Blair Die Young

Singer-songwriter Blair may now be a residing citizen of Brooklyn, hipster haven for the aspiring indie musician, but she doesn’t seem to be paying too much attention to the current abstractions coming from that particular borough. Her earnest intentions are less fanciful and more inclined to honest depictions that come directly from the gut. Instead of searching for a reaffirming new sound, Blair comes from the camp of solid songwriting from the ground up, which results in a comfortable, easy to like steadiness.

Blair’s résumé is fairly familiar to those born in the early 80’s: a 25 year old Neil Young aficionado with a heart-on-sleeve attachment to early nineties grunge. Die Young is the product of five years and it shows: there are certainly those scrappy, imperfect moments of discovering a personal voice beneath more studious bouts of skill. Nevertheless, it fits adequately inside an indie-pop template, full of amicable hooks, handclaps, and arpeggiated meticulousness.

As the opening lines of Rampage furiously bear out, Blair does know how to incite a full blown introduction with poise. Repeating the line tell me what you want to do, pleading with a certain annoyance, she shreds those chords with ferocity and confidence, a fitting introduction that eerily recalls Liz Phair’s stark imagery, but without connoted sexuality or frank vulgarity. In fact, Wolfboy, another entry into nonfigurative teasing flirtations, is rather sweet – instead of demanding her rights to the boys, she sounds strikingly lovestruck. Like valentine candy hearts, Blair’s inner adolescent comes to realization at almost an alarming rate, churning phrases such as just hug him, when we let go, I say no, and I just wanted you throughout. Thus far, she sounds so adoringly heartfelt that it couldn’t be any less credible.

But that’s where the comparisons end – even if many of the songs are minimal, acoustic supplications, Blair varies the palette as much as the material demands it. Paris France, which is structurally composed as a waltz arrangement, shifts to a poppy number, shifting between ubiquitous drum beats and acoustic strums, but all within a content exterior. It’s one of those moments when Blair’s talent shines, destined to become a crowd favorite on stage. The latter half, though, does throw a few missteps: when Candy in the Kitchen presents itself with a faint drum machine and techno induced keys after such pleasant acoustic/electric guitar ruminations, it distracts and almost contradicts the last maudlin moments of Die Young.

There’s much to say about Blair’s unpredictable singing. She may not hit the notes every time, but she certainly holds her hand to many females in the genre, which almost becomes an exercise in itself. Marked by Phair’s high/low pitch tunage, Feist’s seductive leanings, and Juliana Hatfield’s endearingly thin voice, Blair takes cues from singer songwriters that aren’t really interested in emphasizing higher than life gloriousness – her commonplace, lighthearted voice sounds adept, yet hints some playful mischievousness when she’s up to the challenge.

Die Young, for a debut release, could be said to be Blair’s precious discoveries inside her imaginary, dusty attic, waiting to be revealed sporadically when the time is just right. Even if the sequencing is a little unbalanced, the progressions prove to be faultless – while some hold more of a personal, demo appeal, others sound more like meticulous arrangements inside an enclosed studio. It seems to reflect Blair’s current position as a singer-songwriter – a young lady with plenty of talent, yet holding a certain restraint on knowing when to disclose it. As a learning experience, she's definitely ready for that next step.