Winter is coming and that means that everyone should begin stocking up on a healthy dose of depressing albums to while away the endless hours indoors. These records should be solemn, textured and decidedly minor to match the tone of the weather.
Those familiar with Come, Thalia Zedek’s old band, might be surprised to uncover this sort of album from the leader of such a dense, often thunderous band, but in Been Here and Gone should be required listening for anyone planning to spend January in Chicago.
Come’s intense and often brilliant career spanned six years and four albums. Zedek and writing partner Chris Brokaw became well known for their heavy, intricate guitar playing and confrontational emotion. But while touring in 1998 for Gently Down the Stream, their final — and loudest — album, Brokaw and Zedek experimented with toned-down arrangements featuring acoustic guitars, piano and strings. Zedek, noting satisfaction in actually hearing her voice when she performed, began exploring this path seriously and had recorded Been Here and Gone before Come even officially disbanded.
To the undoubted approval of her old fans, nearly everything that made Come so great (save for the sheer power) transcends into Zedek’s solo work. For one thing, Brokaw still is accompanying her, augmenting her stormy voice as well as ever. Beyond that, Been Here and Gone is the first Zedek album mixed spaciously enough to allow all the weight of her work to fully confront its listeners. The effect is wonderfully chilling.
The discovery of subtlety makes up the essence of Been Here and Gone. Zedek still lets her band rock out in brief spurts, but the elementary piano-guitar interplay of “1926” and “Somebody Else” are more affecting and memorable than any crescendo. Meanwhile, David Michael Curry’s fiddle-style viola touches off the record, recalling Scarlet Rivera’s classic interplay with Bob Dylan on 1975’s Desire.
If conceiving of quiet sorrow as art still raises an eyebrow with you, look into Been Here and Gone. It will especially resonate in the winter, perhaps while underscoring one of those 4:30 p.m. sunsets. nyou
