Graphic As A Star is the sixth solo album proper from Psych-folker Josephine Foster.
The Colorado born balladeer is seemingly a graduate of the Robert Pollard school of song writing, as most compositions on this 26 track album clock in at a mere one or two minutes. Much of this sprawling acoustic opus succeeds, seducing the listener with Le Volume Courbe-esque minimalist plucking and strumming. Minimalist is definitely the key word here, on Your Thoughts Don’t Have Words Everyday and What Shall I Do – It Whimpers So, her vocal is backed only by a distant budgerigar. Foster has a trembling soprano voice that haunts and bewitches in equal measures. Sounding like a 1940s forces sweetheart, she conjures up images of families gathered round the wireless on winter wartime evenings. On one of the strongest (and longest) tracks, On My Life Stood – A Loaded Gun, the wistful melody and hazy harmonica evokes Ron Sexsmith.
Despite their brevity, some tracks here do sail perilously close to the territory of nothing-music occupied by the likes of Norah Jones. But, this comparison is perhaps a little unfair, as the few moments where this album fails to engage are down to Foster’s largely diction free delivery rather than the songs themselves.
The Colorado born balladeer is seemingly a graduate of the Robert Pollard school of song writing, as most compositions on this 26 track album clock in at a mere one or two minutes. Much of this sprawling acoustic opus succeeds, seducing the listener with Le Volume Courbe-esque minimalist plucking and strumming. Minimalist is definitely the key word here, on Your Thoughts Don’t Have Words Everyday and What Shall I Do – It Whimpers So, her vocal is backed only by a distant budgerigar. Foster has a trembling soprano voice that haunts and bewitches in equal measures. Sounding like a 1940s forces sweetheart, she conjures up images of families gathered round the wireless on winter wartime evenings. On one of the strongest (and longest) tracks, On My Life Stood – A Loaded Gun, the wistful melody and hazy harmonica evokes Ron Sexsmith.
Despite their brevity, some tracks here do sail perilously close to the territory of nothing-music occupied by the likes of Norah Jones. But, this comparison is perhaps a little unfair, as the few moments where this album fails to engage are down to Foster’s largely diction free delivery rather than the songs themselves.
