Maria McKee - Lone Justice - Portrait of a Little Diva

A warm Roman afternoon, 27 May 1987. At the Stadio Flaminio, anticipation is palpable for the live event of the year: U2 are coming, riding the global success of "The Joshua Tree", but the support bill is almost as rich, with Mick Jones's Big Audio Dynamite (Clash) and Chrissie Hynde's Pretenders. Twenty-four thousand lire is a price well worth paying for a ticket that gets you all this, and one that, for many veterans of the night, will remain a relic of the entire decade. But while the sun is still high and beating down hard on the Flaminio stands, another band sneaks onto the stage, the first of the long musical marathon. There's a wild blonde teenager gripping a Telecaster, belting into the microphone, with a handful of musicians swept into her shadow.

The crowd, however, has eyes only for Bono Vox: they boo and even hurl the odd plastic bottle onto the stage, as per the (sad) script reserved for so many unfortunate opening acts. She, the teenager, doesn't flinch, kicks the bottles back onto the grass and keeps right on thrashing about and belting out her fiery cowpunk sermons.

Not everyone, though, remains indifferent to that mix of post-adolescent innocence and feline fury. Because the teenager, Maria McKee, and her band, Lone Justice, had already released a couple of albums that had struck a chord with those who, in the heart of the plastic Eighties, also felt the pull of that rural, primordial America — as wild in its (punk) drive as it was melancholy and aching in its (cow, or rather country) melodies.

So we need to rewind the tape and go back five years...

It's 1982, and in Los Angeles, California, eighteen-year-old Maria Luisa McKee and her guitarist friend Ryan Hedgecock are setting clubs alight with their reinterpretations of country and rock classics (Gram Parsons, Rose Maddox, George Jones, Kitty Wells). The early Lone Justice are, in fact, little more than a cover band. But Maria already has a hit to her name, "A Good Heart", which one Feargal Sharkey (ex-Undertones) even dragged all the way to No. 1 on the British charts. Who knows — had she sung it herself, her career might have taken a very different turn. A ballad that's not exactly memorable, truth be told, but undeniably catchy, telling of her relationship with Benmont Tench, keyboardist of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers. By the time she revisits it on one of her own albums (Late December, 2007), it will be far too late. Too late to become the diva she should have been and, inexplicably, never did.

But Lone Justice do have some ambition, thanks above all to the arrival of a veteran like Marvin Etzioni (on bass), another guitarist, Tony Gilkyson (future X member), and Emmylou Harris's former drummer, Don Heffington, who bring to the McKee-Hedgecock duo the solidity it needed. The ideas, on the other hand, had always been there: a punk- and rockabilly-tinged reinterpretation of American country-roots tradition. What sets them apart from the glut of cowpunk bands (Beat Farmers, Blasters, Los Lobos, Green On Red) is a melodic gift borrowed from the finest songwriting tradition and, above all, a stunning voice: that of the very blonde McKee, naturally. A voice both piercing and deep, sweet and fervent, perfectly able to follow every nuance of that broad sonic range. Raised on music from day one — her half-brother Brian MacLean is, after all, the guitarist of Love, and her mother a die-hard Doors fan — Maria is hardly one to go unnoticed: she's young, exuberant and beautiful. A raw, deeply sensual beauty, with that oval face framed by blonde curls, that sprinkling of freckles and those killer sky-blue eyes. One of those faces you can picture plastered across countless posters in the bedrooms of heartbroken teenagers. Including, quite possibly, the one belonging to the writer of this piece, had a Maria McKee poster ever gone on sale in Italian shops back then.

In short, she's the perfect frontwoman for a band with everything it takes to break through. But even the best need a helping hand. And for Lone Justice, that endorsement comes from a national country authority like Linda Ronstadt: it's she who lands the band a deal with Geffen, who sign them and, in next to no time, turn them into the next big thing of 1985. Expectations (and promotion) well placed, because the band has in store an excellent debut album, for which some heavyweights of rock born in the USA mobilize: Steve Van Zandt aka Little Steven, legendary guitarist of Bruce Springsteen, producer Jimmy Iovine and much of the Heartbreakers, including of course Tench, plus an incognito Annie Lennox, who contributes a few vocal cameos.

