RURAL SOUTHERN ROOTS ASIDE, Lizz Wright bears no accent, just the
poised speech of a preacher’s daughter reared on Shakespeare and Uncle
Remus, but never ever an afternoon hour of television. The 28-year-old
singer’s broad baby face belies a measured elegance more common in
yesteryear’s prim, pursed-mouth black women, like former sitcom mom
Phylicia Rashad. Coincidentally, the other half of that Thursday night
pair that Wright’s strict father proscribed, Bill Cosby, was an early
admirer of the Wright aesthetic: the savory pot liquor sound she stewed
on stage at her early jazz festival appearances.
Before the spotlight, Wright wrenched redemption from Baptist hymns.
Her Georgia household supplemented Sunday services and weekly church
commitments with “Family Devotion.” En route to a performance in
Philadelphia, Wright laughingly recalled these “mini church services.”
From these family rituals came the harmonies she plied with
collaborator Toshi Reagon on The Orchard, Wright’s third release
in five years. Georgians both, Wright was encouraged by Reagon’s
responsiveness to her evolving vision: “She understands what I’m
reaching for and what I’m remembering with music.” And what Wright
always remembers, as is bellowed up and down her cozy 2003 debut
Salt, is the black church.
Enduring and ever evolving, the church groomed many a musical legend
in spite of itself. Sam Cooke and Aretha Franklin both split the choir
loft for secular success in soul, but not before developing a stylistic
repertoire and an acute performance ethic, one that Wright’s alto
reflects.
“More than even learning how to emote in front of people,” Wright
says of her formative years singing in her father’s church, “you just
accept your humanity because you can’t get to the spirit without being
vulnerable, without being honest.” Like on Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna
Come” or Aretha Franklin’s “Call Me,” Wright is a naked and incisive
vocalist, even as she forages folk and rock sounds on The
Orchard. Wright knows when to ornament, when to intensify, and,
crucially, when to hold back. The impudent soul singer’s aimless runs
and incessant wails, Wright is learned enough to reject. “There is more
of an adventure, more of an experience, in serving the song, than in
taking it over and dominating it and shoving a lot of ideas into it,”
she says. “I like to feel the spirit, you know.”
The spirit hovering over The Orchard isn’t
recognizably holy. Wright eschewed good-footed gospel rambunctiousness
even at her most inspirational, and now with heartache and renewal at
center stage, her red-clay, white-steeple credentials are what fuels
her honest approach. “I have done a lot to distill the truth down to
what is most accessible,” Wright says, “what is most basic, what is
more like nature, because I’m exchanging with so many people.” This
pared-down emphasis lets Wright consider the late Ike Turner’s
“I Idolize You” in sultry blues fashion one moment and Bernice
Johnson Reagon’s grave “Hey Mann” at another. Led Zeppelin’s “Thank
You” also gets a new coat of paint; listening for creative opportunity
is, after all, Wright’s mandate. Then when Wright articulates her own
thoughts—with the aid of Reagon and Craig Street’s spare and
recognizable production—she evinces a worshipful tenor, a
performance arc that always results in flux, without a tambourine or
hint of twang.