With downplayed creation and strong vocal exhibitions, the Los Angeles musician makes a sorrowful excursion record that feels like a leap forward.
Time Ain't Coincidental is an excursion record loaded with open space and clear detail. Standing by listening to its 11 brilliant down home melodies, you'll experience a singalong to Townes Van Zandt, "cigarettes and modest incense," and a poolside rendezvous at a Marfa lodging. The view is serene, yet Los Angeles-based lyricist Jess Williamson is fretful, eyes generally prepared not too far off. She's the one steering the ship, but on the other hand she's the one asking Would we say we are there yet? As the world murmurs along behind her, she's in the forefront moving like a pop star: the eager, imprudent focus of an excruciatingly sluggish universe.
It's been a long time since Williamson's last collection, 2020's dry, desolate Sorceress, and you can hear, from the initial snapshots of Time Ain't Unintentional, how her methodology has changed. Her raspy, cool-young lady inflection has been supplanted by a voice that is clarion and rich with feeling. The local Texan twang she flaunted on I Strolled With You Far, her 2022 coordinated effort with Waxahatchee as Fields, is on full presentation. Williamson's delinquent feeling of enunciation considers a few surprising rhymes; the more outré matches — "Raymond Carver" and "pool bar," "ate me crude" and "Shangri-La" — provide her composition with a feeling of flightiness that is reflected in the collection's uncommon plans.
Created by non mainstream go-to Brad Cook, Time Ain't Unintentional doesn't seem like numerous new independent nation records. The warm woodwinds that filled in as overlaying on Sorceress are this record's establishment, alongside the snap of an iPhone drum machine. It's an open, windy record, frequently pared back to simply saxophone, a casual beat, and Williamson's voice. It's a shockingly flexible range, considering tense, sorrowful resentment ("Something's in the Way") as well as becoming flushed heartfelt dreams, for example, the title track and "Topanga Two Stage." Williamson, singing with another strength and depth, is an attractive presence. On "A Couple of Seasons," she considers how she figured out how to "oblige and get so little," and the manner in which she sings — powerfully, suffused with a sincere, importuning quality — feels like a counter to that acknowledgment.
Time Ain't Incidental is a separation record, however its perceptions are distant from the quick intensity of a separation. All things considered, Williamson sways between wry examination and honest interest. A few lines are saturated with harsh incongruity — "I was respected for my understanding and my solidarity/I'm notable for being so OK," she sings on "A Couple of Seasons," bringing up the sayings companions offer after a split — while others treat regular day to day existence with wide-looked at energy. On "Tracker," she expounds on the risks of application based dating and transforms everyday swipes into an odyssey: "I need a mirror not a piece of glass/We went 100 down the thruway/I've been known to move somewhat quick/I'm a tracker for the genuine article." Love is a decisive matter in Williamson's reality, regardless of whether current sentiment can feel regulatory and sort of bologna.
Despite the fact that a significant number of the characters are grief stricken or wracked with tension, Williamson explores present day life utilizing immortal sayings that loan Time Ain't Coincidental an enormous, satisfying certainty. She sings clearly about the misery of being in another person's gravitational draw, and for each new age-y pearl of understanding ("Break the light/The light remaining parts"), there's one more that sounds like it was gathered from the profundities of a jump bar jukebox. On the strained "Something's in the Way," a ruined ditty that enlarges into frenzied jazz, she slips effectively into perhaps of nation's most getting through model, the devoted lady waiting for a flighty darling: "A man like you knows how to make me pause."
Shock isn't Williamson's just mode. She has an approach to transforming fast teases and blazes of new sentiment into calm love tunes that sound relaxed yet shine brilliantly. On "Topanga Two Stage," a fragile pop melody with transportive symbolism and needling snares, Williamson prods a fluctuating old flame, trying him to take action. The creation is downplayed, yet Williamson's presence resembles a typhoon: "Child, god damn," she shouts, extending the words into a rich, euphoric snare. Coming from her, it sounds fantastic — an outflow of dissatisfaction and delight in one. It may not be the "extremist sort of adoration" that Williamson looks for all through the record, yet it's sufficient fuel to keep her out and about.
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