by B.Snapp (@snappstare.bsky.social)
Sometimes albums sneak up on you and suddenly pack a wallop. They seem unassuming at first, so if not paying close attention, you’d blink and miss it. On some occasions, a song suddenly hits. It invites you back in, and you discover a world of sounds that deserve repeating, uncovering something new with each listen.
Mess Esque initiated in 2019 and continued during the 2020 lockdown as a long-distance collaboration between Australian artists Helen Franzmann (Mckisko) and Mick Turner (Dirty Three). As Turner had already started recording instrumentals on his own and shared the files with Franzmann who layered acapella vocal explorations, which Turner would construct into compositions. Their first realization of this process for public consumption came in the form of Dream #12 (Bedroom Suck).
As that process evolved and the duo emerged from the pandemic, they coalesced their sound and eventually brought on other collaborators to branch out and dimensionalize the ideas for songs. On their third album, Jay Marie, Comfort Me (Forgotten Song/Drag City), the credits on select tracks include a number of drummers including Jim White, Kishore Ryan, and Bree van Reyk. Keeley Young (Requin) brings the bass and backing vocals to “That Chair” while Steph Arnold embellishes “Crow’s Ash Tree” with her bow on the cello. But, it would be fair to say that 90% of the sounds are born from the talents of Turner and Franzmann.
On the album opener, “Light Showroom,” Turner plays an organ intro and quickly the full shape of sounds emerge, demonstrating Mess Esque’s magicianship to appear out of nowhere, and later disappear as if by hidden trap door, like hearing a mirage. There are unconventional structures where a seeming verse passage becomes a chorus, as if we don’t know if we’re underwater or skimming above it, like a seabird. “Swimming under over under in / I close my eyes / in the light showroom / I hear there’s a lofty blue / with its eye on me.” After a few repetitions, the song collapses, then Jim White breaks into a drumroll and we are back. “I won’t turn my back any more / it’s right there in front of me / swimming under over under in…” as guitars and percussion create a dizzying effect “through and down down down down down / they’re looking for me.”
“Take Me to Your Infinite Garden” has a danceable groove to it, a tribal beat on the toms and a shake of the tambourine to keep it grounded, intertwined with a psychedelic layer of guitar fuzz and echoing organ as a fluttering backdrop. A precursor to more contemplative tracks that follow, “Infinite Garden” is one of the songs that awakens the senses, hits the chakras, and grabs your attention right away. Franzmann sings about a beast who offers this advice, “there’s a place for you here, if you own your shadow.” I’d take this advice as you journey through the rest of the surreal nature trail of the album.
Rather than recount the next two songs on the album, musically, I’ll attempt to draw a mental map. The album itself might be a “Liminal Space” where you’re caught between where you were and where you’re going, but you don’t exist there; it’s just a memory. In that metaphor, there is a chair sung about in “That Chair” where the album’s title appears. In the line “Jay Marie, comfort me / I’ll comfort you the same / Yellow Bird / in the beans / I saw you” darkness comes and when night falls, there is no Northern star. There is nowhere to go when you’re sitting still. It’s all in the mind.
That’s a good thing, as “Crow’s Ash Tree” encourages the mind to wander. It’s one of those songs that I mentioned that sucked me into this album. I’m not ashamed I had it on repeat for days and told everyone who would listen to check it out. It might be the accessibility of it, the lilt, the way it moves, or it maybe it’s the hypnotic vocals swaying and scatting throughout. Or it’s the cello line harkening me back to an era of early 90s indie. But then again, the anti-guitar solo courts my ears to listen differently to what’s happening now.
“Let Me Know You” has a beautifully unadorned organ and vocal dance (no percussion required). The physical caress in the imagery of the lyrics says it all. The penultimate “Armour Your Amor” feels like an extension, yet a departure, a strumming rocking chair on the porch kind of song.
Finally, the by now acutely tuned-in listener is left with “No Snow,” another stripped-down song without drums. This time it’s a vocal and guitar duo, with a faintly drawn line from the organ in the upper octaves chiming above. Franzmann’s voice finds solace here, beautifully filling the spaces between the finger-picking touches of Turner’s messy brilliance.
An incredible album on its own terms, Jay Marie, Comfort Me continues to blow my mind. It's a slow-burn album (in a good way that rewards repeat listens) and it doesn’t hurt to play it loud, which accentuates the quiet moments and lets the cacophonous ones crash over you. There's an underwater effect that clogs the ears at times, and that alternates with the feeling of being invited past the doorway of a beaded curtain, into a smoky den of incense and cigarettes and candles on a few tables, band playing in the dim-lit corner, and this sound reverberating around the room, captivating all the senses.