Well, you know so many

Ways to be wicked

But you don’t know one little thing

About love

(“Ways To Be Wicked”)

Cowpunk liturgy

It's a fresh, explosive record, Lone Justice (1985). It oozes all the vocal exuberance of the possessed McKee, masterfully backed by a well-drilled ensemble, with a sound that marries country, roots and soul foundations to a rock swagger very close to peak Tom Petty — fittingly, since he's also the author of one of the album's most successful tracks, the explosive "Ways To Be Wicked," a heart-wrenching tale of broken hearts set ablaze by guitars and the singer's sensual timbre: it would have suited Stevie Nicks perfectly, and who knows if the then-girlfriend of the Heartbreaker was jealous of it. It's instead the Tench-Van Zandt duo who co-write the record's other hit with McKee, the single "Sweet, Sweet Baby (I'm Falling)," a blue-eyed soul number delivered with a vigor worthy of its "godmother" Linda Ronstadt, with Annie Lennox lending a hand on backing vocals. But love affairs play only a marginal role in the lyrics: what prevails above all is religious inspiration, evident in country psalms like the mournful "Don't Toss Us Away," written by McKee with her half-brother MacLean and turned into a hit once again by someone else (in this case, Patty Loveless), or in the moving farewell of "You Are The Light," underscored by an almost gospel delivery and a Dylan-esque harmonica.

McKee's southern accent warms the vibrant roots-rock of "Pass It On" and "After The Flood," vignettes of a rural, deep America that questions its traditions and prepares to get back on its feet even after catastrophe, while the restless cowpunk of "Soap Soup And Salvation" pokes fun at the nickname given to Salvation Army supporters, busy tending to (and forcibly putting through spiritual training) the homeless. Even more caustic is the irony of "Working Late," which, again over cowpunk rhythms, portrays an ante-litteram desperate housewife waiting for her man to come home from work (“Steaks are getting cold on the table/ I’ve got the tv on to ‘that’s incredible’/ In the yellow oven is hot apple pie/ So why isn’t he home on time?”).

Rounding out the picture are two minor episodes: the opening rockabilly of "East Of Eden," with its slightly cloying call & response, and the FM rock of "Wait 'til We Get Home."

The abundance of keyboards, in pure Petty style, and the powerful sound (Iovine's trademark) are perhaps the only elements tying the record to its era. While the Eighties were still drunk on futuristic flourishes and glossy synth-pop choruses, Lone Justice turned back the clock, dusting off a sepia-toned, rustic, lyrical America steeped in values, traditions and spirituality. Seen from the other side of the coin, though, they strikingly anticipate the alt-country explosion that would set the Nineties alight, establishing themselves as (more or less overlooked) forerunners of all the Jayhawks, Uncle Tupelo and Wilco still to come.

Whether an early bloomer or simply out of time, the fact remains that Lone Justice proved far removed from the tastes of the period's audience: despite a massive promotional push, it didn't go beyond number 52 on Billboard, and even the singles "Sweet, Sweet Baby (I'm Falling)" (No. 73) and "Ways To Be Wicked" (No. 71) fell short of Geffen's commercial expectations. Critical response, however, was an entirely different story, with praise flowing freely. Jimmy Guterman of Rolling Stone would even go on to include Lone Justice in his list of all-time greatest albums, with this justification: "Revealed an astonishingly mature new band and a block-buster talent in irrepressible singer and primary songwriter Maria McKee."

It's becoming increasingly clear, however, that the real draw of Lone Justice is their singer, who was also riding high thanks to her contribution to the (excellent) soundtrack of Walter Hill's film "Streets Of Fire," with an instantly catchy big ballad like "Never Be You," written by her mentor Tom Petty.

So the original core of Lone Justice quickly dissolves (Etzioni, in particular, would go on to a modest solo career), leaving McKee at the helm of what was essentially an entirely new lineup, with Shane Fontayne (guitar), Greg Sutton (bass), Bruce Brody (ex-Patti Smith Group) on keyboards and Rudy Richman on drums. This is the line-up that went into the studio to record the second and final album of their brief run.

You’re struggle with darkness has left you blind

I’ll light the fire in your eyes

Let me be your shelter

From the storm outside

(“Shelter”)

Shelter (1986) immediately stands out for a less raw, more polished sound, but Iovine, backed in the control room by Van Zandt (who also co-wrote some of the songs), lays it on a bit too thick, and the over-production risks undermining the formula's freshness. McKee, however, remains a force of nature, capable of throwing herself full-throttle into the passionate love ode of "Shelter" (“You’re struggle with darkness has left you blind/ I’ll light the fire in your eyes/ Let me be your shelter/ From the storm outside”), driven along by Little Steven's guitar work, and of setting a gorgeous ballad like "Dreams Come True (Stand Up)" ablaze with pathos — a track that, on its own, leaves swarms of today's skirt-wearing folksingers eating dust. A striking song, even listening back 24 years later, with that sumptuous keyboard intro, those menacing guitars lurking in the background and those aching vocal runs at the end: too bad it instead remained confined to the crowded limbo of misunderstood 80s masterpieces.

