You may not have heard of her before. I hadn’t. But Cincinnati-based Mol Sullivan, who came of age during the 1990s to the likes of Alanis Morissette, Sheryl Crow and Lisa Loeb before diving headfirst into the alternative scene in the aughts, has crafted a memorable debut album with help from Sima Cunningham, who produced, and Dorian Gehring, who engineered. Recorded in Chicago, it features a slew of cool backup musicians and is at once sparse and robust, with the space between notes giving the songs a chance to breathe and an array of instruments—ranging from clarinet to pedal steel and pretty much everything in between—sliding into the mix when needed. (Chamber pop, it’s called.) And keep an ear open for the backing vocals, which are a thing of beauty.
In short, these are stark and dramatic odes to the challenges inherent in life, from embracing sobriety to matters of the heart. The songs are as much conversations as confessionals, and not necessarily born from what the press release calls her “decade-long affair with alcohol,” though no doubt inspired by it. Wasted time, bad decisions, fractured relationships—they’re sources for regret for her, looking back, but—if we’re being honest—the issues are common to most who walk the Earth. We live, we learn, though not all at the same speed. Some coast on, forever blinding themselves to the damage they inflict. Others confuse want for need—or vice versa. And the brave eventually re-set and move on the best they can. Odds are, in other words, you’ll recognize yourself and/or a loved one in these songs.
“Cannonball,” for instance, tells of a friend failing to recognize their issues, but turns the focus to herself on the chorus: “Where has all the time gone?/Clocks’ faces hid away/Lookin’ for a savior/Gettin’ in my own damn way.” At times, to my ears, she sounds a bit like Liz Phair; her vocals are expressive and lived-in, humanity personified—as are her lyrics. In the title track, for instance, she digs into the reality faced by many grappling with demons: “Oh, I don’t know, honestly/How this is supposed to go/To keep the devil in me/From her big top, one-man show/A little slip, a little kiss/A little tumble, and a dive/Head first into a tidal pool/Much too shallow to survive.” At the same time, the production is a tad avant-garde, with the arrangement expanding from a strummed guitar into an orchestral opus.
Of late, I’ve been re-reading The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens for the first time since my college years. “Metaphor as Degeneration,” and I’m taking this triplet out of context, notes, “And these images, these reverberations,/And others, make certain how being/Includes death and the imagination.” Somehow that encapsulates Sullivan’s Goose, though the album is as much about life and living as anything. It turns her personal journey into something that we can all grasp and, as such, is a well-hewn travelogue worth checking out.
The Old Grey Cat 