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Melody Gardot’s best songs have the half-festive, half-mordant air of a New Orleans funeral march. On blues from her superb 2009 album, My One and Only Thrill, her voice even sounds vaguely New Orleanian. On ballads, however, she can be as mainstream-lyrical as Norah Jones, then strut and scat like Sassy. All of which is to say that 26-year-old Ms. Gardot is a work in progress, still making all styles of jazz/pop her own. In her newest album, The Absence, Gardot dons the music of Brazil like a second skin. The album is dreamy, exotic, rather too vaguely lovely, and, ultimately, as ersatz as one of Paul Simon’s toe-dips into world music. It’s also overproduced by Gardot’s collaborator, Brazilian composer and guitarist Heitor Pereira. That’s OK. The kid is savvy enough to have penned several cuts (“If I Tell You That I Love You I’m Lying” and “Goodbye,” for examples) that have that wry, unblinking honesty I think of as distinctively Gardot, plus a couple of “Brazilian” numbers (such as “Yemanja”) with more than a touch of the same gift. If The Absence isn’t a complete success, it doesn’t alter my opinion that Ms. Gardot is the finest young singer/songwriter around.
By Jonathan Valin
I’ve been a creative writer for most of life. Throughout the 80s and 90s, I wrote eleven novels and many stories—some of which were nominated for (and won) prizes, one of which was made into a not-very-good movie by Paramount, and all of which are still available hardbound and via download on Amazon. At the same time I taught creative writing at a couple of universities and worked brief stints in Hollywood. It looked as if teaching and writing more novels, stories, reviews, and scripts was going to be my life. Then HP called me up out of the blue, and everything changed. I’ve told this story several times, but it’s worth repeating because the second half of my life hinged on it. I’d been an audiophile since I was in my mid-teens, and did all the things a young audiophile did back then, buying what I could afford (mainly on the used market), hanging with audiophile friends almost exclusively, and poring over J. Gordon Holt’s Stereophile and Harry Pearson’s Absolute Sound. Come the early 90s, I took a year and a half off from writing my next novel and, music lover that I was, researched and wrote a book (now out of print) about my favorite classical records on the RCA label. Somehow Harry found out about that book (The RCA Bible), got my phone number (which was unlisted, so to this day I don’t know how he unearthed it), and called. Since I’d been reading him since I was a kid, I was shocked. “I feel like I’m talking to God,” I told him. “No,” said he, in that deep rumbling voice of his, “God is talking to you.” I laughed, of course. But in a way it worked out to be true, since from almost that moment forward I’ve devoted my life to writing about audio and music—first for Harry at TAS, then for Fi (the magazine I founded alongside Wayne Garcia), and in the new millennium at TAS again, when HP hired me back after Fi folded. It’s been an odd and, for the most part, serendipitous career, in which things have simply come my way, like Harry’s phone call, without me planning for them. For better and worse I’ve just gone with them on instinct and my talent to spin words, which is as close to being musical as I come.
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