McKee confirms herself as the finest heir to Stevie Nicks, but also as a polished songwriter, able to make the intense "The Gift" ring with fresh country echoes and to paint the piano-driven elegy of "Dixie Storms" with veteran-level class.

These are soft-rock numbers that, having toned down the cowpunk energy of the debut, turn more reflective and mature, also abandoning the biblical imagery in favor of personal feelings and emotions.

But while the album's strongest suit lies in the ballads ("Wheels" is also worth noting, despite the clumsiness of those slightly awkward backing vocals), there's no shortage of fresh adrenaline shots: the opening "I Found Love" is almost gospel-rock, with booming guitars and relentless drumming backing McKee's fervent vocal (practically a country Aretha Franklin), while the stormy "Inspiration" rediscovers her soul side with another heart-pounding performance.

Other times, though, the formula starts to wear thin: "Reflected (On My Side)" and "Belfry" wearily rehash an already-tired template, while a track like "Beacon" is almost embarrassing in its lack of ideas.

Despite a few missteps and a sound that's a touch too loaded, paying its dues to certain Springsteen-esque productions of the '80s, Shelter nonetheless confirms all the band's qualities and, above all, those of its leader, for whom a solo career seems all but inevitable. The underwhelming commercial outcome (no. 65 for the album, no. 47 for the single "Shelter") and the markedly cooler critical reception this time around accelerate what is now an irreversible process. By the time they "face" the Flaminio crowd in spring 1987, Lone Justice are, in effect, already a ghost band. The official breakup is confirmed a few months later. Their brief trajectory is further documented by a live album (Bbc Radio 1 live in concert, recorded in June 1986 with the Shelter lineup and released in 1994 by Windsong) and the anthology This World Is Not My Home (featuring some early unreleased material).

After that, the glorious Lone Justice name will be shelved, condemned to a thankless fate of (more or less) universal oblivion. For Maria McKee, however, it will remain another shot at success — alone, with a folk-country repertoire for which "Dixie Storms" from Shelter can be considered the ideal starting point.

Show me heaven

Encouraged by Geffen, who renews its faith in her, Maria tries to capitalize on her sliver of acquired fame by contributing backing vocals to Robbie Robertson's self-titled 1987 debut (she also appears in the video for "Somewhere Down The Crazy River") and assembling a large, prestigious cast for her own debut album.

Produced by a studio guru like Mitchell Froom (Suzanne Vega, Elvis Costello, Crowded House, Paul McCartney and countless others), Maria McKee (1989) features no fewer than 17 musicians, including Jerry Marotta on drums (already a veteran of Peter Gabriel's band) and Tony Levin on bass (already with Gabriel and King Crimson), drummer Jim Keltner, folk guitarist Richard Thompson and violinist Steve Wickham (Waterboys), plus old bandmates like Brody, Sutton and Fontayne.

Once again grappling with a somewhat heavy-handed production, McKee further refines her vocal style, losing a bit of the raw energy of her Lone Justice days but gaining in poise and depth of tone. Suspended between Patsy Cline and Janis Joplin, Van Morrison and Aretha Franklin, the former cowpunk enfant prodige searches for a new outlet for her talent. She can still draw blood, as when she treads the rugged folk-rock paths of "Am I The Only One" (later covered by the Dixie Chicks) or roars like a gospel tigress through the vibrant soul of "More Than A Heart Can Hold", or belts out the near-talking blues of "The Property Is Condemned" and the country rodeo of "Drinking In My Sunday Dress".

Paradoxically, it's the country-tinged ballads — meant to be her new specialty — that come across as the blurriest ("To Miss Someone", "Nobody's Child", "Has He Got A Friend For Me", "Breathe", though the latter is enriched by Thompson's embellishments). The exception is an evocative "Panic Beach", which nods both to the classicism of Carole King and to the vocal flourishes of her contemporary Tori Amos.

Dressed in a splendid cover portraying McKee's angelic face like a 19th-century cameo, the album doesn't spark much excitement, but it lays the groundwork for a thoroughly respectable solo career, which gets an unexpected boost a year later with a new song, "Show Me Heaven", included on the soundtrack of the film "Days Of Thunder", starring Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman (who would begin their relationship on that very set). Nothing more than a rather glossy sentimental ballad, well below her usual standards — and yet, as often happens, it succeeds where her previous efforts had failed, topping the British charts for four whole weeks and becoming, in effect, her biggest hit. The tricks of fate.

The chart-topping success, however, doesn't lure her into the sugary soul-pop destined to dominate the Nineties (and beyond). The future Little Diva — having since relocated to Ireland, where she hangs out with U2 and Hothouse Flowers — stubbornly continues to follow her own path, armed with her Telecaster and wrapped in her little floral dresses, so candidly removed from the standard-issue rockstar look.

