Darien Brahms: Number 4

She’s all okay

Darien Brahms is better than ever on Number 4

With one of the longest continuous careers in Portland music, Darien Brahms has been many things to many people. She was my first real local-music crush when I moved here in 1999 [this review originally ran in 2008; image is from 2012], after I first saw her frontgal, lounge-jazz strip-tease act at the Skinny with the Munjoy Hill Society. I know I’m not the only one who’s been captivated by her as chanteuse.

She’s been pegged, too, as an alt-country diva or anti-war activist, but on her solo records she’s mostly been an old-school rocker, who loves her guitar and knows how to spin a chorus. So, five years after the spectacular Green Valentine, it should be no surprise Brahms leads Number 4 with the most down and dirty tune that’s been rumbling around in her head.

“Cream Machine” is maybe the best blues song I’ve heard since the last Black Keys record, a cycling and dirty riff supported by a Bayou rattle and panting breaths. Her promise that “I won’t be your cream machine” is deliciously profane; she even purrs like a jaguar. I’m a little bit frightened. Sneering slide guitar tells you, “don’t even bother baby … chocolate (grunt) cream/ Cinnamon steam/ I know you can be sweet to me, baby.” A throaty organ from Jack Vreeland enters for the bridge, by which point you ought to be completely enthralled.

Cartwright Thompson’s pedal steel (Brahms gets a fair amount of help on this record. Guess she plays a good host at her home studio) next provides the underpinning for a dark and lumbering menace of a song, “Shut up and Be Quiet.“ Here’s the first of some nice poetry on the record, too: “Coded whispers fill the room of my unfurnished body/ Secret message, a new voice you finally gave/ And it’s not just another vacant figure of speech.”

On “For Crying out Loud,” we get this gem: “Does she suffer from too much religion/ Or every former lover’s final decision?” Paul Chamberlain’s bass is high in the mix here and lyrical, but it’s not nearly his best contribution. He also served as the packaging designer, and I’ve got to say that the CD booklet that comes with Number 4’s jewel case is the best I’ve ever seen from a Portland band, and right up there with anything nationally or internationally. It’s like he graphically depicted every one of Brahms’s rough edges and toothy smiles.

There’s a fair amount of Brahms history, here, actually, including the soothing and sanguine “We’re All Okay,” with just Brahms on guitars and multiple vocal tracks, from 2001’s GFAC 207, Vol. 2. And I’ve got to assume the instrumental “Slide Song 1993” is what it says it is. Actually, with the tape hiss and metallic whine, it’s hard to tell it’s a guitar at some points; often it sounds more like a humpback whale’s mating call. In a good way.

I think the single here is “Sweet Little Darling,” which opens with a toy piano and Ginger Cote’s bass drum building in. Though she’s often aggressive or languid, Brahms here is in baby doll mode, a great ’60s rock pop take, with a cool electric guitar move in the chorus: “You’re my sweet little darling, sweet little darling, sweet little darling, yeah.” It’s delectable and irresistible, so pretty and electric in its appeal. Dave Noyes on the cello late is a great move forward, joining himself in the finish with the melodica, one instrument in each channel.

I guess after five years of work, it shouldn’t be surprising that the album is both dense and expertly organized, with a fun-with-samples take in the middle for disconcerting comic relief in “Kitty’s Trapped in the Well,” and a special “bonus track” you might remember from the last presidential season: “Too Late for Whitey.” There’s variety here in genre, but the nakedly raw emotion is just about universal.

In the Rolling Stones rocker “I’m So Afraid,” Brahms is as honest and bare as any kindergartener, a naked accounting of fears: “I’m so afraid of losing my job/ I’m so afraid of being robbed/ Being raped/ No escape/ Being bored/ And flipping out on the Doors/ Love me two times baby.” It’s compressed into a perfect 1:59 track that finishes with this admission: “I’m so afraid of God falling down … I’m shaking baby and it’s not from love/ It’s from fear.”

The horse whinny at the finish is strangely appropriate.

Even if Brahms was never really that Little Bundle of Sugar (2000), it’s never been hard to be sweet on her. Now she’s let us closer than ever before and she’s never seemed sweeter. Though maybe she’s a hard candy.

And she probably wants to punch me in the face for that “sweet” nonsense.

Sara Cox: Arrive

Independent girl

Sara Cox stirs the waters with Arrive

Sara Cox’s only previous solo effort, 2000’s EP Firewater, has been in heavy rotation ever since it showed up here at the Phoenix offices (rivaling only our contraband Raycharles Lamontagne disc and Spouse’s seminal Nozomi for repeated listens).

I am enthralled and engaged by Cox’s vocal range, mesmerized by her melancholy pathos, lulled by her sweet sentiment. It’s sort of pathetic, really. I find myself driving along in the car, getting all teary-eyed listening to “Fourth Child” or “No Harm,” manufacturing things for myself to feel all depressed about. There’s no doubt that music (second maybe only to smell) is a highly charged emotional trigger.

So, it should come as little surprise that I am wholly in love with Cox’s debut full-length, Arrive. I’ve even made a copy of it, so I can have it at work and at home and not have to worry about fighting over it with my wife.

