Kelly Kirwan
Natasha Jacobs' soprano has a wavering strut. Her each an every word reverberates in a slightly warbled delivery, her croon reaching the highest of octaves with an airy trill before billowing into a tour de force pitch. It's stirring, a riddle we continually try to unravel without ever reaching a neatly written answer. Straight lines and common practice are not in her, nor her bandmates', repertoire. The folk four-piece, Thelma, have emerged with a stunning seven-track, self-titled debut, released by indie label Tiny Engines.
Their melodies drift between slightly somber moods, pensive interludes and more robust reveling, and Jacobs' unique vocals feel nearly spectral in their ephemeral style. But make no mistake—the allure of Thelma's tracks and Jacobs' trembling voice is not a sign of daintiness, something we so often prescribe as a synonym for beauty. Thelma has nerves of steel, their songs reinforced with the grit of heels dug into dirt. Take Jacobs' musical genesis, for example: "Thelma’s origin seems to suggest that Natasha Jacobs’ musical abilities sprouted from the singer-songwriter almost spontaneously, whilst she convalesced after a life-changing fall from a ladder.” It was after this event that Jacobs started to write music, removing any lingering sense of the group’s fragility.
Perhaps this is why Thelma’s melodies, at times, take on a raucous touch. Nothing over the top—just a hint of dissonance, the tease of chaos. For instance, in the meandering sendoff of their track “Peach,” with its foreboding tone and interspersed clashing, or “Haha,” which layers the vocals over one another, a Russian nesting doll of lilted coos and slight distortion. Then there’s “White Couches,” in which the guitars and drums build like encroaching storm clouds, petering off and surging again, as Jacobs repeats, “I can sit on your white couches tonight,” a statement that says much more than what’s obvious on the surface. It’s a metaphor contrasting her “messy” presence with immaculate decor, and she’s not shying away from claiming her right to be there.
And we can't forget “If You Let it,” which opens the album and homes in on several of its motifs: the world we create within our minds, the restrictions we place on ourselves, and the pedestals we erect that don’t quite translate into reality. “From a moonbeam I can’t hear / You or feel the limits you put / On yourself and those around you,” Jacobs sings, before diving into the revolving chorus of “If you let it.” Perhaps she means letting go, or unapologetically stepping into your own identity—I suppose the answer is different for all of us listening. But as with everything else on this album, we’re left rapt as we attempt to unravel it.