Anna Calvi recently listed classical composer Claude Debussy, filmmaker Wong Kar-Wai, and Flamenco music as influences on her self-titled debut album. While none of these signifiers seem to directly shape her music, Calvi's record feels like it has much in common with cinema and literature. She uses sonic textures to evoke feelings-- from spaghetti-western guitars to her lung-busting take on gothic melodrama. Musically she's indebted to a lineage of female songwriters from Edith Piaf and Patti Smith to PJ Harvey.
The latter comparison is bolstered by the appearance of longtime Harvey collaborator Rob Ellis on production duties. His rangy, atmospheric handling of the music is one of the record's standout qualities. While the sound is suitably bombastic, Ellis also takes care to open up enough emptiness in the mix to allow Calvi's twisting guitar to snake with menace. On the strongest moments, such as "No More Words", Calvi pushes herself into darker territory, as Ellis allows cavernous space to open up, her voice and guitar sounding as if they are being played into a black hole. It's also one of the softest songs on the record, crafting a coiled feeling when Calvi's voice quietens to a whisper, hanging like a thread but never snapping. The restraint has an edge to it that feels provocative.
Still there are moments where Calvi ratchets up the drama too readily, and sometimes hams it up-- see "I'll Be Your Man", which comes across as campy. More often than not, however, Calvi gets the balance right: "Suzanne and I" feels grand as it lurches from bare guitars underpinned by pounding drums into a skeletal breakdown. The delicacy of its second half-- ghostly, yearning singing and spacey fingerpicking-- makes for a bigger payoff when the drums kick back in and her guitar doubles the vocal lines, giving the ending a truly anthemic quality.
On much of the record Calvi explores the pained romanticism of goth with references to the devil, darkness, and unrequited love. These passing allusions are reduced into something elemental on "Desire", with its impassioned wail against loneliness, as Calvi sings, "You don't have to be lost"; it's a rare moment of togetherness and empathy on an album where Calvi can sometimes seem cold. She dresses up in the same outer strength as Piaf often did, but without the same sense of underlying vulnerability.
Calvi's outstanding vocal tone and arrangements carry the emotional punches, while her lyrics can occasionally take a backseat role. She never allows herself to sound truly exposed, and this adds to a sense that, for all its perceived boldness and big climaxes, the record never seems unhinged or fragile. It can sometimes feel more like a series of controlled demolitions than something from the gut. But once you accept these shortcomings and give yourself over to Calvi's wall of theater, there are plenty of excellent moments to lose yourself in.
