I'd never been hugely interested in the Canadian singer Feist-- not until I saw her television performance of a lilting, clap-happy singalong called "1, 2, 3, 4". That song alone drew me into her last album, The Reminder, and I can't complain too much about the other things I found there. But it still felt a little deflating when I realized that the song that had lured me through was actually written by an artist I was already plenty fascinated by-- Australia's Sally Seltmann, sole proprietor of New Buffalo.
On her previous LP, The Last Beautiful Day, Seltmann's songs were backed by an odd and awfully charming array of sounds: Her own guitar and piano, of course, but also breezy hand percussion and squared-off, minimalist constructions of sampled horns and strings, ghostly in tone and yet endlessly friendly. (Appropriate, given that Seltmann's husband is one of the Avalanches.) Her hit writing for another singer, though, befits the sound of her newest record, which is a lot less finished off. These tend to feel like songs alone, not full-on productions: Mostly Seltmann at the piano, and sometimes at the guitar, and mostly more interested in the drifting multi-track harmonies of her voice than anything else.
Coming from anyone else, parts of it might even feel lazy-- except this kind of intimacy is Seltmann's whole appeal as a songwriter. Here more than ever, she doesn't seem to write the kinds of songs that are built for stages, or grand pronouncements to other people: They're more like the kinds of half-songs that hum through your head while you're walking alone or sitting on park benches or washing dishes. The first track here is called "Cheer Me Up Thank You", and has her absently thanking every pretty thing around her for making life nicer. It's not precious, either: She sounds pleased with herself in the good, grateful, generous way, the kind of happy you get when it's nice out, your life is going okay, and you just want to stop and marvel at that for a second. (You can hear that same sly joy in "1, 2, 3, 4".) It's not static, either: She sounds sad and amazed at the loss of friends; grand and transported on "Emotional Champ"; tired and drained on a track called "I'm the Drunk and You're the Star".
But as she goes on like that, lolling delicately around the piano, writing these simple, gemlike songs, it becomes clear that this kind of intimacy won't charm everyone. Seltmann's conversational lilt and sigh doesn't have the emotional range to move in many different directions, and the low pulse rate of her songs doesn't make for much tension or release. The production here is polished and airy-- not raw enough to sell her as a lo-fi bedsit genius, nor hazy or abstract enough to come off like an arty dream-world she's inviting you into. And it's inevitable that some will find this sort of thing twee, or too feminine, both of which it isn't.
It's challenging, actually-- "difficult" art-- to pull people into songs this close, and her decision to pull harder and further is moving her music in directions that are hard to get from anyone else. There are lots of indie artists who feel cloistered, sealed off in their own worlds, but few of them are offering anything so full of wonder and surprise at the everyday. Seltmann's the most earnestly dreamy balladeer around: If she has an agenda, it would seem to lie in the idea that your private, daily moods and emotions-- hurt feelings, spilled coffee, a nice patch of sun-- are as worthy of tender ballads as any grand plot or crisis. (There's no reason that should be any more "feminine" than a short story is, but I suspect it still is.) On her last album, that meant stuff like a song called "Recovery", with an upbeat, anthemic chorus that just said "Recovery/ Looks like it's gonna be/ Okay." On this one, it involves staring you right in the eyes even more calmly than that, singing lines as great as "I got myself into this mess/ I chose to wear this stupid dress".
