maybe for our last album. There are singers like Fiona Apple who, even at fifteen, already know how to write incredibly mature songs. As for me, back when I was twenty, I was still searching for my true identity. And that meant starting out with commercial music. I was fascinated by that slightly crazy world of the Eighties, the clothes, the haircuts, but over time you come to realize your real personality is something else. And yet the way I write songs is still tied to the music I listened to as a kid, namely Neil Young, the Beatles, Badfinger, Elton John.”

Aimee Mann's songbook is aching and introspective, in the finest tradition of American songwriters, from Joni Mitchell (whose vocal “peaks” she occasionally recalls) to Suzanne Vega, from Laura Nyro to Tori Amos. A rare outpouring of emotion, capable of narrating the turmoil, disappointments and hopes of a relationship. “Sometimes you write about a painful situation to feel better,” the Boston singer-songwriter explains. “I don't feel the need to write a song to say how good I feel, I feel much more of a need to talk about the things that aren't going well at all.” Among these, evidently, are also her dealings with the record industry. One of her more recent battles, in fact, has been boycotting “The Ultimate Compilation,” a collection put out by her old label (Geffen) that actually consists mostly of outtakes, demos and low-value radio appearances. “Today I have my own label (SuperEgo Records) and total control over my music,” she explains. “It's a completely different thing, and it finally lets me do this job the right way.”

All of Aimee Mann's elegance and delicacy return in the auteur pop-country of Lost In Space (2002). Eleven songs painted in pastel watercolors, yet with firm, decisive strokes, able to tell stories of drugs (“High On Sunday 51”), failure (“Humpty Dumpty”), the pull of love (“Pavlov's Bell”) and other passions, loves and torments, all described with great sensitivity. The lyrics aren't exactly romantic, often veering toward the dark – “Honest, sincere songs,” she explains, “but not faithful descriptions of my actual life: I use a code only I understand.” The songs work, as do the arrangements, with a distorted guitar occasionally creeping into the melodic lines to sharpen certain passages otherwise left bare by the words, without emphasis. Despite being trained as a bassist, Aimee Mann actually worries that “too prominent a rhythm part” might overshadow “the strength of a song.” Perhaps that's why she says she loves “the sound of records from that era, instruments coming out clearly defined from the amp's left and right channels. In short: the sound of Beatles records!”

Three years later came The Forgotten Arm (2005), a concept album about the story of two lovers on the run in post-Vietnam America: John, a drug-addicted boxer and war veteran, and his partner Caroline, a Southern girl looking for an escape. The pursuit of a seventies sound brought about a change in the production booth: the “baroque” John Brion was replaced by Joe Henry, who tried to get as close as possible to a live feel, relying on an actual band. Mann wrote all the songs, composed on piano (rather than guitar) and performed with an almost boogie swagger (Mott The Hoople is, by her own admission, one of the record's touchstones, alongside The Band, Elton John and Rod Stewart circa the Seventies). The instrumentation, too, is kept spare: guitars, bass, drums, piano and a Hammond-like organ.

As often happens on her records, Aimee Mann plays her best cards right away. Hence the as-Southern-as-it-gets opening of “Dear John,” a limpid melodic turn around which her sensuous voice coils, buoyed by piano and a scorching guitar solo. “King Of The Jailhouse,” the key to reading the whole story, is one of her trademark big ballads, delivered in an anguished Mitchell-like register over a solemn gait, marked out by drums and piano chimes. The melodic gift doesn't let up with “Goodbye Caroline,” another low-flying guitar run backed by honky-tonk piano and lean drumming, or with the single “Going Through The Motions,” one of her classic quivering litanies aimed straight at the heart. More cerebral and more “structured” in its storytelling than her previous work, the album loses some steam over its length, settling into a somewhat one-note alt-country-folk-pop ballad format (“I Can't Get My Head Around It,” “Little Bomb,” “Clean Up For Christmas”). Breaking from the script are the bloodless dirge of “That's How I Knew This Story Would Break My Heart,” intoned over velvety piano textures, and the poignant farewell of “Beautiful,” marked by more rock-leaning accents and lifted by yet another display of Aimee's vocal prowess. One final tidbit: the album's title, “The Forgotten Arm,” refers to a boxing technique – a surprise punch thrown from behind the back – the sport the tall blonde Virginian unexpectedly took up.

Having left Eighties pop and glam hairstyles behind for good, the former 'Til Tuesday vocalist has by now reached a remarkable sophistication as a songwriter, matched by an interpretive ability worthy of the best contemporary singer-songwriters.

In 2006, Aimee Mann even released a collection of Christmas songs, titled One More Drifter In The Snow.

The following studio album, with the curious title @#%&! Smilers (whatever could that censored word be?), offers a handful of simple, honest songs that don't really break new ground compared to the past, but that ultimately feel less “conceptually” weighed down than those on The Forgotten Arm and better arranged than those on Lost In Space. True, compared to her recent work the electric guitars have vanished, replaced by tons of synths, keyboards and (of course) piano (splendid examples being the opening “Freeway” or “31 Today”), but otherwise everything you'd expect from an Aimee Mann record is here: the retro, minimalist arrangements Jon Brion has accustomed us to, pleasant little marches reminiscent of Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello (“Ballantines,” “It's Over”), and some fine collaborations (in this case with Grant-Lee Phillips on the sweet “True Believer”).

