To Fly, To Float, To Glide: Charm of Finches' "Malinchen in the Snow"

 

The way Charm of Finches’ 2023 album Wonderful Oblivion grabbed hold last year and sent me back through this duo’s career reminds me of a moment 25 years ago when I watched what I had previously thought was the overrated Hitchcock movie Vertigo for what must have been the fourth time in my life. I spent the next year devouring almost the entirety of Hitchcock’s catalogue with fresh eyes. There's an allure to Hitchcock that's all his own, just as there is an undeniably distinct pull to Charm of Finches.

The enormously varied, spiraling designs that set the hypnotic pace of that Hitchcock movie might be used to describe this Melbourne sister duo’s music. After all, there is a falling feeling that often comes with Mabel and Ivy Windred-Wornes’ blend of guitars, keyboards or fiddles and such close sister voices they seem the matte and the gloss sides of the same length of ribbon. It made perfect sense that Oblivion opened with titles that sounded implacably drawn downward—“Gravity,” “Heavy,” and “Pockets of Stones.”    

Pockets of Stones Single Art

But the Finches' music is anything but fatalistic. The sonic tapestries call to mind the mysterious tides their sea creatures (see first song first album) and their namesake birds use to propel themselves forward. Malinchen in the Snow begins with the pulsing “Clean Cut,” contemplating the beginning of a different kind of journey. Navigation comes from the grounded memories of “Leave It All Behind” and a repeated theme in Finches music, adaptation to the moment, exemplified here by the midpoint’s “Temporary Home.” 

And the most dangerous traps the Finches face are those made in everyday places by everyday people. Though “Middle of Your Mess” is a jangly and irresistible pop song, its subject matter is social manipulation as nasty as it is commonplace, kicked off by parsing double speak like, “You look happy means I wish you were sad.” The abuse in that song is immediately followed by the far-too-common intimate partner danger on “Human.” There’s a promise of a new start again here, but the depth of pain in the closing refrain is underscored by levels of distortion that threaten to blow the whole record apart. 

The title track, “Malinchen in the Snow” echoes and amplifies the essential qualities of the duo’s sound—the gentle scratch of shifting chords punctuating otherwise seamless arpeggios, a deliberate progression on keyboard shining light forward. Based on an old fairy tale, the song’s journey beyond the grave aims to right an injustice. It weds the zen of the Finches' sound with a purpose that focuses the record as a whole. 

Along the way, the percolating rocker “On My Own” dreams of  “compasses and charts” that might be of some help. With a warm guest vocal by the Paper Kites’ Sam Bentley, “If You Know Me” underscores our deep need for one another. By the end, the echoing psychedelics of “In the Dark” celebrate all the beauty “beneath the surface” of our perception. If Malinchen in the Snow can be said to be about falling, it’s never just about falling down so much as forward into the beauty and promise of the unknown.  

 https://www.charmoffinchesband.com/

That night two years ago, when I first saw the act: https://takeemastheycome.blogspot.com/2023/02/folk-alliance-day-3-rakish-charm-of.html

Across All the Divides: Beth Watts Nelson and Kelly Hunt at Magoon's Famous Delicatessen

 

After Beth Watts Nelson and Kelly Hunt finished an expansive dust devil performance of Hunt’s song “Clouds,” Nelson said, “That song is so fun. I wish it could go on 15 minutes.” 

It could have last night without anyone minding. Hunt’s meditation plays like an anthem to possibility and the  navigation necessary to achieve it. (Imagine Janelle Monae’s “Tightrope” laced through and shaped by the mirages of western Kansas.)

Nelson and Hunt both have big visions, as declared on both of Hunt’s gemstone LPs (one stark meditations on hard country, Even the Sparrow, and the other a sweeping epic set against the same hard country background, Ozark Symphony) and Nelson’s Little Miss Dynamite, a record that does Brenda Lee proud by playing like an energetic, all-encompassing conversation with a friend: it could go all night while feeling like a bright second.

