The Duke Listens To "Bastard Daughter" By Kelly Buchanan

"Wah wah wah why don't you love me wah wah wah I hate you but then, wait, turns out I love you and wah wah wah and weeping and wah".

That kinda nonsense right there, it pains me to relate, is the kinda nonsense I gotta endure 24 / 7, usually flying out my own face. Truth be told, the last thing a fella needs is any encouragement, any support with regards the "wah" and the "hurt" and so on. Listening to an albums worth of that sorta heartache and anger, to be perfectly frank about the situation, is pretty near the top of the list marked "Things I Don't Ever Need To Be Doing For A Time". Bad enough I gotta be bothered listening to me moaning. How can I be expected to listen to anyone else?

When that Anyone Else is someone as amazing as Kelly Buchanan, however, a fella can sure as hell lend an ear. Fuck it, take both of em.

Bastard Daughter, Kelly Buchanan's latest record, her third in fact, is stacked wall to wall with sentiments along the lines of "You were not just a one night stand, like I wish you were" and "Congratulations, you're the asshole of the year", and I gotta admit, in between being awe-struck and falling in and out of the L with Buchanan's whispering-then-screaming, screaming-then-croaking vocal gymnastics, I started feeling guilty as all hell.

I'm sorry, Kelly Buchanan, I mean shit, I woulda called back but then you never called in the first place. Course I woulda made you breakfast in bed, but you were never in my bed, Kelly Buchanan. I'm sorry, man. Shit.

What Bastard Daughter concerns itself with, y'see, is being a sonic collage of rage, anger, empathy, regret, love, lust and resignation. All those emotions running through a fella's head, or a lass's head, when waking up in an empty bed and yet, shit, it weren't empty five hours ago. That whole kaleidoscopic frenzy spinning back and fourth behind the eyes, the twelve tracks contained herein have those fractured notions bounding through them like light through a prism. Volcanic Lover is a wink across the dance-floor, or better yet, a whisper in the ear poking through a mass of post-coitus-sweat-soaked hair. No Vacancy is a bilious Go Fuck Yourself spat a few weeks later, or maybe a couple hours before, on a rain-lashed street.

Article Author: Duke De Mondo

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