Beth Orton: Central Reservation : Music Reviews : Rolling Stone

Album Reviews

Beth Orton has one of rock & roll's strangest job descriptions: a boho, folkie jester who strums her acoustic guitar for everyone from punks to ravers. Her stunning 1997 debut, Trailer Park, was one of those rare albums you could play for absolutely anyone and know they'd like it. On Park and "Where Do I Begin" -- the hangover rhapsody off the Chemical Brothers' Dig Your Own Hole -- Orton's bleak, sullen English voice and guitar wove in and out of drum loops, striking a chord with club kids who would ordinarily rather spend Saturday night sober than get caught with a folk album. On Central Reservation, though, Orton sounds none too chemical, ditching the dance beats of her debut. Central Reservation is more of a folk record on Orton's own skewed terms, stripped down to showcase some smashing new tunes.

Orton's voice is still her meal ticket, cutting through the mix with all the rustic ache of Fairport Convention's legendary Sandy Denny. She rambles through arrangements, recalling woozy folk-rock nightmares like Big Star's Third or Nick Drake's Five Leaves Left: piano, strings, vibes, congas and a guitar with a bad case of the shakes. Only a couple of tunes use the grooves of Trailer Park, and they're the most dated-sounding tracks here. Orton spends most of the record wailing fabulously bleary love songs like "Sweetest Decline" and "Feel to Believe," and even when they end in tears, she makes you feel how much fun it is to drink ale at dawn with the boy with the cinnamon eyes. A true folkie magpie, she'll borrow melodies from anywhere she likes: John Lennon, Barbara Mason, even that Yes song about chess. Fans will miss the outreach of Trailer Park, but Central Reservation generates a special buzz of its own, and whenever Orton opens her mouth, she's bitching and bewitching, a space cowgirl with a stolen-car heart. (RS 808)

ROB SHEFFIELD