After even showing up at the White House to perform for the President and First Lady – well, yes, her songs, a bit like “Magnolia,” probably do make a perfect mouthpiece for the democratic world – Mann turns up with her tribute album to the “super-pop” of the Seventies and Eighties. A bit Tom Petty, a bit Supertramp, a bit David Bowie, then; all, naturally, over her usual alt-country foundation.

Brace yourself: there are no great revelations here, except – if this counts for you – James Mercer's guest spot on one of the tracks (certainly not the best one). Mann's voice, smooth and wise as ever, remains the strong point of songs that are, if anything, a bit too smothered by her own intelligence rather than by the predictable mannerisms that can creep in after such a long career.

A conversation with an old friend, catching up on her new stories from the four years since @#%&*! Smilers – that's the value of the following album, Charmer (2012). There's fun to be had, for a moment, in a new and unprecedented, fleeting quirk of hers, like the overproduction (very Mercer-esque, that) and the over-arrangement of tracks such as “Soon Enough,” the radio-ready soaring vocal harmonies of “Labrador,” the synth-guitar effect of the title track. But then it's time to say goodbye, and summing up the day, you realize that, in the end, not all that much has happened in recent years.

The tour for Charmer sparks a friendship with the fine punk-rock guitarist Ted Leo, a collaboration as spontaneous as it is creative, giving rise to the project The Both.

Setting aside the overly refined atmospheres of her last few albums, Mann rediscovers the charm of Db's and Big Star-style power-pop, while her love of Ted Leo's pop-punk acts like adrenaline for Aimee, whose sensuality serves as a catalyst for what is without doubt the richest and most satisfying body of work these two songwriters have produced in a long time. The riffs of "The Prisoner" and "The Gambler" swing with delight, and by the time the delicate notes of "The Hummingbird" arrive, you can be sure that the record, despite a few predictably workmanlike moments and lulls, delivers 50 minutes of smart, revitalizing escapism.

Many of the songs nonetheless seem destined to live a second life in live performance, like "Milwaukee" and "Volunteers of America", two tracks that aren't especially original but are full of smart instrumental touches. Without a doubt, it's the up-tempo ballads like "No Sir" and "You Can't Help Me Now" that are set to cement the appeal of The Both, with that light autumnal melancholy that never tips into gloom, while with "Honesty Is No Excuse" the duo add an important song to their catalogue, a more intricately structured rock track built on original rhythmic ideas and sturdy guitar solos.

Just when routine seemed to have taken the place of inspiration, Aimee found the strength and class to surprise us once again.

Leaving behind the rock impulses of Charmer and the easier-going mood of The Both, the Virginia singer-songwriter picks up the thread she left off five years earlier, returning to the literary, almost cinematic atmospheres that graced albums like Lost In Space and Bachelor Nº 2 – Or, The Last Remains Of The Dodo.

The new album Mental Illness (2017) shows no sign of pressure from the music industry, nor of the commercial logic that had partly skewed the languid, melancholy tone typical of the refined Virginia songwriter's work. "Now that nobody buys records anymore, I can do whatever I want," Aimee Mann said in a recent interview, and that's exactly what happens across the album's eleven tracks, eleven stories about the small and large everyday follies that are so often the anteroom of depression.

Back behind the production desk for the fourth time, Paul Bryan couldn't quite hide his love of Nick Drake, but in the end what wins out is a delicate, orchestral-toned country sound closer to the Carpenters, Loggins & Messina, or Bread — the latter one of Aimee Mann's great inspirations.

In the manner of the latest Father John Misty, Aimee Mann returns to the underground realms of easy listening, giving us a little chamber-pop gem like "Knock It Off" and crafting genuine treasures like "Rollercoasters" and "Lies Of Summer": two songs that evoke the Neil Young of "Harvest" and "After The Gold Rush".

Mental Illness will be remembered as her saddest, most introspective album yet: not even the delicate melody of "Goose Snow Cone" or the poppier refrain of "Patient Zero" (the two singles) manage to lighten its heavy, aching tone. It falls to "Simple Fix" to stir things up, with its brisker pace and a distinctive retro touch. Mann brings into focus a humanity forever caught between deceit and madness, yet constantly in search of real attention and affection — the kind that shines through on the autobiographical "Goose Snow Cone" and the surreal "You Never Loved Me". And it's in this ongoing exploration of the mind's darkest logic that the charm of this excellent comeback lies, with the American musician paying closer attention than ever to the sonic dressing of her songs, going so far as to nod to the extraordinary orchestrations Paul Buckmaster created for Elton John's "Madman Across The Water" on the closing "Poor Judge": one of the deepest, most heartfelt ballads the songwriter has ever written.

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite Sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and the latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google