The following album, You Gotta Sin To Get Saved (1993), thus marks a new turning point: George Drakoulias, producer of Black Crowes and Jayhawks, takes the helm, and the sound shifts decisively toward Seventies country-rock territory. What doesn't change is the crowded studio roster, with nearly thirty musicians involved in a mix of covers and originals.

The change of direction is evident right from the cover: a striking black-and-white shot capturing a pouting Maria "on the road". And, having tossed Froom's studio tricks aside, a more live, almost jam-session feel takes over, with a fresh collective energy that has led some to speak of "a mature version of Lone Justice".

In truth, the star of the show is still — more than ever — McKee, irresistible as she masters (and outdoes) the fervor of a young Van Morrison in a romantic mood on the stunning cover of "The Way The Young Lovers Do", turned into another astonishing vocal tour de force, and on the equally convincing version of "My Lonely Sad Eyes", dating back to his Them days.

But even more than the power, what still surprises is the singer's versatility: by now she's established herself as a skilled country-singer ("Only Once", "Precious Time"), yet she also proves a masterful interpreter of breathtaking soul anthems, from the sweeping overture of "I'm Gonna Soothe You" to the mournful "I Forgive You" and on to the gospel choirs of "Why Wasn't I More Grateful (When Life Is Sweet)". More conventional is the cover of Carole King's Carole King's "I Can't Make It Alone", while the closing title track unleashes a possessed country-rock driven by handclapping that sounds like it came straight out of a night of wild dancing around a prairie bonfire.

You Gotta Sin To Get Saved is the solo album in which McKee seems most at ease, perhaps because she's backed by an explosive band (one she now seems to need more than ever), or perhaps because when the songwriting can't deliver both quality and quantity, a good cover or two helps. The fact remains, though, that in yet another paradox of her story, right in the middle of the alt-country revival, she - one of the genre's pioneers - fails to connect with an audience that has probably already forgotten her. And in a decade that saw the explosion of female-fronted rock through the likes of Alanis Morissette, Sheryl Crow and company, it's baffling to think that a talent like hers could be pushed into the background.

This one is for the girl who says those voices in her head

Never leave her alone…

You're not crazy

("Life Is Sweet")

Show me hell

Every now and then, though, a film comes along to the rescue, and when it's a masterpiece like "Pulp Fiction" (1994), the benefit is even more tangible: "If Love Is A Red Dress (Hang Me In Rags)" finds McKee tackling a fine blues number, almost just voice and guitar, whistled through the chorus - one of those languid soft-rock tunes streaked with a smoldering undercurrent that Quentin Tarantino loves so much. She'll share, in a small way, the success of a soundtrack that has since become a cinema classic.

When she returns to the studio in 1996, though, Maria McKee no longer seems like the same person. The sunny, exuberant girl from Lone Justice, the refined country&soul chanteuse of her first two solo albums, has given way to a deeply troubled artist on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "I was in a relationship that had hit a dead end, I was suffering from manic-depressive episodes, and I couldn't stand the music business anymore," she would explain. The fact is that, faced with the twelve new tracks, the executives at Geffen are left stunned.

The title Life Is Sweet (1996) is a paradox for such a dark, claustrophobic album, on which McKee screams her frustrations straight into the world's face, spurred on by increasingly vicious, distorted guitars that sit much closer to grunge than to country. It's an album that abandons the pastel colors of the Eighties from the very cover onward: an early-twentieth-century, yellowed black-and-white group portrait, paired on the back with the image of a subdued McKee shrouded in shadow.

While the production is decidedly more stripped-down (McKee herself is at the console, with Bruce Brody and Mark Freegard lending a hand) and the musician lineup is also sparser (just six members, including the leader), the arrangements and orchestrations are anything but slight: guitars blasted at full volume (courtesy of McKee herself), bass, keyboards and a grandiose string section forge a sound of such magniloquence that it brushes up against art-rock and the thunderous glam of David Bowie & The Spiders From Mars.

A sense of looming drama hangs over the lyrics, if not outright suicide, right from the harrowing opener "Scarlover": “My brain has derailed my hands are benailed/ You fall across my body like a death shroud/ Your wound was plain like mine no ragged edges well defined”. One can love even one's scars, in other words, make them one's perfect garment: "This Perfect Dress", another wondrous hallucination - physical, psychic, deathly - chanted in desperation as western-style guitars buzz dizzyingly through the brain. A madness that feeds endless obsessions: from the "double" theme of the ziggyana-tinged (in the riffs and beyond) "Absolutely Barking Stars" ("I'm her twin I live in the other half/ I'm tearing at the seam but it never comes apart") to the nervous breakdown of the abrasive "I'm Not Listening", its cry of pain scattered in a whirlwind of guitars and violins (“If I’m a phoenix if I’m a demon or a sage or a fake/ Or if I’m gutless leave me alone and let me be this/ You’ve nearly killed me once”), all the way to the mystical visions of "Smarter" ("Jesus Christ came down from the aerial Transmission") with another beautiful melodic opening, pierced by searing feedback à-la Mick Ronson.