It’s nice that Nelson ends her record with “Not Goodbye,” a fair-thee-well that promises to meet you “on the other side.” As the opening song {"Grow Up")  acknowledges when it comes back around, “It’s hard,” almost (almost?) every day in every way, and though Nelson gives a lot of self help tips—“you gotta know your left foot from your right, how to get home on a Saturday night”—her entire album makes it clear that she knows how much we can't do alone, how much we indeed need each other.

Though I would love to see variations on this Nelson/Hunt show most any night over the coming years, I know diverse collaboration is core to both artists. What I’ll get instead are a series of unpredictably brilliant mandalas each time they play. Still, what’s remarkable about the two together is how well the blend serves both. Last night, Hunt had the opportunity to shape that alternate universe she creates every time she sings, and Nelson radiated (in sound and motion) the power of play.

That doesn’t mean the lightness of touch or of heart could be confused with anything lightweight. We start with dark truths and move outward here. When Nelson sang her, “Late Night Mama Blues,” you would not have been wrong to keep an eye on its sharp edge. Kindly, she dedicated it to the “dads, too” since this one felt it deep. 

If I had to pick, I’d say my favorite genre of music is the riot act, where someone (usually a woman) lays someone else out (usually a man). There’s a lot to learn from those songs. They’ve been a north star to me for years. In this case, Nelson confronts the kids, and it says something to me that I’ve never heard anyone go quite to this place before, certainly not so winningly. The key thing is I’d want to be this Mama’s son or daughter.

A specific manifestation of what made this show so great was the way each of these artist’s sounds blended into something new that you did not want to go away. Hunt is a bit of a rocker, in the very best sense, and her music wants to charge across the wilds of America in search of promised lands, or even a little hope. Nelson gets it... and she wants to chase those same horizons, but she wants to be there when that kid comes hangdogging in the door, too.

Since I’ve been writing about music, I’ve been known (to the extent I’m known) for my focus on women’s voices (and maybe Springsteen, but, face it, this is a guy whose defining hit was a rocked-up girl group single). People sometimes ask me why. And in these days of identity, I could be asked “Why” as an accusation. The early answer was “because no one else is writing about this.” The latter answer is not that different. I write about what I hear that a) excites me and b) I fear others are missing. It often has ties to race, class, and gender, and sometimes sexuality. The thing about riot acts is they offer the medicine you need--not necessarily what you want.

Nelson and Hunt exemplify what I hear in women that I don’t hear as often from men. Nelson never forgets the importance of community, and Hunt never forgets our connection to history. These are Realist focal points, not so much Romantic (although there is romance in each of these artist’s approaches, part of why you want to sing along).

Hunt’s closer before Nelson’s final song ("No Goodbye") was something I’ll call “Dreams.” It’s a song about making sure dreams matter. That distinction has everything to deal with reckoning with our grasp on reality. A small part of what made this set by Nelson and Hunt so powerful (the scope of the human heart makes up the rest) was its ability to reckon with hard realities and the infinite abilities that lie in our consciousness. Music is a sure sign these poles don't want to be that far apart. If we could come together the way Nelson and Hunt play double banjo, we could solve every important question facing our world today, and, no, I'm not just saying that.

Thank you, Beth Watts Nelson, and thank you Kelly Hunt. 

Beth Watts Nelson Music

Kelly Hunt Music

 

She Left This World a Better Place

 Read at my mother's memorial service, January 20, 2024. 

As the perceived “sickly” child of a mother who was herself sheltered by an overly-protective mother, I had a close but difficult relationship with my mom. Everyone who knew us had some sense of this. I’m afraid I pushed back at her the way she spent much of her life pushing back at my grandmother. My grandmother and my mother lost a baby brother/uncle New Year’s 1943 and a husband/father July 4^th, 1944. When my mother was 8, two empty seats haunted the family table, and two holidays became reminders of sudden loss. I was often impatient with my mother’s perpetual worries and, well, mothering. The past couple of years of her decline, I’ve had time to think about it all.

