Angela Faye Martin: press

The Woods Got To Know Angela Faye Martin
Now It's Our Turn

When the CD arrived in the mail, addressed to me from a woman I did not know, I thought it was nice that she'd included a personal typewritten note on the back of the one-sheet she'd included. Still, I expected another run-of-the-mill singer/songwriter album, earnest and pleasant but mundane, like so many others. I put it on, and discovered quite the opposite.

(for full interview -- follow the link below)

Angela Faye Martin
Pictures From Home

Musical artists – especially heretofore unknown ones – play with phonic fire 
when they hook up with established artists, especially one like Sparklehorse’s 
Mark Linkous, whose sonic palette – eerie tape loops, blip and drone, Fox 
News-sized distortion – is so instantly recognizable. The trade-off is that 
the established artist can piggyback the unknown to the mainstream – or at 
least further upstream. That said, don’t get the idea that the 
Martin-Linkous pairing is the uneven mountain rock equivalent of, say, 
Timbaland and Chris Cornell. Martin’s more spare, less Sparkly tracks (“The 
Ballad of Lolita Dean,” “Adieu, Mr. Higginson,” “Widow’s Lament”) stand tall 
on their own. The two artists comingle best on “Pictures From Home,” wherein 
Linkous seems to have learned some pop-ulist punch from his recent 
collaborations with Danger Mouse, while Martin’s voice, a wonderfully 
unique, fuzzy-around-the-edges sonic sup, still somehow steals the show. Put 
another way, the ‘Horse Martin rode in on isn’t the best in this particular 
show, and that’s no mean feat. -- TIMOTHY C. DAVIS

There’s a playfulness in the lyrics of Angela Faye Martin, a Georgia musician currently based out of Franklin, NC. Her debut EP One Dark Vine is a sparse affair that lets her vocals shine, and her wry Southern storytelling recalls the clever turns of early Vic Chesnutt.

Angela Faye Martin         Pictures from Home        

The stark landscape captured on the cover of Angela Faye Martin’s Pictures from Home, a near monochrome of toneless beauty and reflective quiet, is perfectly evocative of the music found within.  Martin, who lives in the far western mountains just north of the Georgia border, seems to revel in and understand the art of expressing more with saying less.  Her lyrics are lucid and direct while the arrangements that adorn the ten songs here in are a nice balance of electronica and austerity.  Teamed with Sparklehorse producer Mark Linkous Pictures from Home is multi-layered, sonically complex, and at time just plain weird (but in a very good way).  The album builds in deliberately measured fashion, with Martin’s vocals-which occupy a space somewhere between Sheryl Crow and Exene Cervenka- distorted and often buried deeply within the confines of the arrangements.  And while at times it works at other times I found myself wanting to hear more of what her voice actually sounds like. The best moments are when Martin’s lets down her guard and allows her vocals to take center stage. “The Woods Get to Know Me’ is a lovely jaunt that would sound right at home on a Gillian Welch album while “Widow’s Lament” is Martin truly coming to grips with the intricacy of songwriting. She might still have a way to go; Parts of Pictures from Home seems maddeningly unfocused, but there is more than enough evidence here that hers is a muse worth following.  I’d be curious to hear these songs performed on stage, stripped of the texturing that occasionally interferes with their resonance, with Martin revealing more of her self than this record sometimes does. In the meantime Pictures from Home is an album that will likely linger deeply until the next one comes along. ***1/2

Angela Faye Martin is an Ashevillian who recorded a strange &
interesting album, Pictures From Home, last year with Mark Linkous.
Parts of it are pretty straightforward folk-rock, but other parts are
full-bore fuzzed-out weirdness. I'm most interested in the fact that
Martin seems to have a perfectly good singing voice, but she & Linkous
made the appealing [to me, anyway] decision to fuzz the shit out of it.
Shitty fuzz beats perfectly good any damn day of the week.  

 

FUZZTONE MAGAZINE: Just north of the NC/Georgia state line lies Angela Faye Martin, a singer songwriter who with the help of Sparklehorse guru Mark Linkous has created a strong, ten song slab of backwoods weirdness that is as good as anything released on a major label this year.

From the beginning of Pictures From Home’s opener “Strawberry Roan”, a creepy, one chord at a time slow builder featuring Martin’s vocals distorted and tremolo’ed all over the place, listeners are taken on a journey of songs that are not only interesting lyrically, but new little bubbles pop up musically all the time.

Linkous’ production isn’t so much the star on Pictures From Home as it’s a place setting for Martin’s increasingly interesting songwriting.  There isn’t a bad track amongst the bunch on the album, although a scant few feel weaker than others, but the odd blips and creeks that make even the bum notes worth a second listen.

