Joe Henry: Scar
And in creeps the alto sax solo, as if FedExed from another astral plane, tremulous, jittery, with a troubled moan, punctuated by screams, slurs and dancing licks. It's none other than Ornette Coleman, adding a touch of delicious dementia to "Richard Pryor Addresses a Tearful Nation," the brooding ballad that leads off Joe Henry's brilliant eighth album, Scar. It's a twisted, transcendent musical moment, an avant-garde legend lending a hand to a restlessly original and largely overlooked artist.
Stakes is high now, so Henry deftly segues into "Stop," with its jaunty rumba groove and timeless melody. "Take the black off a crow/ But don't tell me to go," he implores in a grainy voice with a saloon-style patina. He croaks a line, then gulps a word, letting it rumble deep in his throat and spitting it out. The song may sound remotely familiar. That's because Henry's sister-in-law reworked it into a Top 10 hit called "Don't Tell Me." Her name is Madonna.
The man who married Madonna's sister spent most of the '90s as a talented, guitar-wielding indie rocker with country leanings. In 1999, he issued Fuse, the first installment of his transformation, an album suffused with jazz and loops and torch songs.
Scar is the next striking chapter, more organic this time out, with co-production by sonic frontiersman Craig Street and instrumental contributions from the likes of guitarist Marc Ribot, drummer Brian Blade, pianist Brad Mehldau and bassist Me'Shell N'degeocello. The rhythm tracks burst with dark ingenuity — sly R&B riffs here, barroom piano there, woody acoustic bass here, skronky guitar there, a 10-piece orchestra that slides in and haunts the proceedings from time to time.
Henry sings about the scars of love. There's an aching intimacy in his voice, yet the lyrics coyly obfuscate, dodge literal meanings. You're left instead with overall impressions and moods, evocations of melancholy, longing, rue and emotional stasis. The effect is that of a puzzle, one that's more intriguing than frustrating, which enhances the music's pervasive sense of mystery.
Like Tom Waits and precious few others, the new Joe Henry makes music that stubbornly resists genre. Some of the songs could emanate from Tin Pan Alley in the '40s or Billie Holiday in the '50s or Randy Newman in the '70s or just about any other era, for that matter. But this is 2001, and it's Joe Henry, and it's music that leaves an indelible mark. (Mammoth)
—Eric Snider 
Ani DiFranco: Reckoning/Reveling It's been 12 years since Ani DiFranco released her first album, and a lot has happened: The Riot Grrl Movement, Lilith Fair, even Britney Spears, for God's sake. And though sometimes DiFranco's work has been uneven and repetitive, it's to her credit that she never made herself MTV-ready. At 30, she is a grown woman, and her new, double-disc set Reveling/Reckoning is an accurately adult slice of life. Fans of DiFranco's bisexual militant rants of yore may be disappointed, as she seems to be reflecting more than reacting this time around. Reveling opens with the juicy funk of "Ain't that the Way," establishing the album's jazzy, moody atmosphere. DiFranco used to spit out her words like knives, but it's the soaring trumpets and chilling guitar tones that reach inside now. Reckoning simplifies the mix, allowing DiFranco to display the wisdom and weariness she's accumulated. It's refreshing to see Ani DiFranco emerge in 2001 as a mature artist when she could have easily become a caricature of herself. (Righteous Babe, www.righteousbabe.com)
—Jeremy Gloff 
This article appears in May 24-30, 2001.