Ms Chan Marshall (the individual behind the CP moniker) is a bit of a darling around my home town. Her first not-completely-avant garde album was recorded in Melbourne. Not long after I saw her deliver a memorable sunset set at Meredith Music Festival. While my memory of said performance is hazy at best, I do recall her being quite arty and possibly captivating.
Despite this I never bothered to acquire any of her output. I was happy to hear snippets of her new work on local radio and write her off as yet another difficult ingenue embraced by lover of all who record – Thurston Moore.
I ended up picking this album up dirt cheap in a music store in Saigon (thus it may be of dubious provenance). And it has underwhelmed me ever since. CP comes across as yet another of these breathy, slow-paced, potentially emotive female crooners. But, the problem is the sameness of the tracks. This album can loop and loop incessantly on my iPod, yet I recall so little.
Perhaps it’s that Marshall’s delicate compositions are ill-suited to brash, sunny California. Or that they do not lend themselves to a roadtrip (I must state a current fascination with seeking out hip-hop tunes about downing Cristal, girls in bikinis, and invitations for combining these two in hotel rooms, and then playing said tunes loud while cruising the LA streets).
I saw her perform this album last year, and she was impressive, so she may have some claim to goodness…
File under: Only great in an Anthony Mundine sense of the word