More seemingly calm and singer-songwriter-like, the second half of the album nonetheless holds new jolts in store, from the ferocious self-pity of "What Else You Wanna Know" ("I hate what I am.../ Sometimes I wish I wasn't born") to the morbid, deadly yoke of "Human" (“And I’m alone now with my compulsions…/ I don’t exist without a lover-fix/ And I’m nothing without a heart overstuffed to the brim of bursting/ With murder in its wake “) fino alla raggelante doppietta “Life Is Sweet”/"Afterlife": a sinister lullaby à-la Lisa Germano, whispered in a thin voice and torn apart in the finale by a stormy instrumental crescendo of strings and guitars. From the mental scars of "Scarlover" to the voices rustling obsessively in her head, the circle of psychic distress closes: “This one is for the girl who says those voices in her head/ Never leave her alone…/ You're not crazy”. And just as well that life is sweet... "Afterlife", then, is the only possible farewell, its guitar reverbs swallowed up by the mixing desk.

These are songs that live on suggestion. They seep under the skin like an inescapable poison. But they demand a deep, empathetic listen. Only by stopping, foolishly, at the surface could one reach the deranged conclusion drawn by People, which would dismiss the album as "the worst of the year", or by Geffen, which, stunned, would shut the door on a collaboration with McKee that had lasted more than a decade. Life Is Sweet is her "Geek The Girl": a dramatic session of self-awareness, a desperate and reckless gesture that, even amid its confusion, its blend of livid beauty and feverish roughness, fully reveals a crystalline talent to which the music world seems to have turned its back. It would remain, in effect, her "cursed album", but also her favorite. The posthumous reappraisal by fans and critics (on Rate Your Music, for instance, it's now her highest-rated album) would redeem what was, at the time, an outright act of commercial suicide.

It's no coincidence, then, that the album's release is followed by a long period of silence, during which the Los Angeles singer-songwriter cuts all ties with the music industry, seeking complete creative control over her work. Geffen, for its part, has little choice but to dust off Lone Justice, releasing This World Is Not My Home (1999), a collection of their hits paired with ten previously unreleased tracks, mostly dating back to the band's early period, including covers of the traditional "Rattlesnake Mama", Merle Haggard's "Working Man Blues" and the Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane", with Bono as a guest on vocals.

I've never felt so fulfilled, both as an artist and as a professional. I don't want to speak ill of the majors, but at a certain point that system can become exhausting, and you no longer feel the desire to have a mentor take you under their wing and guide you.

(Maria McKee)

Indiependence days

When she returns to the studio, seven years later, Maria McKee is once again a different woman: at peace with herself and self-assured. As Gianluca Testani wrote in Il Mucchio Selvaggio, "we'd left her a girl and found her again a lady, the kind you immediately sense drove throngs of her peers wild when she was young, and who as an adult has found a domestic serenity, a peace of the senses, trading the fire of rebellion for the elegance of maturity."

This newfound serenity is also reflected in her determination to pick up the threads of her career on her own terms. She put together a new band and wrote 14 new songs herself. With her husband Jim Akin she also founded the small label Viewfinder, and it's under that banner that she now releases High Dive (2003). "I've never felt so fulfilled," she would reveal, "either as an artist or as a professional. I don't want to badmouth the majors, but at a certain point that system can wear you down, and you no longer feel the desire for some mentor to take you under their wing and guide you."

Produced by Akin (who also plays bass, steel guitar and keyboards, and sings), the album seals a new turn toward a no less surprising and ambitious baroque pop, wrapped in soft layers of strings and horns, with a voice that has smoothed out its wildest tones, becoming more composed without losing intensity. The reprise of the "Life Is Sweet"/"Afterlife" diptych that closed the previous album thus gains in pop grandeur, dissolving its knot of anguish into a Broadway-style celebration. Airy choruses steeped in country-rock moods (the whistling "To The Open Spaces", the Young-esque "In Your Constellation") alternate with numbers that verge on rock opera ("My Friend Foe") and pastel-toned pop sketches that Maria paints with the grace of a Jackie DeShannon (the Bacharach-esque title track) and the elegance of a Carole King ("Be My Joy", "From Our Tv Teens To The Tomb"), bolstered by powerful orchestral arrangements (piano, strings and a small chamber horn section).

