The first time I heard “XOXO,” the lead single to Brooklyn-based singer-songwriter Camille Schmidt’s debut long player, left me flummoxed. That was early November, mere months after her six-song EP, Good Person, fed my folk-rock needs by serving sumptuous sonic links that reminded me of Mary Lou Lord and Liz Phair, among others. The wispy yet gritty sounds she forged resonated large in my ears but, on the new song, the head slap of rubbery Auto-Tuned vocals left me bewildered. Music is such an idiosyncratic thing, with each of us bringing our own experiences to the table, that it’s impossible to say with certainty anything but, “It’s got a good beat and I can dance to it.” Or, as I said way too often on the original Old Grey Cat website, “It takes you there, wherever there is.” There’s also, of course, “It’s not for me.”
The last was my initial reaction.
But a funny thing happened between then and now, mere days before Nude #9 is slated to hit the figurative racks on the streaming services: I found myself listening to Neil Young’s Archives Vol. III from start to end yet again. It reminded me that, indeed, distorted vocals sometimes do have a place. I’m speaking of his classic (says I) album Trans, which found him employing a vocoder to mimic a “Computer Cowboy.”
I gave “XOXO,” which kicks off Nude #9, another listen. While a drum machine keeps a robotic beat, her rubbery vocals stretch and compress and serve as something of a cushion or cocoon for her musings about life at age 27. That means, for her, fantasizing about having a child with a girlfriend plus dealing with the demons that haunt her at night and, perhaps most importantly, embracing her authentic self. “RIP the girl I was playing,” she sings at song’s end. “XOXO, feel better soon.” The tune, much like life, is simultaneously taut and slack, propulsive yet folky, and features a couplet I’m positive I’ll poach for other purposes somewhere down the line: “Did you hear I’m a nepo baby/I am mother nature’s favorite kid.”
Its album home is as compelling. It’s rife with self-effacing confessions, humor, and heartfelt insights about life, love, and self-acceptance.
“Nic,” the second track, reverts to a more traditional folk-rock feel while relating an attempt to shed a vape habit. “The heart expands, the heart constricts,” she sings; she could be singing about a friend, she could be singing about herself. It’s not as dramatic an ode to a nicotine fix as Juliana Hatfield’s “Forever,” but it’s stirring all the same. “Cult in Denver” swaps vaping for love, which she infers is a bit like being in a cult: “How could anyone be like you are to me?” The propulsive “Stanley,” on the other hand, is rife with dream imagery while teetering on a sad truth: “Got two hands and no one to hold them.”
The catchy “Fish Pills” is a comical spin on serious issues, from the misdiagnoses of doctors to promised cures pitched by snake oil salesmen. “Proton Electron Photon,” on the other hand, is a decidedly serious—and brief—ode about identity. “Blood Love & Blessings” chugs along like a long-lost Liz Phair track, just about, while singing about dementia, cancer, medical bills, and depression. Like “XOXO,” “Back Porch” cushions a confession with distorted vocals: “I’m scared of the light and I’m scared of the dark/I’m scared of you when you open your arms.” Giving your heart to another requires a leap of faith, after all—and, like any leap, there’s a danger one may fall on one’s face instead of landing gracefully.
The penultimate track,“Heaven,” explores the many definitions of the word via a series of vignettes, some profane and some profound, and how what’s heaven for some may not be heaven for all. “Daddy Long Legs” brings things to a close; it’s a delicate yet tense tune that slowly builds to a raucous frenzy before quickly receding. The press release quotes Schmidt as saying, “A lot of these songs were written completely stream of consciousness.” If so here, wow. It’s a remarkable, compelling end to what is a remarkable, compelling album.
The title Nude #9, by the way, hails from her childhood, when she sometimes found herself at the kitchen table with the models who posed nude for her parents, who ran an art studio. She always wondered why the paintings from those sessions were given clinical titles—think “Girl With Dogs #3”—when they showed a person at their most vulnerable. Such titles, if one thinks about it, could well be the painter’s version of Schmidt’s distorted vocals; i.e. a way to both deflect from and draw attention to the seriousness of the subject. (Whether I’m right or wrong is beside the point, however. All one really needs to know is that, to borrow that age-old phrase of mine, Nude #9 is guaranteed to take you there, wherever there is.)
The Old Grey Cat 