At this point in Carla Bozulich's career, an album stewing in this much unrefined emotional sludge is pretty surprising. Then again, with a résumé as expansive and convoluted as Bozulich's, there's little use in trying to plot out her next logical step, let alone identify what sort of creative stage, if any, you can consider her in right now. In a little over a quarter century, Bozulich's dabbled in such areas as industrial (Ethyl Meatplow), alt-country (the Geraldine Fibbers, Scarnella), elaborate performance art, and, on the 2003 re-imagining of Red Headed Stranger, even Willie Nelson. So, an avant-garde blues/metal/classical album dripping with bloody catharsis? Sure, why not?
"Here's to St. Anne, who's gone mad" sings Bozulich on the nearly a-rhythmic opener "Winds of St. Anne". On Hello, Voyager, Bozulich mines more from her 2006 solo album Evangelista than a new name for her new band. Voyager further explores the omnipresent female dementia of Evangelista, this time with an even fuller sound and an increasingly tortured performance from Bozulich. Nearly every track here occupies its own realm, tenuously connected by Bozulich's vocals or similar string arrangements but otherwise completely alien to each other. Nothing demonstrates this better than the cold shower effect of "The Frozen Dress", a post-rock instrumental wasteland, coming after the blistering two-minute stoner metal of de facto single "Truth is Dark Like Outer Space".
As the only American artist on Montreal label Constellation, Bozulich introduces touches of country and blues to the label's signature apocalyptic symphonies. Considering the popularity of Jonny Greenwood's recent There Will Be Blood score, there's probably no better time than now to juxtapose a grimy blues ballad like "Lucky Lucky Luck" with the chillingly out-of-tune violins of "For the L'il Dudes". However, Voyager doesn't simply run its listeners through a gauntlet of extremes. Bozulich provides flashes of her inner country songwriter, particularly on the surprisingly tender "The Blue Room". With a lead guitar imitating a dusty old music box, Bozulich herself waxes equally delicate, at least in comparison to Voyager's darker, tortured narratives: "So I fold you like a dead poem/ And stick you in a teacup/ With a crack in the broke-off handle."
Despite these eclectic tracks, Bozulich doesn't just genre-surf for pleasure. Voyager gradually deposits its bitterness into the final two tracks, the epically bleak dirge "Paper Kitten Claw" and the title track, a twelve-minute evangelical tirade from hell. The latter in particular stands as the most memorable track here, even if its discombobulated cymbal crashes and call-and-response preaching would hit harder as live performance art. Of course, Evangelista make it pretty clear from the get-go that their artistic aims are not solely focused on recording songs in a studio. Rife with suspense, drama, and a grisly cast of characters, Voyager's probably more likely to ignite your inner playwright than get your foot tapping, but it's still a cathartic rush all the same.
