Jenny Toomey - Antidote
(Misra)

That’s all fine & good—this record has very little to do with the Superchunk idolatry Jenny herself admited to in some of the songs she wrote for her most notable musical endeavor, Tsunami. Antidote is filled with compositions bursting with strings and horns and ingenious arrangements, songs that take their inspirations from jazz standards and country balladry, songs that behave more like the sort of music best enjoyed in a well-kept, stylish nightclub, not dingy, graffiti-strewn rock bars. There were signs of this in prior work—the criminally underrated Liquorice album (worth the promo-gouge prices simply for her version of the Roches’ “Jill of all Trades”) and Tsunami’s last album, A Brilliant Mistake—but Antidote is where the signs lead to a destination. The traditional flourishes (most evident on the Nashville disc) are well met by unorthodox creative bursts (best captured on the Chicago disc)—there’s a lot of room covered between the weeping piano of "Know From Me" and the gentle wisps of noise that float through "Fall On Me." It’s about the same amount of space between the Mommyhead’s "Needmore PA" and Curtis Mayfield’s "Fool For You," both of which are found on this record. Antidote borrows these well-known motifs to individualize them, use them as a canvas for a new painting.

It’s tough to simply disregard the past, though—Jenny herself has some trouble with that, in terms of the love-gone-sour (fiction or otherwise) that permeates these songs; they find her wavering from song to song between resolute finality and softening regret. Even outside of the meanings of the songs, there is a lot of history in this album—many of these tracks were part of Jenny’s live performances circa 1998, if not earlier. (Songs like "Clear Cut" & "Charm City" could be heard in Liquorice’s sporadic performances or in Jenny’s solo sets.) One song ("Word Traffic") actually dates back to 1991. Then, "Word Traffic" was loud, brash, abrasive, and angry&151;"He had more records than words / So he played them when we’re alone, instead of speaking." Drums and guitars and voices smashed into each other, making more noise than would seem necessary. Ten years later, these very same sentiments are framed in a more reflective, somber atmosphere, with Jenny’s voice drowning in withdrawn tears—when she sings "Shut up," a caustic threat becomes a hushed request, carrying both anger and regret. Jenny nails these moments of confusion time after time on this record—the struggles of both Pennsylvania songs, "Breezewood" ("I’m not offering a heart you could break / Just a chance you might make a graceful mistake") and "Needmore" ("I feel like we’re two flies in a cookie jar") are shocking in their commitment to avoid easy answers. Similarly, Jenny shuns cliches in search of original imagery to express her thoughts—sometimes, this leads to over-extended metaphors that lose their potency, but the rewards far outstrip the missteps.

If there is an underlying connection to these songs, and the album actually tells a story, then the ending is left unresolved—the final two songs on this record are the Curtis Mayfield track (neatly summarizing the entire struggle detailed previously) and a different version of "Unclaimed." Instead of the elaborate orchestration and production of the original track, this version is stripped down—no less elaborate, but much more spacious. "Overrated, oversung; again you overestimated someone." It’s not as if she has anything to prove to anyone but herself, regardless of whether the critic is an ex-lover or a bunch of naysayers hung up on the stereotypes of "indie rock." She’s embracing her past, all of it, and moving on to something bigger & better. This album, I hope, is only the beginning.

david raposa 2002 jan 18