
06-06-05 - JAYMAY Live at the Living Room, NYC - from WOMANROCK
Every Monday night for the past month a waif of a performer has been entrancing shoulder-to-shoulder crowds in the back room of SoHo's Living
Room bar, backgrounding the chitchat of Village hipsters with an
ethereal concoction of lilting lyrics, wailed laments, clever
interludes, and the sort of good old-fashioned folk that freely
references its foot-tapping roots. As a songwriter, JAYMAY has
a talent for taking girl-with-a guitar conventions and nudging
them just enough left of center that your aesthetic sense
becomes conscious of experiencing something new. She's mastered
the sardonic, no-nonsense delivery that made early Ani DiFranco
sound at once so personal and so tough, and that serves as such
an effective counterpoint to the wispy sentimentalism of soft
folk rock. She demonstrates through abbreviated pieces like
“Letter” that she's not afraid to let a short but sweet musical
theme stand on its own, unadorned, as the sort of ephemeral
musical poem with which Tori Amos fans are so familiar, and she
seasons old country tropes with contemporary sensibility as
adeptly as Neko Case. But these comparisons serve only to
illustrate aspects of her art, not to reduce or dissect it.
Whether she's strumming along to a ragtime piano solo,
whispering confessional poetry over faintly plucked guitar
strings, or improvising a horn solo that—due to the absence of a
horn—is literally tongue-in-cheek, JAYMAY has a style that's
very much her own, and that style is serving her well.
In the show I attended she
bantered confidently with a crowd that barely fit in the room
she faced, and that responded to her confessions with a hush, to
her single one-liner with a roar, and to the gestalt of her
performance with generous contributions to the tip-bucket. In
fact, though her songwriting is accomplished and her style is
singular, her real genius seems to be for performance, and
specifically for the kind of laid back performance that invites
attention rather than demanding it. She sits |