High Dive is a refined record, full of layers and references. The familiar ghost of Love haunts the psych textures of "Love Doesn't Love", which then takes off on Supremes-style soul cadences; the noble father of all crooners, Scott Walker, looks on approvingly at the heartfelt trills of "We Pair Off" and "Worry Birds"; while the triumphant "Non-Religious Building" polishes up the Who's sumptuous "Baba O'Riley" guitars for a new, shocking lyric (“Suicide!… / All of me/ Frozen like lobotomy/ When my lover gets a hold of me/ Closing in like sodomy”).

These are graceful, somewhat calligraphic exercises, warmed however by McKee's passionate performances - an ever more eclectic chanteuse who over the years has also developed a theatrical style worthy of the best Bowie. The instrumental grandeur, entirely new to her previous records, is sometimes seductive, sometimes indulges in a touch too much melodrama.

The torments and scars of Life Is Sweet still smolder beneath the surface (just look at the lyrics), but they've found meaning in a deeper, more universal human dimension.

That same year, 2003, Geffen - perhaps regretting having dropped such a talent - released the compilation 20th Century Masters - Millenium Collection, with a solid selection of her best-known songs from that early period. But the die was already cast: Live In Hamburg (2004) sealed this phase of creative independence with ten live performances of as many songs drawn from her last two albums.

For her fifth studio album, Maria McKee instead returns to her folk and country roots with eleven new songs, plus a cover of Neil Young's "Barstool Blues", stripped of its electric clothing and transformed into a dazed piano ballad. And it's precisely in the ballads that the heart of Peddlin' Dreams (2005) lies - released again on Viewfinder, produced by Jim Akin, with a sound that's much sparser this time, mostly acoustic. McKee sings and plays guitar, accompanied by percussion, pedal steel and piano. And what shines above all is her voice, set here to a subdued, melancholy mood that colors the country watercolor of "Season Of Fair", a tale of lost love dotted with acoustic arpeggios and organ phrases, or aches through sorrowful acoustic panels (the splendid "Drowned And Died", the equally intense "Turn Away" and "My One True Love"), or again dissolves amid dusty guitars and brushed drums on the title track.

These are stories of the defeated, of despair and disillusionment, like "Sullen Soul", the album's most driving track, which rounds out the homage to Neil Young with its electric charge. The mid-tempo of the elegant "People In The Way", for piano and trumpet, and the rustic sketch of "Appalachian Boy" renew a sense of nostalgia and regret, while "Everyone's Got A Story" sounds like a "Shelter" stripped of its eighties glitter, and the closing "(You Don't Know) How Glad I Am" sounds almost like a stylized parody of Patsy Cline's country-pop.

There's no shortage of filler moments (the insipid waltz of "The Horse Life"), but, in its own genre, Peddlin' Dreams has much to teach many an eager new folk-country talent. And, without overreaching, it adds another solid piece to a career that grows ever richer and ever more underrated.

That she never became a true diva remains baffling. And if she didn't manage it when she had everything - voice, looks, attitude - it's unthinkable that she could do so now, when she only allows herself the freedom to make music for herself. What remains is the immense affection of those who loved her, and who can now love her all over again. Everyone else will never know what they're missing.

(Gianluca Testani, Il Mucchio Selvaggio)

It's a period of intense productivity for McKee, who after a new live album (Live - Acoustic tour 2006), goes straight back into the studio to record Late December (2007). It's yet another testament to her constant urge to break away from her previous work: having set aside the country languor of Peddlin' Dreams, she switches the lights back on over her imaginary Broadway, picking up the pop ideas of High Dive, with equally theatrical touches but less heavily loaded arrangements. Here even "A Good Heart" resurfaces - the song handed over twenty years earlier to the obscure Sharkey, to her own delight and the charts' - now transfigured into an infectious gospel hymn. No less thrilling is "No Other Way To Love You", a slice of '60s Motown soul, sent soaring by her powerful, full-throated vibrato. And "Destine" is the ideal centerpiece of this Weber-esque musical, with its Brechtian piano-and-voice intro soon hurled into white-hot art rock that winks at the Roxy Music and Queen of the '70s: yet another vocal masterpiece from a singer who by now has nothing left to prove, as confirmed also by the title track, almost a tribute to the white soul of Laura Nyro, with sturdy piano chords and finger snaps accompanying a slow gospel incantation.

