It’s already been established (see below) that I can’t even attempt neutrality when talking about Neko Case. I’m in love with her, plain and simple. I’m married, but I think even my wife understands, or at least as much as I can understand her love for Zach Braff. But don’t let my bald adoration turn you away, because it’s Neko’s mind you should love, man. Her mastery of lyrical storytelling is nearly in a league with Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynne, Emmylou Harris, and Willie Nelson, and “nearly†only because she hasn’t been around as long. The angelic tenor of her voice, rendered with a ballroom echo, is sublime, and the stories themselves possess the exquisite detail and suspense, the juxtaposition of familiarity and esoteric conceit, of the finest Flannery O’ Connor tales. And don’t forget that, lest you complain (and, really, it’s the only complaint I’ll accept about my beloved) that the sonic similarities between tracks is a hair too close, Neko is pushing the boundaries of American roots music by night while she and the New Pornographers keep inching toward the perfect pop song by day. I’m well aware that this is the kind of adoring write-up that could come back to haunt me. Oh well. Love makes us do crazy things.
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