Two years ago, singer-songwriter Lucy Rose’s joy at being a new mum was tempered by unbearable back pain. She attributed it to the postpartum process until, five weeks after giving birth, she collapsed while lifting her baby from his crib. Making matters worse: a quack doctor claimed the pain was psychosomatic. It wasn’t until she paid out of pocket for an MRI that the cause was identified: eight broken vertebra. Turned out, she suffered from pregnancy and lactation-associated osteoporosis, a rare condition that impacts one in 250,000 new mothers. (The Guardian has an excellent interview with Lucy about it and the album, including the boost a Logic session gave her and what a cool gent Paul Weller is. To read it, click here.)
But one need not know any of that backstory to appreciate and enjoy This Ain’t the Way You Go Out. Allusions, metaphors and directness join forces with funky rhythms, frenetic piano riffs and Lucy’s ethereal vocals to create an intoxicating sonic tonic sure to cure whatever may be ailing you. It’s catharsis set to song. Much as she melded folk with Pink Floyd on parts of No Words Left and folk with adventurous pop (and a little Floyd) on Something’s Changing, here she’s melded folk with pop, jazz-inflected beats and, too, Wild Wood-era Paul Weller. There’s also a few tunes that would be at home on any of her albums.
The 12-track, 36-minute album opens with a rhythmic piano punch on “Light as Grass” that gives way to her sardonic state of mind: “Come find me in discomfort/light me up and put me out.” “Could You Help Me” captures her at a low ebb, when—housebound—she yearns for a visit from a friend whose visage is fading fast from her mind; it captures a sentiment anyone who’s been stuck at home for long periods will identify with, I think. “Dusty Frames,” on the other hand, explores memories florid and horrid, how the past reverberates into the present, and suggests—as Graham Nash sang a lifetime ago—that we can change the world. (“Where there is hate we can bring love,” she sings.)
“Whatever You Want” digs into the dichotomies that befell her: “How can something like this happen to me/A miracle, a disaster, all in one fell swoop.” The music expands from her at the piano to include synths, drums and more, all while she gives voice to her fear: “I wanna be a strong mum and not feel helpless/But guess what?” The instrumental “Interlude1” is a cool mood piece, while “Life’s Too Short” closes the first side by giving a gentle backhand to the jerks who walk among us: “You thought you could steal my spark/But guess again it won’t dampen for long.”
Side 2 opens with the title track, a cogent piece of self-analysis that gives way to the recognition that everyone faces challenges: “If someone on the street asks me/what it’s like being me/I’ll say, hell, it’s been a journey/Like everyone else you meet.” Next up is “Over When It’s Over,” a jaunty tune that, thematically speaking, recalls Lenny Kravitz’s “It Ain’t Over ’til It’s Over” while dispensing a bitter pill: Time may indeed heal all wounds, but time takes time. Life doesn’t come with a “next” button that enables us to skip the bad parts. (Wouldn’t it be nice if it did, though?)
The genteel “Sail Away” finds Lucy bobbing the waves to the horizon with her beloved—if that’s what he wants. It’s followed by the brief “Interlude II,” which introduces a promising new singer—her son Otis, whose tuneful babbles are an absolute delightful. “No More,” for its part, is another moody gem that finds her yearning to press the “next” button on life: “Well, time it moves fast/And I’m afraid we’re too slow/So hold me forward.” The LP comes to a close with “The Racket,” essentially an instrumental cyclone that finds a clear-eyed Lucy at its center, cognizant that—despite the hullabaloo she’s been through—she’s still in the game.
All in all, This Ain’t the Way You Go Out is a remarkable album that both longtime and new fans will and should enjoy. (For those who prefer physical media, Lucy Rose’s web store offers LPs, CDs, and signed this-and-that for sale.)
The Old Grey Cat 