The coarse, soothing voice of Martha Wainwright
defies easy classification, but she has a way of milking a vowel to squeeze out every last drop of pain and nuance.
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TRAY BUTLE
Friday, April 22, 2005
SUPPOSE YOU HAVE no idea who Martha Wainwright is. Maybe some friend gave you
her debut CD, his eyes a little watery. And he ordered you to go to a dimly
lit room, pour yourself a stiff drink and listen to track No. 9. It’s
titled “B.M.F.A.,” an odd acronym that you soon discover starts
with the word “bloody” and ends with three expletives that family
newspapers like this one can’t print.
The song is magnificent.
It’s possible you don’t need to know that the singer is the latest
member of a music dynasty, her gay brother Rufus, arguably, the most famous
of the crew. Perhaps you can listen to the CD without comparing it to the work
of her mother or aunt, folk royalty Kate and Anna McGarrigle.
You can definitely relish the bitter catharsis of “B.M.F.A.” without
knowing its back story, an apparent jab at Martha’s father, roots musician
Loudon Wainwright III.
But Martha Wainwright is an artist who can’t be taken out of context.
Her highly anticipated self-titled, debut album, which hit stores last week
after years of live performances and two well-received EPs, nearly drips with
import. The family ties will surely give the CD more exposure than it would
have received otherwise, but what’s clear here is the arrival of an important
new talent who shines in her own right.
THE 29-YEAR-OLD BROOKLYN-BASED singer is used to being asked about her famous
relatives and she takes the questioning in stride.
“They’re all talented and interesting songwriters and they’re
really strong at what they do,” she says. “That’s definitely
something I’ve never tried to run away from.”
Martha, who grew up in Montreal with her mother and brother, at first rebelled
against her musical heritage and considered pursuing drama. She eventually found
herself living in New York and touring as a back-up singer with her brother.
The experience gave her a chance to sharpen her stage persona and consider
her own musical career. She also saw firsthand how her brother’s newfound
fame led to reckless partying and a drug habit, which culminated in his month-long
visit to a rehab clinic.
“Before Rufus was sober, it was crazy and it was fun and dangerous and
also sometimes not so fun,” she says of the tours. “And since then,
it’s a lot smoother. It’s been great for me because I have this
sort of cameo appearance in his show.”
MARTHA’S AESTHETIC SEEMS to have been colored more by pop legends than
the rest of the clan.
There’s also a subtle theme of the differences between men and women,
with strains of envy that sometime emerge. In “B.M.F.A.” she sings,
“I wish I had been born a man/ So I could learn how to stand up for myself
…”
Though she’s reportedly dedicated the song to her father in live shows,
she says the song is more about the bravado that male singers bring to performing.
And then there’s the voice, which defies easy classification. It’s
at once coarse and soothing, and evokes the likes of Patti Smith and Tori Amos.
Martha has a way of milking a vowel to squeeze out every last drop of pain and
nuance, a sound that carries far too much weight to be coming from someone so
young.
“I think I’ve always had a bit of an old soul,” she says.
“I don’t look old, but my eyes do. You know these people who look
like they have an 80-year-old inside, but also a 10-year-old? I feel like I’m
now catching up with the person and the age I’m supposed to be.”
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