Most artists would like to think that their music speaks to the audience, although I suspect that most doesn’t penetrate far below the skin of the recipient, remaining something that is merely entertaining. And that is fine, after all, music is about entertainment; it is about delivering enjoyment to people, and anyone who can do that should be proud of their ability to enrich people’s lives and make their day.
But some artists leave a more lasting impression, often one that works subtly and which lingers longer than the mere sounds that carry it. Les Ailes, the current musical moniker for Rylie DeGarmo, is just such an artist.
Lou Heron is a fantastic album, one that seamlessly blends folk finesse with jazz ornamentation, dreamy soundscapes with pop accessibility. And using this template, she gives us eleven songs that feel intimate and personal, like a friend whispering their closest thoughts and feelings into your ear.
“Borrowed Body” moves slowly, is patient and poised, blending gentle crescendoes with understatement, drifting guitars with delicate brass sounds. “Yours Truly” swirls and seduces, more about grace than groove, and “Flames and Gasoline” feels like the most delicate indie anthem playing on a late-night radio in the next room, distant, half-heard yet wonderfully resonant. But as much as the music, it is about feelings that are evoked – nostalgic, reflective, redemptive, and reinvention.
Lou Heron might be a document born of a period of personal challenge, but it finds its voice in the personal revelations and self-reflection that are found in that periods aftermath. “Everything we need is already here,” DeGarmo reflects. “I’m learning how to let grief sit at the table with me—without hurry, without shame—just with reverence, just with love.”
