The cover of Wed 21, the first album in five years from Argentinian musician Juana Molina, depicts a featureless face with the words of the title spelled out over it. It's a curious choice of imagery to accompany a comeback, perhaps suggesting a blank slate, a clearing out of what came before, a chance to start anew. But Wed 21 isn't a reinvention, or any kind of new dawn for Molina. There are subtle differences between this and Son, her benchmark 2006 album, although they're in the finespun details and not the overall framework. Considerable time has passed, but Molina is still on a slow evolutionary journey of her own devising.
Recapping her career to date involves working through a series of albums that combine earthy acoustic textures with tightly condensed loops. It's not dissimilar to the world inhabited by L.A.-via-Brooklyn duo High Places, where common folk tropes are given a nudge into the 21st century. Molina's work is contemplative but welcoming, often carrying a warmth that's inviting despite lyrics that are indecipherable to non-Spanish speakers. One of the remarkable facets of Molina's output is how her way with words quickly overcomes understanding, where simple enunciation is enough to open up a strain of thought about her motivations.
Wed 21 brings in a wider range of instruments than before, although the impact is barely noticeable. Molina's voice dominates, even when live drums surface or snatches of acoustic guitar thrum into the frame. That familiar tenor to her vocal is the anchor that draws this to her prior work, even when she’s manipulating it. On "Sin Guia No" we get vocal loops, multi-tracked harmonies, breathy intimacy, and a rousing chorus. Sometimes two or three of those things collide all at once, but Molina is a skilled editor, making sure not to leave an obstructive trail of clutter behind her.
Much of this album, like most of her recorded work, resembles a well-organized room decked out in tasteful furniture, with every part slotted neatly in place. Everything's so precise, so ordered. Little is left to chance, even when she draws back the curtains and lets a little autumnal breeze fill the air in the light pop of "Lo Decidí Yo", a song delivered with a similar wistfulness to some of Françoise Hardy's work. Molina's best material only leans lightly on folk, instead becoming transportative, like a fantastic fable. "Eras" is the best example of that approach here, with all its stylistic turns resembling a mysteriously winding forest path.
Molina does humor, too, although it can feel peculiar to crack a smile at something when it's overlayed with words those who don't speak Spanish can't interpret. The title track here is an example of that, with its manic robo-melodies and creaking-chair rhythms. Mostly this is an album that's remarkable for how close Molina draws you in and then spits you out, alternating wildly between closeness and distance. The sense of familiarity carried over from her other records works in her favor, making Wed 21 feel like an old friend who's back in town with a clutch of new stories to tell. Like all good storytellers, Molina's gift is in the delivery.
