Every review I've read of Rosie Thomas-- of anything she does-- makes sure to mention her stand-up alter-ego, Sheila, an extremely self-conscious social outcast who wears coke-bottle glasses and a neckbrace. Some are thrown off by the comedy act, especially juxtaposed with Rosie's otherwise earnest and passionate stage show. But me, I find it adorable. In all honesty, I find Rosie Thomas adorable. I get a tingle just thinking of her. Rosie, if you're out there, I love you. Now make me babies.
Have I said too much? Okay, since the cat's out of the bag, I'll just admit it. At 25 years of age, I have a crush on someone I've never met (although Rosie must share my affections: I also have a non-sexual man-crush on Brad Pitt). Rosie won me over at a concert last fall, when all I knew of the young songstress was that she'd made a cameo appearance on Damien Jurado's "Parking Lot" (off Ghost of David). I didn't like the tune that much, but recognizing her association with Jurado's low-key, honest folk-pop, I felt I couldn't lose.
In the final analysis, I lost two things: jack and shit. The show was amazing, really, a reminder that some indie rockers can actually sing. Rosie's voice is stunning-- a delicate timbre, a beautiful hushed passion, with the requisite lung-power when she needs to drive home a melody. If singing range were a climbing rope, Rosie would ring the bell, and ring it often. To hit the high notes, Thomas employs a gorgeous (and apparent) transition to falsetto. You can tell she likes that shift, and the falsetto itself, as a number of the tunes on her album make that vocal acrobatic a prominent part of the melody (e.g. "Lorraine"). Moreover, in concert, Thomas obviously had a keen sense of dynamics-- during the quieter moments it became clear that, except for Thomas, the venue was in utter silence, captivated.
Until she releases another album, however, I must romanticize my love for Rosie. The soundtrack to my dreams will encompass only a few of the songs on When We Were Small, notably "Farewell" and "Bicycle Tricycle," the most sparse and fragile. I like to imagine Rosie alone on stage with a piano, a guitar, and otherwise utter silence. Her sparse compositions reveal a stunning vulnerability, her voice allowed the full measure of its expressiveness. An album with ten tracks of that sort of pure, barren indie-folk would be spellbinding.
It's not unfortunate so much as it is just a fact, but much of the rest of the album is more pedestrian, weighing in with melodies and compositions that tend towards the "pop" end of the folk-pop spectrum. Like "Finish Line," for example, which harks of Sarah McLachlan, or the darker "I Run," which features a hackneyed melody and orchestration that fails to sell the mood (not to mention that the repeated lyrics "I run far from you" are a tad weak). None of it ramps up the tempo much, or adds density to the mix-- it's not bad stuff, just somewhat unexceptional.
There are some who will fall in love with this album. Others will fall asleep to it. Both will agree that it's a solid debut, long on talent but maybe a bit short on melody or lacking in appropriate production. I had big expectations, some of which were met, but others of which were disappointed. Nonetheless, I remain devoted. Now make me babies.
