Most albums that draw seemingly endless critical acclaim these days seem to do so based on what they are so it comes as a pleasant surprise to celebrate an artist who is remarkable for what she's not.
Jessica Pratt's third album, Quiet Signs, is being touted as her first to be recorded in an actual recording studio, but, upon listening, one almost wishes that it wasn't. After all, is a top-flight recording studio with an enviable SSL or Neve console and a bunch of pricey outboard gear really necessary to capture something this minimal and atmospheric?
If it had been recorded in Chicago, for example, you'd almost relish hearing the sound of a passing el train or the honk of a car just to break the hypnotic qualities of both Pratt's child-like voice and her serene guitar-playing.
Augmented only by piano and the sparsest of percussion, Pratt's songs recall Cocteau Twins at their most ethereal, with occasional musical nods to Cowboy Junkies and Nick Drake, yet such comparisons seem to fall short in fully capturing Pratt's ability to draw you in with the faintest of whispers.
Those hoping for a conventional record full of intricate arrangements and painstakingly layered instrumentation will be sorely disappointed, but those who have been hoping and waiting for a female Brian Eno armed only with an acoustic guitar might just have their prayers answered.
Having lived with this album for a week, I can assure you that you will not find yourself humming any of the tunes to yourself, for the melodies seem to scatter the more attention you attempt to pay to them, yet the minute you hit play, your pulse will quicken at the recognition of a favorite track.
That might be the oddest compliment this writer has ever paid to an artist, but, like I said, Pratt is remarkable for what she isn't and her songs are memorable for what they're not.
Delivering eight songs in less than thirty minutes, one thing the album isn't is overly precious or ambitious in its attempts to win you over. Pratt seems to be playing only to entertain herself and, if not for someone taking it upon themselves to present her music to the world, one imagines that that is exactly what she'd be doing and that it would suit her just fine.
Perhaps that's why listening to this album takes on an almost voyeuristic quality, at times.
Though we know she intended it to be heard, there is still something so intimate, so private about these songs that I almost hesitate to imagine what it might be like to see Pratt perform such songs live.
Do we clap afterwards and, if so, how loud?