The press notes helpfully point out that Meredith Godreau chose the name Gregory and the Hawk to "avoid her being perceived or pigeonholed as a female singer-songwriter." Never mind the fact that she is without a doubt female and without a doubt a singer-songwriter, and a "female singer-songwriter" in the generic neo-genre sense at that. Not only will no one be fooled by the fake band name, now she's also saddled with a twee moniker that brings to mind children's books and assorted Wes Anderson-isms.
The name of Gregory and the Hawk's second album, Moenie and Kitchi, adds images of kittens into the mix, or perhaps Japanese cartoon characters. But no need to complicate things with hypotheticals. At heart Gregory and the Hawk is still singer-songwriter Meredith Godreau, and the disc offers things that might be expected of such a title, such as quiet acoustic guitar and earnestly and innocently cooed vocals.
Yet Moenie and Kitchi does have an x-factor working in its favor, and that's producer and multi-instrumentalist Adam Pierce, of Mice Parade fame. Supposedly, many of Godreau's vocals and guitars were recorded in the same take. If they'd stopped there, the album would be pretty dire indeed. Fortunately, Godreau has no qualms with adorning her skeletal songs with a little meat. The loose drums and buzzing strings of "Oats We Sow" gives the otherwise off-the-rack track a slight tinge of unpredictability. A similarly just slightly left-of-center approach helps "Doubtful" escape a descent into third-rate Kate Bush, especially when the sub-sonic bass rumbles and amorphous guitar kicks in. "Ghost" even comes close to actually rocking, and the horns are a nice touch, too.
Unfortunately, the songs are awfully ephemeral. Godreau's crystalline voice is remarkable, and it's often mixed high, as if there were any way to miss it. And there's no doubt that she has a way with curiously unresolved melodies. But there's a limitation to her voice all the same, which never wanders too far from the same range or timbre. That leaves a song such as the aptly titled "Voice Like a Bell" almost invisibly pretty. It's up to the subtle idiosyncrasies of the production and arrangements-- the swell of ambient noise that ends "Super Legend", say, or the percussive electric guitar that propels "Harmless"-- to coax the disc out of coffee-house purgatory. But it never quite tips the balance.