The ethereal "My First Night Without You" ideally picks up the thread of the rustic ballads from the previous record and opens a second half of the tracklist that's more markedly theatrical, but also less successful, alternating between rock-opera tones ("Scene Of The Affair") and Kurt Weill-style cabaret posturing ("Cat In The Wall"), not to mention the blaring (and inconclusive) rock charge of "One Eye On The Sky (One On The Grave)". Closing things out is "Starving Pretty", which attempts a cold fusion of the record's two souls — country and pop — in a kind of universal ode to every struggling artist in every corner of the earth: “Lean on me, baby/ we’re going to make it/ we’re paperthin/we’re gonna win…”.

Late December is a refined, ambitious album, though partially unresolved and convoluted, especially in its second half. With the melodic freshness that distinguished its predecessors somewhat diminished, it leans heavily on sophisticated arrangements and on a voice that's more than a guarantee of quality. But that's not always enough.

The latest chapter, for now, is the 2008 Live At The Bbc, a seal of quality capping a solo career now spanning more than two decades, one that's earned her the nickname (more mocking than flattering, if you think about it) of Little Diva.

La vita nuova

In 2020 McKee breaks a 13-year silence by releasing La vita nuova, a cathartic work, "an elegy of desire", in her own words. Having moved to London after a turbulent period, at 56, Maria found the strength to confront her demons and look the future straight in the eye. That's what La vita nuova is. In the meantime, after coming out as pansexual and becoming an activist for the LGBT movement, she's had to redefine many relationships, starting with her marriage to director Jim Akin. She's crossed through depths of pain, trying to exorcise her mother's illness as well as the heartbreak of never being able to have a child. And she's allowed herself extravagant esoteric and literary digressions, from dabbling in an eccentric witchcraft fellowship to her ongoing obsession with the Romantic poets, particularly William Keats and Algernon Swinburne. It is Dante, however, who inspired the title, "La vita nuova" [The New Life] — the work about unrequited love written by the author of the Divine Comedy, spanning from his first encounter with Beatrice to her death. And romantic turmoil remains the leitmotif of an artist who's always candid and passionate, never afraid to overexpose herself, even at the risk of coming across as melodramatic, as in the aching vibrato of "Effigy Of Salt", the majestic, Bowie-tinged ballad chosen as the single, which swells into a crescendo of emotion and regret.

The production plays out along a tightrope between baroque flourish — following in the footsteps of the sacred triad of Walker–Cale–Bowie — and folk-rock rigor, drawing heavily on piano and strings on one side, and acoustic and electric guitars on the other. On the first front, the impetuous crescendo of the title track stands out, where McKee's powerful voice reveals the full range of its register, buoyed by orchestral openings that return on "Let Me Forget", setting the subdued guitar-piano intro ablaze with a heart-wrenching melody, tender and bitter at once, punctuated by the psychedelic flashes of an electric guitar solo. The uninvited guest, once again, is Maria's brother Bryan MacLean, guitarist of Love, who died in 1998 and who deeply shaped her musical path ever since he strummed alongside her by the fireplace in the family living room. The rock ballad "Page Of Cups" is dedicated to him and to the legendary era of "Forever Changes", complete with a cryptic lyric musing on an "unexpected and surprising muse" drawn from the mysteries of the Minor Tarot. The spirit of Love also resurfaces in the grooves of the gentler "I Just Want To Know That You're Alright", a title that seems to soften the pain of her separation from her beloved Bryan. That same bittersweet farewell quality also lingers in the closing "However Worn", a bittersweet reflection on the contradictions of her relationship with husband Jim (who co-produced the album with her).

McKee is equally convincing in more intimate mode, as when she sits alone at the piano to sing the romantic "I Should Have Looked Away", or chases the vocal harmonies of Joni Mitchell down the perilous path of "Right Down To The Heart Of London", a tribute to her new spiritual homeland and to its bard, Blake; while her other chosen homeland, Ireland, is honored with "Ceann Bró", inspired by the impossible love between William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne and by their involvement with the esoteric lodge The Hermetic Order of The Golden Dawn, which McKee herself has grown close to. Halfway between a whispered confession and an orchestral rhapsody sits the ethereal, mesmerizing "Weatherspace", with dreamlike echoes of Kate Bush's "The Sensual World" and Tori Amos's "Winter". At times it tips straight into self-awareness, as in the seven minutes and twenty seconds of "Courage", dedicated to a Beatrice "so winsomely arranged" and "rooted to the earth in such an arresting way", the object of an unconfessable love ("And I will never have the courage to tell her") that will never be returned and perhaps, precisely for that reason, will remain all the more intense and burning ("I must love suffering!").

Entirely written and arranged by McKee herself, La vita nuova is an ambitious, complex album, one that can be forgiven the occasional excess of wordiness, not least because its approach is always sincere and stirring. More than a diary of memories, it's a romantic poem, enriched by a lyrical style and dramatic vocal performances that at times brush up against operatic tones, adding further shades to her extraordinary vocal range. It's hard to say whether it will win her new fans, but it's certainly a "manna from the throne" (to quote her own "Courage") for all those who've always followed her and had lost track of her, as well as a successful synthesis of every facet of her art.