What she managed was extraordinary. For all the protectiveness she experienced throughout her life, my mom cut her own path. My earliest memories of her—during her relatively brief stay-at-home period—were those of a woman who was not only maintaining a household but also always exploring her own creative interests. I believe during my older brother James’s early childhood she’d painted paintings of and created children’s books around the characters Franny Ant and her friend Danny. I can see her in our living room on Baylor Drive painting, doing needlepoint, and writing—diaries and stories and letters, sometimes in protest to politicians and television networks. She sang in local choirs, and she was involved in her churches and in local political organizing. When I turned 9, she began to work for Mutual Girl’s Club at the Concern Center across town and across the tracks from our home. 

Despite (or perhaps in part because of) being raised in the South with Black housekeepers, Mom was not only pro-Civil Rights, but she integrated my childhood. I remember spending afternoons with the girls and women down at the Concern Center’s Mutual Girl’s Club. I think of Mom as always encouraging others to pursue their interests, so it’s no surprise that I found myself doing a magic show for those young women and, much to my embarrassment, choking on the big finale.

Some of the best friends Mom ever had were the group of women she began to spend her time with at Mutual, including her lifelong friend Kathy Hall. This train of thought, though, leads me to think of the club art director, Geraldine Townsend. She was a coach and confidant to my mom during that time after my parents’ divorce. I will forever associate that early 70s celebration of Soul and Black Liberation with the women of Mutual, in particular her friend Geraldine.

Ten-year-old me teased my mother about her Stylistics, Diana Ross, and Aretha Franklin records. I believe I referred to them as “old people music.” Of course, as I grew older, a concept of soul rooted in that music became central to my own sense of what mattered most—a vision that grappled with race and relationships while hanging onto hope for a better world.

In many ways, Mom’s life was hard, and our relationship took some hard knocks. But, far beyond anything I can tally, I am thankful to her: for all her support and for passing along such an open-ended vision of community. Mom’s several marriages led to a larger and larger sense of family. She cherished the accomplishments of those around her, and she made much of any writing I ever did. She even framed emails and hung them on her walls. She always asked after everyone in our family, and she was eager to hear about each of my friends, even if she’d never met them. If you were my friend, Mom was a fan.

For all these reasons and more, I want to thank Mom for being who she was—in all her sometimes meddlesome, sometimes infuriating, but also brilliant, caring and loving, glory. Mom was a beautiful person, in every sense, and the world’s a better place for having her here with us. Some piece of that beauty, I feel certain, is carried forward by every person in this room.

Statement made by Bartlesville's Westside Community Center.  

Honoring the Life and Legacy of Mary Robinson

It is with heavy hearts that we share the news of the passing of Mary Robinson. Mary was more than just a dedicated employee at the Westside Community Center (WCC); she was a beacon of hope and a tireless advocate for our youth.

For over 70 years, WCC has been a pillar in our community, and Mary played an instrumental role in our mission, especially in her later years under the leadership of Executive Director Morris McCorvey. Her unwavering dedication, boundless love, and selfless contributions have left a lasting mark on all of us.

Mary’s journey of service began long before her time at WCC. She worked passionately for the Mutual Girl's Club and the Bartlesville area schools, where she dedicated herself to empowering young minds. Her efforts have not only enriched the Westside Community Center but have also strengthened our entire community. Mary’s legacy is one of compassion, resilience, and an enduring spirit that will continue to inspire us all.

We remember Mary not only for her hard work and dedication but also for the warmth, kindness, and genuine care she extended to everyone she met. She was truly loved, valued, and appreciated by all who had the privilege of knowing her.

As we honor Mary’s memory, we are reminded of the profound impact one person can have on a community. Her spirit will live on through the programs she was part of, the lives she touched, and the love she spread.

Please join us in celebrating Mary Robinson’s incredible life and legacy. Share your memories, stories, and tributes in the comments below. Let’s come together to honor a remarkable woman who made our community a better place for all.

Rest in peace, Mary. Your legacy will forever remain in our hearts.

#InMemoryOfMary #WCCFamily #LegacyOfLove #WestsideCommunityCenter

Shavon Robles and Donnie Mooreland

Thank you to Bartlesville's Westside Community Center's Morris McCorvey and the current executive director Shavon Robles for their beautiful statements on the day of Mom's service., and thank you to Donnie Mooreland for the Juneteenth photos.

