CHARLOTTE DAY WILSON - Cyan Blue

Quiet and austere, empathetic yet lethal when the occasion calls for it, with a title like "Cyan Blue" that already conceals a universe of emotions just beneath the bottle's cap. Charlotte Day Wilson from Toronto is the same as ever, a singer-songwriter notoriously allergic to the spotlight, hiding behind an androgynous, faintly starched elegance to let her music do the talking. But between her study of jazz and electro-acoustic production, Charlotte's naturally soulful voice takes on new grey-blue shades, finding release in a songbook that remains careful never to lose sight of melody, even as it pursues the art of subtraction.

Here she is, swirling above a bitter waltz titled "Money", then losing herself in the dreamlike "New Day", barely sketched out by spectral layers of reverbed piano, just enough to stage a pearly melancholy languor. It's as if the subtle guitars of Blood Orange and Connan Mockasin came together in unison inside constructions of smoke and mirrors, in dialogue with the sensibility of artists like Yaya Bey and Daniel Caesar: an intimate, grown-up postmodern soul, already recounted on her debut "Alpha" and now brought home once again with innate savoir faire.

Whether it's the lulling "Dovetails", reminiscent of the most seraphic Rosie Lowe, the minimalist funk of "Canopy", barely touched by a faint guitar distortion, or the acoustic, midtempo sweetness of "Do U Still", recalling the art of Cleo Sol, "Cyan Blue" is a listen that appears subtle and evanescent, but in truth stirs deep within a vocal style still waiting to be discovered. Swedish singer Snoh Aalegra, featured on "Forever", provides the enchanted female counterpart to a particularly fitting duet, staging a romantic rapport on a razor's edge.

There's a twist to the whole affair, though; after a disorienting version, inserted as a kind of interlude, of the super-classic "Over The Rainbow" - here stripped of all the drama that once belonged to Judy Garland - the album takes a slightly darker turn. Such is the case with "Kiss & Tell", with its limping rhythm and production steeped in psychedelic gloom, the prelude to the devastating "I Don't Love You", which deconstructs the dialectic of Sampha and James Blake within electronic debris and lyrics of rare, inconsolable bitterness. With the equally melancholic title track, and the other dreamy, circling waltz of "Walk With Me", the listening experience of an album that manages to keep even its most overflowing emotion in check comes quickly to a close, leaving the listener free to savor the detail with every spin.

While it's true that the new association with the XL label, after years of total independence, seems to be serving her purposes well, it's equally true that Charlotte still lacks the standout moment capable of propelling her to the next level - not only in terms of audience (her best-known track to date, "Work", dates back to 2016's second EP "CDW") - but above all on a stylistic level. Her finest moments, symptomatic of a probing pen that the most attentive listener can appreciate, were already present on her other EP, "Stone Woman", from 2018, proof of a growth that has been remarkably slow.

"Cyan Blue" probably won't turn this austere artist into the critics' new darling, nor expose her to a wider audience, especially in these chaotic times so ill-suited to the art of silence and saintly patience. But Charlotte Day Wilson knows her craft, and with a decade of experience as a multi-instrumentalist and producer behind her, she keeps forging ahead with the passion that has always set her apart. It will be up to each of you to find the proverbial needle in the haystack - songs like these always hide something magical in their sonic backdrop.

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08/05/2024