Billie Marten She writes of yellows, certainly, and the blues arrive later; big, inky, blue-black blotches of melancholy that fall and then blossom on fading parchment paper, the only thing left to surprise the listener about Writings of Blues and Yellows is that she sat in one place long enough to learn the piano.
Now at the grand age of 17, Billie Marten already sounds world-weary. “La Lune” opens the album with a skipping-stone touch, setting out her stall as a songwriter who creates quiet, almost ambient textures, so that the minor chords twist like a knife when they arrive. “Bird” takes the template a step further, a brooding string part’s vibrato matching the quiver in her voice. As the album progresses, it becomes apparent that the strings are rarely entirely absent, but have the good grace to spend most of their time quietly complementing Marten’s guitar and voice, only rushing forward to meet them at the record’s stormiest moments.
Occasionally, the pace is allowed to gather into something approaching a jaunt, as on “Milk & Honey”, a dig at the world’s unfettered consumerism. But mostly, the songs here are stripped for their saddest parts, channeling the spirit of her contemporaries: Daughter, and, Laura Marling. The temptation to buy into a tortured prodigy narrative here will prove irresistible for some, painting a bruised, teenage heart too pure for this cruel world. Certainly, Marten is honest about her own struggles – there is no lack of candour on “Teeth” (“I’m writing this in a bad way… No one can hear what my head says”).
In truth, whether Lionhearted or lying through her teeth, the songwriting never veers into self-pity, and the whole record feels absurdly confident. For Billie Marten, the blues are as much a gift to the world as the yellows.
Release: 23rd September 2016, Chess Club Records / RCA
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