Sirens of the Ditch

With apologies to Jason Isbell, herewith is a bevy of women to lose control of the wheel over, and who’ve been taking center stage on my “Recently Added” iTunes playlist.

ADELLE is by far the hottest commodity of this group, riding a wave of critical and commercial success. She’s got the smarts, she’s got the looks (daringly husky) and above all, she’s got the voice, power to spare, but used with restraint and subtlety, full of shadings and character. All of 21, she’s released her new record, 21, amid great expectations based on her debut, 19, and her Grammy for Best New Artist. She crushes any sophomore jinx and delivers a blast of precocious rapture.

Blessed with the clout to call on the talents of several A-list producers from her native Britain and the U.S., Adele (Atkins be her last name) makes good on her good fortune. It all starts with the songs, and she co-writes some beauties. Her lyrical palette is dominated with primary colors of hurt and heartache, but her musical arsenal is studded with weapons of all sizes and strengths. She’s clearly in thrall to classic R&B and Brill-Building pop, but has no intention of merely recreating old sounds.

She opens with the steamroll of “Rolling in the Deep”, a slight but menacing opening leads to a swelling chorus, a mass of background voices weaves in and around a pummeling rhythm, while Adele tells off her would-be lover in clear terms. “Rumour Has It” ups the venom quotient, with some mean-spiritedness layered over a whiplash beat. She finally dials down the tough-girl posing and gets with her vulnerable side with “Turning Tables,” with its Elton John-ish piano figures and swooping strings.

More variety follows, with “He Won’t Go” and its swaying funk, the bared-soul confession of “Take It All,” the righteous strength of “I’ll Be Waiting” and its call to shake booty. “One and Only” gets close to over-emoting when she strains for effect. The two closers are quiet affairs, “Lovesong” is a minor key ode that doesn’t sound nearly as optimistic as its lyrics. “Someone Like You” attempts nobility with a newly-lost love, but its message gives away the deep damage still there.

It should be most interesting to watch as she grows up. Can’t wait for 23.

A whole year older at 22 is LAUREN PRITCHARD, a native of Tennessee transplanted to England, where white soul songbirds are hatched and nurtured by the seeming dozen. She’s been kissed with some fairy dust herself, having been plucked off the street by Marie Presley and hooked up with the same producer who mentored Ms. Adele and another single-named singer, Duffy.

She’s got the goods, a more conventional voice, but by no means bland. It’s smoky at times, girlish (but not coy) and bold at others. She’s got a direct claim to the Dusty Springfield legacy, and she does it great credit. And my iTunes tells me her debut, WASTED IN JACKSON, has had twice the play that Adele has on my personal jukebox.

Right away she establishes her soul bona fides with a Memphis stroll intro to “Stuck” and her hooks sink in with self-effacing charm. But then the chorus comes and with it the broad smile of her full-throated acceptance of her mate and fate, and then you notice the barb. “Not The Drinking” is a little unsettling with its casual intimacy with drink and drugs, but she’s lived that hard to earn the right; plus, it’s a damn good song. The title cut should reverberate with a segment of our hometown, with its cataloguing a small town’s sins.

Dancing shoes (or barefootin’) are mandatory for the completely incongruous “I Hope It’s You”, “one of us better be wrong, one of us gonna go down, one of us gonna end up in a hospital room, and I hope it’s you”, all swathed in an irresistible synth-infused beat. “Painkillers” is a bit too close to the Lifetime Network sensibility for comfort, but she gets back to solid ground with “No Way” and its stoic sadness.

“Hanging Up” distills that precise moment when a lover finally decides its o-v-e-r with the perfect image of cutting off a phone call in the middle of bull crap. Maturity beyond years is also seen in “Going Home,” a weary but not broken message of farewell. “Bad Time to Fall” is another wicked juxtaposition of jubilant funk and heartbreak.

“Try a Little Harder” is street life told in the first person and it ain’t pretty-does she really speak from experience here? Mumford & Sons help out on the closer, “When the Night Kills the Day,” and Ms. Pritchard says goodbye for now with perhaps a glimpse of things to come from her, a little less hero-worship of her forebears and more originality.

LYKKE LI is the elder stateswoman here at 24. From Sweden, land of Abba and New Orleans transplants Anders Osborne and Theressa Andersen, Ms. Li personifies her native land’s chill and pop sensibilities. She’s also just dropped her second effort, WOUNDED RHYMES, and it’s a revelation.

Where her debut, YOUTH NOVELS, was heavy on cute and coy, this one’s got loads of flat-out emotional hurt and heartbreak (notice a pattern?) wrapped in a post-industrial wall of sound. Bjorn Yttling (of Peter Bjorn and John) produces like a mad scientist, surrounding her voice (limited but useful) with clattering drums, cheesy organs and metallic guitars. And oh, girl-group doo wop backing vocals and spacy synthesizers, too.

So, the songs: Li had to have her heart mangled recently (does wonders for your perspective and makes for great songs). But she’s not morose, all that much. She’s more the spitfire strong type who’ll wear her sadness like a new coat for as long as it feels right, then take it off when it loses its pizzazz.

“Youth Knows No Pain” is of course demonstrably false, but it evokes older folks’ amnesiac dismissals when confronted with youthful heartbreak; it’s also hurt you can dance to. “I Follow Rivers” has water imagery that should resound with our little eroding coastal community and an insanely catchy chorus. “Love Out of Lust” is, er, about one path to happiness, and is maybe the album’s most beautiful musical moment.

“Unrequited Love” makes sadness sound attractive with its stately and classic melody and “shoo-wop shoo-wah” girl chorus providing at least two kinds of support. “Get Some” is about as naughty as you can get without going blue: “Like a shotgun needs an outcome, I’m your prostitute, you gon’ get some” she sings to a pounding Bo Diddley-beat. “Rich Kids Blues” is awkwardly true and pretty obvious stuff. “Sadness is a Blessing” is more a wish than a reality, because of course it’s also a curse. But hey, young one, it’s temporary! But repeatable, dammit.

“I Know Places” and “Silent My Song” come at the end, sandwiching the admirably upbeat “Jerome.” Their Nordic frost reminds that sadness can’t always be danced away. Sometimes you gotta get properly catatonic.

One last thought: Jazz Fest lurks, last weekend in April, first weekend in May. You really should go.