Mom's obituary with a link to donate to Westside Community Center: https://www.honoringmemoriesbartlesville.com/obituaries/mary-robinson

A direct link to Bartlesville's Westside Community Center

Juneteenth 2024, Westside Community Center, photo by Donnie Mooreland

“Away from Babylon: The Irresistible Revolution of Lizzie No’s ‘Halfsie’s'"

About halfway through Lizzie No’s opening track (the title cut), a wall of sound begins to echo a haunting three-note refrain. Soon the sound erupts into explosions blossoming out of previous explosions, and then it goes quiet again, then louder and quieter again. This movement between the vulnerable and the impenetrable calls to mind everything from the Velvet Underground’s “Heroin” to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” to Otis Redding’s “Try A Little Tenderness,” without any of that last example’s hopeful suggestions. That's as it should be. The dynamics of this opener forecast the concerns of an enormous record.

And with huge rockers like the snarling “Lagunita” to launch the middle third and the foot-to-the-floor “Getaway Car” before the final song’s quiet coda, that big sound outlines the scope of rock itself—probing past seemingly unendurable pain and dreaming past received and “reasonable” limits. Lizzie No wants it all, and over the course of this album, she suggests what she wants is within her grasp, or at least the grasp of the album’s persona/avatar, the she/her/they/them Miss Freedomland.

No has explained that she wanted to use the concept of a videogame and an avatar to get away from the way fans or media read the personal into women’s work. At least that's how I interpreted her explanation. As a writer who has often focused on women, that’s certainly what I’ve seen, the tendency magnified as a few women have become dominant forces in the industry. It is hard to imagine people making the assumptions about real-life relationships that are made with Taylor Swift and Beyonce if the subject were any of The Beatles or Bob Dylan, and I highly doubt Post Malone or Morgan Wallen get that treatment either. Even if they do, No's work-around works well, allowing her to write extraordinarily personal music, whatever it has to do with the artist’s real life.

The specifics in the lyrics and the music matter. I love the “hollow shell” of the moon in “Sleeping in the Next Room” as well as the shimmering vocal blend with Kate Victor and Sadie Dupuis. I love how “Lagunita” has all the fury of the best post punk (tip of the hat to guitarist Graham Richman and drummer Fred Eltringham throughout) as well as the way No hangs onto the taste of the “calf in the gelatin.”

 Lyric Video for "Lagunita"

No’s website quotes Toni Cade Bambara saying, “The role of the artist is to make revolution irresistible.” That’s just what No does repeatedly here, tearing away all hobbling ties on “The Heartbreak Store,” “Done,” “Annie Oakley,” “Shield and Sword,” and “Mourning Dove Waltz.” To underscore the irresistible qualities, that last sounds like a Carol King record about a mother accepting the necessary loss of her children to go and live their own lives. Mourning Dove Waltz video

Official Video for "The Heartbreak Store"

No first really hooked me with “Deadbeat,” a song about a woman recognizing her father’s worst qualities in herself. In at least one interview, No has talked about this as a flip on the typical country music script where the male singer’s hopeless qualities are romanticized. That said, what hooked me about the song wasn’t a sense of parody. It was the truth of it. I have known and loved people who could sing this straight, and I am this person more than I would like to admit. The fact that No goes there—with a knowing and even funny sense of irony—makes it work as well as any such song by a man, only deepened by that gender reversal. And there are a few archetypical country songs on this record, but this one doubles down on a strength of the genre—its hard focus on a clever and engaging lyric, shimmering guitar arpeggios and long-bowed strings simply underscoring the sad truth of it all.

The album ends with “Babylon,” a modest little folk song that defines the promised land based on all that’s being left behind—thieves and killers, fears of pain, the threats of shame, and the devil itself, in all its forms. The guitar roll that’s propelled this vision forward keeps going after the words end, pushing onward to what might be, what could be, and not only asking us but making us want to follow its lead. 

Lizzie No's Website