Martin may still be growing as a songwriter, but the sounds she’s created on this album are worth taking notice of, and anticipating what’s to come.

 

 

Who makes music like this?! Where does it come from? I hope that we
never find out and that it keeps coming for a long time.

The librarian and her guitar
Angela Faye Martin channels a love of literature into her own folk tunes
by Jason Bugg in Vol. 14 / Iss. 21 on 12/19/2007

Like most local musicians, Angela Faye Martin has a day job. In her case, it’s at a library—which, upon listening to Martin’s music, seems an obvious fit. Authors and literary allusions pop in and out of her songs, which are often played and sung with a certain hush that simultaneously suggests an uncommon intimacy and the fear of getting shushed by the old lady at the reference desk. To Martin, the books that surround her 9-to-5 life aren’t just a paycheck; they are a compulsion and—more often than not—a muse.
“Literary figures and what they might think of this era haunt my thoughts,” Martin reveals. “I’ve felt some responsibility to my favorite writers for my love of writing. I also think it’s important to re-contextualize art figures into our time.”

The literary obsession that seems to drive Martin is also a success model of sorts.

“A good book drives you to your knees in gratitude when you’ve read it,” she says.

Martin’s own outlet, however, is songwriting.

“I’ve written songs since I was a teen and played with some good musicians before leaving songwriting and performing about 12 years ago,” she notes.
Ultimately, Martin’s departure from music for her other passion, conservationism, caused her to not only leave her roots in northern Georgia for the Western North Carolina mountains, but also turned out to be the source of an unexpected creative spark: meeting fellow singer/songwriter Thomas Rain Crowe.

“I learned a lot in doing [conservation work], but my path is back on music and writing now,” Martin reports. “I might not have met Thomas if it hadn’t been for taking that turn on the conservation path.” She recalls that she first encountered Crowe at a conservation roundtable hosted by a friend at Brevard College.

“I was impressed with his humble demeanor, considering his stature as a well-known author and poet,” she says. “He gardens and rocks, which is high in my book. He’s been a friend and mentor ever since we met.”

Crowe, who will be headlining a performance at The Grey Eagle, which also features Martin, is a local poet, publisher and recording artist who first made a name for himself as part of the so-called “Baby Beat” clique of poets in mid-’70s San Francisco. It’s no surprise that Martin’s co-conspirator is also something of a bookworm.
But books aren’t the only things that tickle Martin’s fancy. Much like the music she creates, her inspirations as a musician run the gamut from jazzy standards to creepy lullabies to classic rock staples.

“Right now, I’m listening to a lot of Sparklehorse and Nina Simone,” she says. “But I grew up playing along to British-invasion rock.”

Although her influences are wide-ranging, Martin is her own artist. Her songs are instantly familiar, with occasional emotional arcs that seem to erupt from the speakers. More than just her voice and literary-leaning lyrics, her songs feature layer upon layer of observations, inside jokes and confessions. What’s more, her songs work as a time capsule of sorts, chronicling her journey in the most personal way possible.

“I just want to feel like I’ve expressed something that I can’t convey any other way,” she offers. “It’s an avenue for connecting with something that transcends time and certainly my brief existence.”

And you thought the Dewey Decimal System was complex.

[Jason Bugg is a freelance writer based in Asheville.]

Angela Faye Martin – Psychedelic folk/ dark Americana. Every track is good. The first & last tracks seem more like intro & outro songs more appropriate when listening to the whole album than standouts for radio play; feel free to beg to differ. 3 sounds like an old Rolling stones ballad. 7 is her in pure acoustic form w/o any effects, 8 a rockin’ cross b/t Patti Smith & Lucinda Williams. RIYL: Emily Jane White, Liz Phair “Whip Smart,” Vetiver Sirens’ Muse Recommends: 2, 3, 5, 7, 8*, 9 FCC free.
* = my fave

