IN THE days of her sudden fame as the token folkie on the 2001 Mercury Prize shortlist, Kathryn Williams' introspective, melancholic material often seemed too insubstantial to bear the weight of acclaim heaped upon it. Her case wasn't helped by a liv
e performance style that came across as irritatingly fey and precious, though she now ascribes it to crippling stage fright. After several years going through the music-biz mill, however, via a three-album deal with East West Records, and the birth of her son two years ago, Williams has now re-emerged as a happier, calmer, less flappable artist, and this contentment is clearly reaping rich creative dividends.
Back on her own label Caw Records, Williams' latest release is Two, a collaboration with singer-guitarist Neill MacColl (son of the legendary Ewan; brother to the late Kirsty), who's previously worked with the likes of David Gray and Eddi Reader. Their co-written songs continue in the vein she sums up as "really quiet music" – it's the first time I've seen an artist urging an audience to sit down, rather than stand up – but with fresh subcurrents of steel, salt and spikiness beneath the surface fragility. Their arresting use of imagery and artfully off-kilter melodies often called Laura Veirs to mind, while Williams's singing wove its softly mesmerising spell among echoes of Suzanne Vega, Kate Rusby and the McGarrigle sisters, sensitively complemented by MacColl's guitar and backing harmonies.
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