9th
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I Left Town: Julie Doiron (2007)
There is something so delightfully intimate about this song that it’s easy to imagine it being recorded in the back seat of car, a few duffle bags and maybe a crate of records next to Julie and her guitar. Maybe we’re stopped at an interstate rest stop. It’s the middle of the night and there’s that strange middle of the night feeling, a cocktail of sleepiness and giddiness brought on by the notion that one has conquered night or sleep or, really, both. Of course this scenario is somewhat incongruous with the song’s narrative, but it’s still nice to imagine.
But what I really find so remarkable about this recording is its ability to sound so full, so complete. It has little to do – and I’m certain of this – with microphones or audio equipment. The magic is in her voice and the space left around it. Her breathy, winded, bedroom singing reveals a mouth – lips, teeth, and tongue – and then a throat, lungs even. It is the complete portrait of an upper respiratory system. So generous in its willingness to be vulnerable. And in this way, it is irrefutably lovely. An entirely and effusively human thing.
Oh, and you can distinctly hear a cat meow at the two-minute mark. It drives me wild with pleasure every time.