REVIEWS:
Angela Faye Martin | One Dark Vine
One of the nice things about being a musician today is the freedom we have to pretty well do whatever we want. We can record our own CD’s, release them ourselves, use privately owned recording studios to handle anything we can’t do on our own (mixing, mastering) and generally sidestep the whole lack of artistic control that comes with being “signed.” Of course, we also miss out on the huge recording budgets and fancy catering services and distribution and fame and fortune. Oh well.
Franklin-based singer/songwriter Angela Faye Martin’s One Dark Vine falls into this do-it-yourself ethic nicely. The production is sparse with many songs using only violin or Hammond organ to accompany Martin’s vocals and acoustic guitar. Most of it was recorded in her home. There are no drums, but the way she plays the guitar adds a percussive drive to all of the tunes, demonstrated clearly in the intro to “Cassiopeia” and the verse of “Wicked Girl.” The CD packaging looks good and maintains the “homegrown” quality, right down to the vine doodles on the foldout and CD tray insert.
When it comes to stylistic similarities, things get tricky — cliches come flying out of nowhere. The sudden jumps into falsetto on “Cassiopeia” certainly call to mind Joni Mitchell, but overall the super quirky delivery of Victoria Williams, or some of the roughness (in a good way) of Lucinda Williams’ vocals are points of reference. Oleg Melnikov’s violin adds a Southern Gothic quality to the bridge of “Cassiopeia.” Producer and engineer Michael Youngwood adds a B3 melody to the chorus of “Twenty White Flowers,” which made me think of Yo La Tengo and The Who simultaneously. That almost never happens.
One of Martin’s primary strengths is her lyricism. There’s a haziness and playful quality to the imagery, as in “Mary Shelley’s Hair,” where she ponders whether Shelley would “buy a blue Stratocaster or would she have a son.” The songs also are full of historical, literary, geographical or off-the-wall references to anyone from Faulkner to Dickinson to botanist William Bartram.
The term “Southern Gothic” comes up again in Martin’s indirect descriptions of life (or the lack thereof) and people in small Southern towns, as well as the feeling of being a “transplant” and trying to find a place to fit. Whether these feelings are purely character viewpoints or personal we may never know, but it keeps the listener on his toes. I’d recommend having Google fired up while listening to One Dark Vine. Really, did you ever think about how creepy the lyrics to the children’s song “Clementine” really are?
Martin has delivered a smart, thoughtful piece of singer/songwriter work in One Dark Vine, one that rides on the strengths of its content and depth, rather than gloss and flash. While it may not fill everyone’s cup of tea, those that enjoy digging in to an album (or EP, in this case) and enjoy lyrical content that never walks a straight line will find quite a bit to like. Seek it out, especially if you “harbor Faulkner’s birthday like it was the 4th of July.” It’s good to think and listen.
— Chris Cooper
Chris Cooper can be reached at thumbpick43@yahoo.com

Strawberry Roan 

If you love that girl with the golden hair 

I'll leave on my strawberry roan 

And I'll never come down from the chestnut stairs 

I'll leave you to your all night moan 

The ferryman put horses on your boat 

for crossing the flood so wide 

Could've told you t'was the devil's moat 

I cried on the other side 

The valves will hum and the fanblades sing 

when I finally see my boy 

The swallowtail hurdles on currents unseen 

the golden bough will roar 

Burning you into the hearts of men 

I'll spiderweb your wounds 

The spell will hypnotize their kin 

And haunt all their dining rooms 

Pictures From Home 

standing in full weight 

in front of you 

my cast-iron grate 

didn't you bring pictures from home 

didn't you bring pictures from home 

didn't you bring pictures from home 

ragdolls in dusty shops 

know there are boys at the top of the pops 

and they won't be calling home 

no they won't be calling home 

no they won't be calling home 

there is a house wants to be haunted 

there is house 

there is a house wants to be haunted 

there is a house 

she slept the way to monteagle 

to get away from all those people 

and she won't be calling home 

no she won't be calling home 

no she won't be calling home 

there is a house wants to be haunted 

there is house 

there is a house wants to be haunted 

there is house 

The Woods Get To Know Me 

 

Well the 'N' fell off my typewriter 

In the middle of the night 

And the rain made the rats 

Make umbrellas out of your neckties 

 

I awoke in the night to a light 

On the Mountain so lonely 

Help me with my coat and I'll go 

So the woods get to know me 

 

Film became necessity 

When Your chestnut eyes gave out 

But it's lost on the blind 

Who know when your running a red light 

I'll be guided to fires by the Big water spiders Of Jore 

I will stand by the creek till it whispers to me 

A new story 

 

Where the old magnolia blue and woad 

Give me over to mornings of gold 

And the tulip tree braids together my sky cold 

 

Oh the offering ridges send tree-line fringes to glory 

Help me with my coat and I'll go 

So the woods get to know me

Summer of Lightning 

 

He died in car crash on a dirt mountain road 

Moonshine on his belly 

Spilled on his clothes 

 

Into a summer's white sun afternoon 

Along the gravel 

The mourning doves croon 

 

The mother's son was named Tarleton 

His blood now runs cold 

Story been told 

 

we see the worst things under the sun 

under the summer of lightning 

 

Take him from this city and all that surrounds 

He won't need our pity 

Not where he's bound 

 

So just leave this place fine as you found it 

Carry his love over the mountain 

 

