By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
Thompson's latest, The Old Kit Bag, plays like a greatest: It's long on short-on-love songs, the kind populated by couples undone by "Jealous Words," who find love's "First Breath" the most suffocating of all and realize destiny is what drives them apart rather than holds them together. (With Thompson, the only thing inevitable about romance is its blasé dissolution.) The Old Kit Bag, subtitled as "unguents, fig leaves and tourniquets for the soul," is a withering and beguiling album--unadorned by the Mitchell Froom maul-of-sound that dominated his '80s and '90s releases, and on which Thompson is joined by a bare-bones ensemble consisting of bassist Danny Thompson, singer Judith Owen and drummer Michael Jerome, ex of half a dozen Dallas bands. It's as complicated as a tempestuous love affair and ultimately as rewarding, if only because Thompson, whose interviews read like how-to courses in songwriting and performing, is one of those musicians for whom heartbreak is the most satisfying emotion of all.
The Old Kit Bag, being so stripped-down, sounds like a sort of best-of, a representation of who you were and where you're headed.
I hope so. This is the way, as an artist, you think about every album. You think every one is the one that kind of sums it up, or you hope so.
What's always struck me anyway is how your songs always sounded whole even when out of the studio, even when it was just you on a stage with a guitar.
I hope everything was secondary to the song. And if the song's any good, then it should be able to survive a solid performance, a bad performance, somebody else doing a cover. It should really be strong enough to withstand whatever happens to it.
This album somehow feels more immediate, perhaps because there's none of that production getting in the way.
Well, what I think most musicians would like to think is that the records they make are immediate, and I suppose a way to make that happen is to get little in the way of the music--to mix the voice forward and mix the important stuff fairly dry and at the front of the mix. It's fully in your face, which takes courage sometimes.
Courage seems an awfully big word, but appropriate.
To stand up on a stage alone with an acoustic guitar requires bravery bordering on heroism. [Pause.] Bordering on insanity. You have to be willing to make a fool of yourself in public, really. You get up on your own, and you have no one else to blame. It's a difficult thing sometimes. But it's a test of who you are, and it's a test of if you're any good, I think, as well.
Especially given how vulnerable the subject matter of your songs. It's like you're naked up there, vulnerable and just asking for it.
Yeah, it's complicated. You know, while you're being intimate, you're always being theatrical. There's also an element where you're pretending to be the person you're singing about in the song--though perhaps all that's based on your experience, maybe, it's not literally about you. Maybe it's as much about the audience as it is about anybody else. So you're also asking the audience to kind of look at themselves sometimes. That's almost a part of your job as a songwriter: to state what's just below the surface.
Do you believe it's the role of the songwriter, then, to act as audience surrogate--to say what they can't or won't out loud? And is that a role you've always been aware of, or is it something you kind of grow into?
I think probably the latter. I think I used to write songs for other reasons. I'm not sure why songs get written exactly. I think songs get written because it's fun to write songs. I think that that's the basic thing, and then there's the luggage that goes with that. But I think being a songwriter and a performer is a different thing. The fact that you know you're going to sing these songs sometimes brings a different element to them.
If you wrote songs knowing no one else would hear them, would you write different kinds of songs?