Amy Millan isn’t what you might expect from a Canadian alt-rock, indie siren with two cloistered, heart-rending albums tucked under her seemingly fragile wings. The songs off he
r sophomore solo album, Masters of the Burial, are hushed and harrowing impressions culled from the absence of what once was, evoking a kind of visceral desire to sing the loss, a feeling that has one easily captured. Despite the delicacy of her sound, on stage at the Mercury Lounge in New York, Millan’s performance was nothing less than an emboldened call to arms for the lone, broken, and estranged…read: a sardined bunch of thirty-somethings on a late Thursday night who actually bought albums by Stars and Broken Social Scene in an actual, like, “record store” way back when, who have been sweating sad indie rock for more than a decade, and didn’t start thinking country was cool when Jenny Lewis came along in high-waisted denim short-shorts.
Commanding the stage with her husky, earthen vox, dug-up folk-inspired live performance, and cache of consummate stage companions, who create rich, old Western- style weavings of sound with banjos, drums, and an upright bass, Millan gave one of the most honest performances I’ve seen in a very long time. This was a show without show if you know what I mean, no pretense, just truthful, honest to song, music torn from the scrapbook of her soul. Millan was humble, down to earth, and gave the vivid impression that the songs were almost seeping from the cracks in her gristly skin. Millan live is like sipping moonshine at dusk, on a good friend’s porch, catching hints of the magnolia tree around the bend…it’s just like being home.
Masters of the Burial, her latest release, is available now on Arts & Crafts records.
Amy Millan: website | myspace | Masters of the Burial review