No One Can Wake You 

 

is there nothing 'can say to you 

change the weather or bring you your new shoes 

 

river ribboned pooled up and crying 

has made you holy just like the dying 

 

marble scarecrow indigo moon 

cold bell of morning coming too soon 

 

no one can wake you, no one can wake you when you're gone

goliath had you, don't let him take you for a song 

 

keep the hollow where i can sleep 

writing letters to the voices in the creek 

 

boy from the swinging bridge with antique eyes 

catching secrets before they run dry 

granite shelter ammo and wine 

appalachia hold the line 

 

no one can wake you, no one can wake you when you're gone 

goliath had you, don't let him take you for a song

Widow's Lament 

 

i once loved a soldier 

his family gunned down in the woods 

he stared out from a blanket and died 

and i took down the words 

i took down the words 

 

the essence of flowers at war 

alone with the progress of man 

a runaway pancake a nosebleed 

a sewing machine on the land 

a sewing machine on the land 

 

with snowkissed window sills 

and a newspaper wet with rain 

i think on the day that i met you 

never to come again 

never to come again 

 

brother i smell lightning 

sisters in the rye 

when they need water 

the leaves learn to claw the sky 

leaves learn to claw the sky 

 

crossed factory lots and cornfields 

cities dark with light 

where knife bearing phantoms found me 

i couldn't put up a fight 

i couldn't put up a fight 

 

now i grow checkerboard tulips 

neath a rusted out weathervane 

and peer through overhill spires 

lest you follow a friend 

lest you follow a friend 

 

the frogs will grow silent with bootfall 

my hound he will groan low 

with vision adjusted to velvet 

if you come around i'll know

 you come around i'll know 

 

brother i smell lightning 

sisters in the rye 

when they need water 

the leaves learn to claw the sky 

leaves learn to claw the sky

Adieu, Mr. Higginson

Adieu, Mr. Higginson
My last days are through
Farewell all your legions
Dirt of the daisy
To the ocean blue

Leave them to wonder
Why I was wont to capitalize
And why my visage
Evaded their eyes

They can look on my garden
With recognition I didn't know
When you get all my papers
Know the queen of calvary rode solo

Slate gray and a lithium white
Slant of light through the clouds
These are the kind of things I write

Called Back in marble
Isn't what it should've said
The quill was intact
When October fell
From the seedhead

Heliotrope and gentian
What I said about religion
Flapping bats and Gottschalk
The carnivals and the cakewalks

Farewell my family
The munitions the coats of lead
I'll go out one
Emily Dickinson instead

Slate gray and a lithium white
Slant of light through the clouds
These are the kind of things I write

Still Life With An Empty Bottle

still life with an empty bottle
six girls in a trance
i'm standing alone in high water
dreaming of paris france

the preacher he went fishing
to tell the river lies
my best friend she eat next to nothing
least nothin' with eyes

she always been the kind of woman
tell the world what she believes
and she never contribute to nobody's problem
no baby tugging at her sleeves

roll river roll
roll river roll
where you're going i don't know

well, whatever became of katie downs
her eyes as green as gold
like some immortal, autumnal warbler
she never will get old

and herbie played a tune caled, watermelon man
when no one would open their eyes
and the new york times wrote something about how he
never took his eyes off the prize

me i defend all the ridges
where apollo will touch down
i discovered the land with all the pitches
the only place i can drink from the ground

roll river roll
roll river roll
where you're going i don't know

The Ballad of Lolita Dean

I am a hundred and three years-old
My land's worth more than your weight in gold
And I never met the lover
Of my dreams

Bear paw prints and icy rocks
Abbreviate my winter walks
And summer gushes by
In the blink of an eye

There was a little boy with eyes of green
You never see things you wish you'd seen
Maybe you know what I mean

This is the ballad, the ballad of Lolita Dean

As sure as they lengthen your blessing
There's someone out there
Going to teach you a lesson
That you did not need to learn

So hold your lanterns way down low
Reflect them off the silver snow
The branches have written directions
On the starry sky

The branches have written directions
on the starry sky

This is the ballad, the Ballad of Lolita Dean

Land of the Noonday Sun

there's nothing more lonely than a house
when you're flying in a plane
when the people are away at work or playing

there's nothing more lonesome than the land
when the kids go away
it might as well freeze or it might as well sell
if no one here is gonna stay

leave it alone
land of the noonday sun
leave it alone
land of the noonday sun

there's nothing more holy
than a house of the dying in the rain
where nobody really needs you or is trying to appease the insane

where the holy tree is red and the beadboard hung
the day's work is done
where the holy tree is red and the beadboard hung
the day's work is done

leave it alone
land of the noonday sun
leave it alone
land of the noonday sun