On The Finest Thing, Lori Carson explores the way a sigh can shift its emotional connotations in the hush between first rise of inhalation and final wisp of exhalation. Pleasure, sadness, relief, fatigue, reverie, and countless other shades of feeling can pass through that moment, and Carson contemplates the myriad and vastly compressed possibilities of those shades.
She also takes her time doing so: Half of the eight tracks on this album stretch past the seven-minute mark, and not because they are driven by experimental passion, tangential adventuring, or even rhythmic instruments such as drums and bass. In fact, two successive numbers, “She Can’t Decide” and “Long Walk”, create a kind of single dream episode not so much pushed as gently buoyed by a tide of guitars and ambient keyboards, with Carson’s whispery voice drifting across the mix, saying only “la” in lullaby combinations.
Elsewhere, as on the lushly introspective “Hold On To The Sun” and the aching waltz of “Coney Island Ride”, Carson remains as wistful, romantic, and fragile as ever — perhaps even more so, a decade after her presence among the stark alt-funk beats of the Golden Palominos attracted the ears of sleepless wallflowers. Without the timekeeping fundamental to most music, Carson’s songs now flow like melted wax down a burning candle or water through a mountain-fed alcove. The Finest Thing is a meditation soundtrack, something to listen to while examining the space between calming breaths.
