Whenever a record features a lyric like, "You call me Danny and I call you Mable/ You passed out so I flipped through cable," it's almost impossible not to immediately demand some kind of cultural perspective-- anything to justify that kind of deliberately queasy setting. Mostly, this means fronting an appropriately coarse locale. Check the millions of unmitigated references to Iron & Wine's hometown of Miami, Florida, and the inevitable beard-stroking that accompanies attempts to nail Sam Beam's throaty, broken-down folk to a town better known for topless sunbathing and people in frayed jean shorts and/or rollerblades. Somehow, authenticity is all tied up in claiming the proper context-- a kind of geo-cultural aptitude, wherein the sound and feel of a record is inextricably linked to the nuances of the landscape. How palatable would The Strokes' cigarettes and shitty jeans be if the band had burst forth from the streets of Vermont? Might we have suspected their art-rock credibility?
Kathleen Edwards is Canadian, and sleepily coos sad songs about jobs down south, slurping whiskey, infidelity, and dirty girls in dirty bars. Her album also hosts a track called "Hockey Skates"; like Neil Young or The Band, Edwards seems firmly rooted in a very specific kind of guilty, gritty American longing, despite hailing from a tidy, peaceable country with unarmed policemen and free health care. It's an anachronism that can only be effectively squared by complete geographic disregard: close your eyes and think of Mississippi. Or learn to reconcile yourself to the high, lonesome sound of muddy Canuck melancholy.
Because despite this conflicy, Failer is an accomplished debut, packed with haunting, tired laments that only occasionally cross the line to preciousness. A few too many goofy guitar solos break things, and some over-produced, swelling strings seem out of place, but Edwards' breathy, wearied singing is certainly true and consistently compelling. Opener "Six O'Clock News" is deceptively swishy for a song that recounts the brutal murder of a man whose baby is slated to arrive, via the narrator, this June; the sodden and languished "Sweet Little Duck" is a brooding, minimalist acoustic crawl through depression ("I sleep through most days/ So the time goes by/ And I think I drink now more than ever.") "Maria" is steeped in (carefully monitored) guitar feedback and hooky vocals, with lyrics that boast more cars and drugs and fast, fleeing women.
Edwards is perpetually being pinned to her Lucinda Williams poster, and the comparison-- the borderline irrelevance of which, I'd imagine, must be properly irritating to Edwards-- is actually apt, if a bit too easy to be fulfilling. She's mastered Williams' dusty, slept-all-day whisper, but there's a bit of Aimee Mann's crafty songwriting here, too, and Failer certainly evokes, if only incidentally, the atmospherics of Nina Nastasia's striking debut. This is impeccably put together (if painfully straightforward) alt- country, the kind of stuff that wins Grammys and sits on the coffee tables of well-behaved urbanites, who will shiver a bit when Edwards says "fuck," but quickly grin and giggle at her candor, clinking their martini glasses. Regardless of the audience she's bound to attract, Edwards has significant songwriting prowess, and Failer stands up to any unfashionable associations.
