Blue Roses is made of circular sounds and squiggly lines; nothing is angular, at least, nothing is mathematical or overwrought. Masters overthink their work to the point of self-defeat; their spark, their seed, their kernel of inspiration is dipped in human growth hormone and now stands fully grown, but fat and barely recognizable. Admirable the craftsman is, for he embodies the extent of what discipline can achieve. But the childlike know more—that is, they know less. They know when to stop and admire their own creation. That is not to say that young Laura Groves’s Blue Roses is unrefined or incomplete, though it does occasionally conjure the imagery of tinkerbells and naïve wanderlust. It is simply forthright and unostentatious; it is borne from a heart rather than a brain.
The record spans many lands. “I Am Leaving”’s roundly finger-picked guitar makes way for “Imaginary Flight”’s mannered, twinkling piano balladry. Instrumentation is kept tidy throughout to allow Groves’s handsome voice room to stretch its legs, and, by virtue of lyrics that tread lightly on greener grass and relationship regret, we walk in a world of foggy English desperation and romantic miscalculation. Groves’s talents as songwriter and arranger are impressive (if indeed impressiveness is measured by an artist’s ability to honestly capture what’s on their mind instead of what they think should be). A story is being told here, a personal story, and though not every story achieves total immersion, Groves’s encapsulates a time and place beautifully, under frosted glass.
What lies beneath the pane is difficult to make out—there isn’t a need, really, and there aren’t enough moving parts in the first place—but its shape is visibly winsome. It is who Laura Groves is, or at least was, in a moment of vulnerability. It is the document of a person looking to straighten her lines and construct a tower from which to spread more seeds and light more sparks, to take the kernel of inspiration that masters burn and, instead, cook it to a warm, golden brown. Today nothing will be made to order, but tomorrow fires may ignite from thin air, and tomorrow a feast may take place, and tomorrow the whole physiognomy of Blue Roses may become wiser and more calculating. Or tomorrow the field may lie fallow, but at least we knew it when. |