Then, unexpectedly, comes the unforeseeable return of Lone Justice. With an album that might be described as "old/new".

Viva Lone Justice (2024) was made with the same lineup that created the gorgeous 1985 debut LP: Maria McKee on vocals, guitarist Ryan Hedgecock and bassist Marvin Etzioni, plus a contribution from drummer Don Heffington, who sadly passed away on March 24, 2021. How it came together is quickly told. A few years ago, after Heffington's death, Etzioni rediscovered a pile of tapes dating back to the early 1990s, on which he'd recorded two-track demos with the drummer together with none other than his former Lone Justice bandmate, Maria McKee, for her second solo album, You Gotta Sin To Get Saved. Etzioni then suggested to McKee that they use the material for one of his upcoming solo projects. But she, surprisingly, invited him instead to track down Hedgecock and turn the project into a new Lone Justice record.

Later on, more tapes were unearthed, along with a live track ("Nothing Can Stop My Loving You"), which were added to the tracklist. Etzioni also oversaw production, using the original recordings as a foundation and layering new parts on top, mainly Hedgecock's guitars and harmonies. Joining the fold were Tammy Rogers (Dead Reckoning) on violin and strings, David Ralicke on horns and Greg Leisz on steel guitar, plus Benmont Tench of the Heartbreakers — one of the deus ex machina figures behind the original project — on piano. The only instruments left un-overdubbed were Heffington's drums, out of respect for the late drummer, whom Etzioni calls "our Ringo".

The result is a collection of songs that are both playful and vibrant: it's genuinely moving to hear McKee again with that same intact freshness and exuberance, belting it out in a call-and-response with Hedgecock on the wild reading of the traditional "Jenny Jenkins". But while the Lone Justice of the 80s constantly oscillated between their rural (or "cow-punk") roots and the rock tension instilled in them by their illustrious patrons (Tom Petty and Little Steven), this new work is proudly planted in country soil, starting with tributes like "Nothing Can Stop My Loving You", the classic written by George Jones and Roger Miller and first sung by Jimmy Dean, here taken from a 1984 concert by the band, with Joel Sonnier on accordion; or the famous "I Will Always Love You", graced by Rogers' violin and Greg Leisz's steel guitar and fortunately restored to the sober original spirit of Dolly Parton, who wrote it in 1973, well before poor Whitney Houston's saccharine cover.

Further strengthening the bond with the band's roots is the revival of the traditional "Rattlesnake Mama", which Lone Justice were already performing live back in their 1983 concerts — here in an acoustic version with Hedgecock on harmonica and Rogers on violin — the brash hillbilly stomp of "Alabama Baby" (a gem first recorded by the Armstrong Twins in the 1940s) and the rockabilly rework of "Skull And Cross Bones", which Sparkle Moore (aka Barbara Morgan) released in 1956 as the B-side of the single "Rock-a-Bop".

But above all, it's a (predictable) triumph for the vocalist. McKee reigns with her ringing voice, reaching absolute peaks on the opening "You Possess Me" (penned by Etzioni), where she sings a cappella accompanied by a string quartet and mandolin, on the blazing cover of the 1978 single "Teenage Kicks" by the Undertones, delivered with pure punk attitude over Hedgecock's distorted guitars, and on the aching "Wade In The Water", which revives the band's gospel-spiritual roots with a jubilant chant dating back to the days of slavery. Closing the circle is the other spirited reinterpretation, done country-swing style, of the MC5's "Sister Anne", with Benmont Tench's barrelhouse-style piano and David Ralicke's horns.

Setting aside the occasional excess of exuberance and a slightly amateurish production, Viva Lone Justice is an enjoyable record, one that thrives mainly on heartfelt reinterpretations of timeless classics, entrusted to one of the finest singers of her generation and to her (then) well-seasoned ensemble. All that's left to say is "welcome back, Lone Justice", even if it's only for the length of a reunion among old friends.

Thanks also to indie production in the post-2000s, Maria McKee has earned the loyalty of a devoted slice of the public, who continue to follow every release of hers with anticipation and affection. There's nothing left to do but close by endorsing Testani's passionate words: "That she never became a true diva remains incomprehensible. And if she didn't manage it when she had it all – voice, face, attitude – it's unthinkable that she could do it now, when she only allows herself the freedom to make music for herself, with an independence earned through sacrifice. What remains is the immense affection of those who loved her, and who can now love her all over again. Everyone else will never know what they're missing." But – we would add – there's always time to make amends.

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