On her debut LP, California singer-songwriter Jessie Jones advises her listeners "And all the mystery is over a fear that by letting/ Go of love it'll feel like an ending/ Give it away/ It'll come back when you're ready." This sanguine, if-you-love-something-let-it-go philosophy is in line with her career. She's traded in leading the charge for garage-rock quintet Feeding People to actualize her visions of radiant pop grandeur. It's a smooth transition for Jones, whose versatility as a vocalist alone is enough to warrant her place in the spotlight.
On her solo release, she comes across as the best advocate you could have for not taking shit from anyone. But she also spins intoxicating tales that reveal her spiritual perspective on life. Her hippie-influenced outlook is partially why her name has been mentioned in the same breath as Janis Joplin, but her syrupy mew is closer in sound to indie-pop peer Alex Winston. Opener "Sugar-Coated" recalls a King Con-era Winston, as Jones builds the sprightly pop song with her deceivingly innocent voice before skyrocketing to carry the anthemic chorus. She plays with tension and release vocally on the rapturous "Lady La De Da".
Mottled with giddy tambourines and spattering drum fills, the album is a little bipolar in its approach to instrumentation, but it isn't messy. "Quicksilver Screen" is anchored by jangly riffs, letting a squealing synth lead drop into deeper, wonkier ones that bob up and down with resilience. Jones flirts with brassier proclivities on "Twelve Hour Man", as rollicking horns steal the show, racing jazzy percussion and fluttering piano chords to the finish line. Closer "Mental Illness" is the album's biggest outlier but also one of its biggest successes. Suddenly we're placed in Jones' bedroom, as she nearly whispers in your ear, "My mental illness/ There's nothing wrong with it/ Sick of my feelings, tired of faking it/ Crying so hard, I can't explain it." She repeats this over a few bare riffs until her singing smudges into echoes. It's a stark jump from the up-to-mid-tempo psych-pop that precedes it, but it's a self-titled record for a reason. Jones wants to give her all, even if her moment of vulnerability is only a brief glance.
"La Loba" is another anomaly, though a less severe one. It's a flamenco song that feels like an ancient fable put to music. Jones' voice snakes luxuriously around a few low, slick chords, a violin weeping. She grows increasingly desperate and unrelenting as the track builds, howling across zipping guitar lines, the pressure bubbling over like a pot of boiling water. It's a testament to the formidable range she never got a chance to fully realize during her time in Feeding People.
Jessie Jones is a well-rounded introduction, one that holds little back. When asked about her personal philosophy, Jones is frank. "Love yourself and speak your truth. I believe in individualism, I'm not anything but who I am is only something I live with." This album's inconsistencies are deliberate. Without them, she would be presenting a false identity, an incomplete version of herself. With them, we can more fully work toward understanding Jessie Jones, the individual.
