Ramona, the third album from Melbourne belter Grace Cummings, seems at first like a potential masterpiece, a new pinnacle in the pantheon of tortured soul. Through the 11 suggestive character studies and love-reciprocal scenes, Cummings renders each moment with undiminished emotional intensity, as if each emotion were the last that would ever matter. Hear her grow, for example, from long-faced tenderness at the beginning of “A Precious Thing” to an operatic mercenary screaming for love. “But I don't give a damn,” she roars like Diamanda Galás on a Disney ride designed by Dante. Or check out the cracks in her voice as she fends off an Amy Winehouse best man during “Something Going 'Round,” evidence of the self-doubt rooted in that opening love letter. Built by a band that has clearly studied the glories of the Wrecking Crew and is gilded with strings and harp, Ramona he holds a unique and powerful voice in a strikingly grandiose frame, not unlike Rufus Wainwright's I want one or Weyes Blood's The Titanic is rising.
But you know that friend you like to see for an hour every now and then, who shares all the news about his life in an exciting but exhausting torrent? This could be it Ramona after repeated spins, when Cummings' lack of restraint, combined with the band's sneaky insistence on repeating sounds that are often 60 years old, becomes too unpleasant for too long. After self-producing her first two records, Cummings linked up with Topanga Canyon vintage king and session ace Jonathan Wilson, who let her focus on not holding back. That's commendable, but it results in an album that has the dynamic range and limited application of a powerful lens. You recognize its incredible power, but you'd better not look at the source for too long.
Cummings isn't shy about courting a legendary company. After all, the lead on “Ramona,” a smoldering pseudo-Gothic number that eventually ignites into a full-on flame song, is borrowed from Bob Dylan. (She calls him back for the number's finale, with mocking repetition that mirrors “Just Like a Woman.”) There's a bit of Johnny Cash's “Cry cry cry,” toward the end of “Everybody's Somebody,” which borrows the sound of Memphis' Stax rather than his Sun to challenge a strange collaborator. He picks up from Townes Van Zandt during “Without You,” where he double-crosses Dylan's lines. There are glimpses of Nick Cave and Nancy Sinatra and, on the album's final verse, Cummings samples Dylan, Neil Young and George Harrison like some shop magpie. The band, led by Wilson and multi-instrumentalist Drew Erickson, responds in kind, stitching clear threads of Radiohead, Phil Spector, Hal Blaine and Chris Isaak into these songs.
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