Chløë Black x Strange Little Bird
Chløë Black
Songbird and self proclaimed International Woman of Misery…
Wake the kids, sit them down in front of the stereo, and play them this without explanation; once quietly then once loud. Then say "This!....This is how you do it". Strap yourself in for a review - gushy and bloated with hyperbolic references to every magnificent sound and composition since before Beethoven was a pup.
But first... the one and only irksome bit - and not because it needs one in some effort to sound less biased, just that; for me, it prevented this song, this artist, this exempla of truly pure pop from being 10 (silken, morphine ear-doses) out of 10.
The first time I heard the title section "...strange little bird", it felt jarringly shoehorned in... unnatural and certainly premature when it's such a payoff later. Does it ruin an otherwise pristine representation of tasteful production and performance? ... as if!
And now that you feel the guilt of a shit dad who's barked at his little girl because she got glitter on the furniture while making him a Father's Day card... let's proceed.
Chløë Black will, herself, be unfairly compared to other contemporary chanteuses. It's a sad limitation of the human being but one necessary for the benefit of an approximation to the most obvious comparative traits of something. In the YouTube comments I see Lana Del Rey et al references and... well... despite what I just wrote, it's unfair.
This creature, her voice... her inflexions and choice of organic affectations and control...YES! that's IT! Her control. It feels as naturally occurring and as the delicate, evocative delirium of a woodland full of the chirping birds that are audible throughout the track; itself a master-touch of production.
Occasionally a savvy producer will implement some "other" ear-treat and bury it in the mix to incite and titillate the subconscious, this track has two. Firstly the aforementioned warble of tweeting canaries; seemingly carrying the listener through the troubles and quandaries of our narrator. The second is the lilting waterdrop up/down 5-note scale of a percussive keyboard, delicately sunk into the second half of each verse... and once again PERFECT touch.
The best aspects of great production are almost imperceptible, like not being able to qualify what it is about someone that you've just met that you REALLY like. This track has that in spades - somewhat ironic when these micro-surgeries of elation are mere baubles on something already extraordinary.
To her absolute credit, the choice of the guitar; moreover the sound of the guitar, is perfect. Where a writer could easily succumb to obvious tones like Mazzy Star - particularly when covering similar themes lyrically, but Strange Little Bird the mournful strumming of something more akin to Jesus and Mary Chains' - Just Like Honey floats softly in to join (rather than scare) the delicate chattering of birdsong.
What follows is a story of a person, cautious yet determined offering themself on a platter BUT!.. and... I'm not ruining it for you, you'll hear it for yourself.
The heavy lifting of the tune is covered by a Mellotron-esque/Nord pad of lush strings, warm, grand and tasteful. The honest charm of this song is just how unobtrusive the instrumentation is, making way for the singer... you'll need to hold my beer for a minute because I need a run-up to do anywhere near appropriate justice to my critique of the vocals.
The principal reason that comparisons to other female vocalists -at least- in this song- are so unreasonable, is that the effortless mellifluence falling from her lips, couldn't be quantified in standard measures of "singing" - it’s fucking sublime, unnatural, otherworldly... it's absent of any forced America's Got Talent-via-Ariana Grande vocal gymnastics. It's subtle, elegant... in a word, unique.
As obvious by this hulking, clumsy review, this is NOT a song for people with ADHD and a penchant for Julie Cruise-style Dream Pop. I've listened to it 18 times in a row and I still feel nourished by it every time.
Lyrics: Relatable, Sophisticated // Composition: Jigsaw-ry. this bit, then that bit, then this bit... but great bits // Production: Bravo // Performance: I feel like I'd need to leave the entire review here again. To paraphrase Little Peggy March (1963) I love 'her' and where 'she' goes I'll follow...