Unlike the Coming Grass’s Transient, released earlier this year, almost all of the material on Arrive is being released for the first time, barring the title track, which appeared on GFAC 207, Vol. 3, and doesn’t pop up here until the very end. The material seems to have to come to Cox in a flood. I remember last winter, when she started talking about a solo effort, she said she was writing all kinds of new songs, “and some of them are even kind of happy.”

I think happy might be a relative term for her. These aren’t party songs, but they are, from time to time, upbeat; there is a pervasive feeling of impenetrable hope that keeps what are reflective and thoughtful songs from delving too far into the miasma of Nick Drake or David Gahan.

There are even likely singles here. The opening two numbers, “The Milk Song” and “Hit the Wall,” are adult-alternative radio naturals. With a full-band sound, poppy sentiment, and lyrics reminiscent of a school-girl’s diary, “Milk” sounds as if it could have come off the 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack penned by Letters to Cleo. “Wall” has an ultra-catchy “ba-bah-da-da” vocal hook and the great line: “Why are you asking permission to be doing what it’s clear that you have already done.”

If the “band” sounds familiar, yes, it is largely the Coming Grass, dominated by the electric guitars of Nate Schrock and Stephan Jones, the drums of Ginger Cote, and pianos by Paul Chamberlain. The Jerks’ Carter Logan even makes appearances on the fiddle, of all things. Add backup vocals from Darien Brahms on a few songs and the line-up doesn’t look too different from a certain other female-vocalist’s recent solo album, Green Valentine. And, sure, there are similar sounds here — coming from what I guess you could consider Portland’s emerging “session musicians,” but, like Valentine, Cox’s Arrive is unmistakably driven by the lead vocalist and songwriter.

Where Brahms led with her sass and new-found bravado, melding honky-tonk with jazz and Latin flavors — and having a ton of fun — Cox leads with her money voice, sculpted to evoke a dainty girl and strong-armed woman, a nurturing mom and an independent gal.

“Look Up” is the whole package. It opens with a simple lead on the congas, a percussion instrument I’ve never really been that fond of in Western music, but here it works. Or perhaps Cox’s voice is just so good here that they could be pounding on a dumpster and I’d be happy. I remember standing next to Nate during the show at SPACE where Cox first played this live. He was entranced like a 16-year-old hippy girl seeing Trey in the flesh for the first time. We both agreed it was a phenomenal song. But think about that. By that point he’d probably heard her rehearse it a hundred times. Still, he couldn’t contain his inner fan.

When Cox reaches up for the falsetto chorus, it’s a bona fide religious experience. “And the sky still glows even though you’re looking at your feet/ Kicking down at the ground.” Darien’s singing backup here, really grounding the harmonies. And what a song of hope tempered with realism: “No one’s gonna reach in and grab you/ The world’s just going to keep spinning round.” Unless you get up off your sorry ass and do something about it. Otherwise, “One day, you’ll wake up to be 40/ 40 years of shutting down.”

Not that Cox needs a band to prop her up. “Confession #87” is stripped down and shows that she has no problem convincing with just a guitar and her remarkable voice. The lyrics are an interesting half-feminist screed: “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but most days I can’t tie my shoes/ And most days I can hardly choose/ I confess, I do need you/ Does that make me not independent?”

An interesting question that. Being independent is this lauded trait in “strong” women. But what’s wrong with loving someone to the point that you can’t imagine life without them? Isn’t there a depth of emotion there that’s enviable?

I love the sarcasm laden in the repeated phrase, “well now girls, we’re independent.” Paired with “Devotion” and “Single Girl” (where we’re asked “have you noticed that most things come in pairs?”) there is a pattern of deep-seated familial love broadcast through a picture of what life might be like without the devoted husband and kids. Could be I’m a sucker for that sort of thing right now.

Oh, and there’s flexibility here, too. How about “Stir the Waters,” a “Watching the Detectives” rhythm paired with an “Octopus’s Garden” chord progression in the chorus. The first listen on this one is a little strange — talk about white man’s reggae — but it really grows with repeated listens. It’s super smooth, has Cox singing at some of her lowest on the record (echoed by a falsetto of herself, in impressive fashion) and all these crazy four-note electric fills.

This is where you recognize that Cox’s musicality is being repeatedly emphasized by Nate Schrock’s growing talents as producer. The levels are just completely on, and everything hovers in the background behind Sara, as though thrown into shadow by the light she casts. And there’s always an egg-rattle finish, or tossed-off cymbal, or rumbling, tuning instruments as intro keeping each song from sounding too polished. Check the effect on Chamberlain’s piano for “Paper Cup.” It’s like a ghost, fuzzy at the edges, halting, disinterested. The only choice I might argue with is the brief echoing added to lines in Cox’s fine a capella version of Richard Buckner’s “Fater,” which precedes “Arrive.” A song that aims for purity seems just that bit marred. Maybe that’s the intention.

By the time “Arrive” does come, it’s simple, familiar, climbing four chords are a fond farewell. “I hate it when you’re gone/Don’t go.” I’m not going anywhere.