Shannon Wright's music is defined by a number of unchanging elements: a tremulous, bellowing voice, melodramatic lyrics, and disquieted, impatient orchestration. It's an edgy enough sound she's procured, and she deserves her share of props for solid execution. Despite owning the trademark sound, though, Wright does blend quite appropriately into the clichéd pantheon of bitter songstresses (a la Fiona Apple without the collagen, or Tori Amos without the mental instability and drag-queen mascara).
Despite Wright's dispossession, she is by no means without a home. Undoubtedly, there's a place in this world for her, and to some ears, I'm certain Dyed in the Wool is sheer (shear?) brilliance. These people are likely those who empathize with Wright's self-conscious acrimony and enjoy marinating in other peoples' distress or wallowing in their own.
So, as you might imagine, Wright delivers some pretty thick lyrics. On "A Vessel for a Minor Malady," for example, Wright yelps: "There's no cure so why should I care/ You have fled into this blackness/ Ir this sling I must contain." There's plenty of that sort of dense, oblique poeticism in effect on just about every track, but it's balanced with more direct stuff, like on "Hinterland": "Hinterland, I shall descend/ Hinterland, I crumble within." As long as the very mention of the word "hinterland" doesn't make you retch, and you can get past the 'descending/crumbling' metaphor this song shares with so much high school poetry, you may enjoy Dyed ir the Wool. Perhaps too much.
As for orchestration, Shannon Wright has definitely found the formula to match her attitude. The music mimics the dramatic effect of the lyrics, painting bleak, uneasy portraits of distance and resentment. Minor key piano vamps and mournful string accompaniments are especially prominent, as are guitars-- both acoustic and electric, either arpeggiating chords or providing shrill melody with treble up the ass. Wright's backing band (including members of Rachel's, the Rock A Teens, the Boxhead Ensemble, and Edith Frost) actually does a fine job, and with the engineering assistance of Andy Baker and Steve Albini, the overall sound is solid and striking, albeit not exactly soothing to the ears (it's fair to say that the music here is 'difficult,' even while the lyrics are most certainly not).
The axis on which this album turns likely rests in your brain. Do you buy the schtick? The melodrama, I mean. Do you empathize with Wright's pain? Are her lyrics convincing to you? Can you handle high notes with maximum vibrato? Perhaps more importantly, have you recently been used by an asshole with a Y chromosome? Answer 'yes' to a few of these questions, and you may have yourself a winner. For a good chunk of humanity, though, this album is just as likely to be frustrating as it is therapeutic.
