The Rose of Jericho, also known as the resurrection plant, is a spike moss that grows in dry deserts, surviving through adaptations that protect its cells during long spells of dehydration. Taja Cheek doesn’t often rely on physiological language in her music, which tends to be elliptical in its introspection – “My cerebellum contradicts me” is a notable exception on ‘church of no one’, the closer of her latest L’Rain album, fata morgana – but she is palpably inspired by such natural phenomena, metaphors of resilience in an increasingly dreary world. Working once again with longtime collaborators Ben Chapoteau-Katz and Andrew Lappin, her new album feels like an extension of the shapeshifting musical world the singer-songwriter has built over the past decade while also prodding at its extremes. Between songs that dissolve in or rise from the ether, that assault or delight the senses, Cheek achieves a strange kind of equilibrium, thriving in an environment that should be hostile to any kind of creative endeavour, let alone such brilliance.
1. rumors of light
If the promise of later track ‘blue’ is true and “shadows can only be made from the light,” how does one catch a glimpse of it? Perhaps it is a rumor, the album’s opening track suggests, a series of false starts that must, eventually, shimmer to life. For an artist as multi-faceted as L’Rain, the inception point scans as difficult, but maybe it can all start with a gentle piano arpeggio.
2. with time
And in time, the arpeggios’ organic, roomy tone dissolves into murkier waters, and it becomes clear that Cheek is operating in the supernatural realm: “I’m a vampire, suck the pain,” she repeats. “Yeah, I mean, I’m just not done yet,” a manipulated voice intones, humorously disrupting the ghostly choir. In fact, she’s barely just begun.
3. blue
The track may have an ambient flavour, but it mirrors nocturnal restlessness as opposed to anything meant to help induce sleep. Sluggish low notes make room for freeform brass that rises like intrusive thoughts, while Andrew Lappin’s unpredictable percussion keeps tumbling out of focus. “Who am I to possess this power?” Cheek wonders, as if remarking on the resonance of her own layered vocals, striving for meaning in the dark.
4. july 5th
The album gradually finds its groove on ‘july 5th’; vocal loops, lush guitars, and a clear lyrical thread percolate like light into rhythm before any kind of drumming enters the mix. Still, it’s not enough to prepare you for a guest appearance from Screechy Dan, who steers the song toward dancehall – and a kind of liberation from the hell it describes – while remaining totally in spirit.
5. bedroom songs
Cheek’s nimble guitar playing is blanketed by her spectral sound design, with additional production by Yuka Honda, who is also credited for the album sequencing. It could have started the record, too, but is more suggestive of a liminal stage, ‘bedroom songs’ as portals to the “proper” ones that follow.
6. borderline
The single evokes “sweaty evenings” that accumulate to the point of taking on a vaporous quality, though the build-up is forceful: slithery guitars relax against kinetic drumming until they become grittier, gasping for air as modular synths pummel through. “Beast or sustenance?” Cheek wonders, capturing that same ambivalence.
7. elmyra
“Like gripping the doorway/ Withstanding tornados” are visceral words for yearning, even if they seem to describe the previous track more than the delicately spectral ‘elmyra’. Cheek leans into her ethereal falsetto over a wondrous constellation of synths, casting a spell without a hint of trepidation over whether it will work.
8. soulless cycle
Cheek allows about a minute of near-silence to prepare our ears for ‘soulless cycle’ – or perhaps to make the shift to its teeth-baring noise all the more jarring. The song’s distorted guitars and frenetic drums are both wrought from and rail against endless torrents of exhaustion, pointing at the cruel irony of how something self-described as a “psycho cycle” can feel so soulless. It’s an absolute highlight that would stand out anywhere in the tracklist, making everything pale in comparison, but it’s smartly placed as the culmination of a couple of full-bodied tracks. It also provides another example of thoughts uttered on a previous track – “If you’re still counting, we’re overflowing” – seemingly being processed in musical terms later on.
9. no body / know body
Another two thirds of a minute to let ‘soulless cycle’ sink in, perhaps also to ponder this track’s titular duality: does transcending the physical bring us closer to understanding it? Or is it more of a push-and-pull, another overwhelming cycle?
10. glass ceiling
Over eerie vocal loops and tinny synths, with Cheek’s breathing as the rhythmic backbone, ‘glass ceiling’ finds the artist back in a kind of comfort zone. But it’s exactly this understated control that allows a heightened level of vulnerability: “Why does it hurt so bad to live out my days?” she asks, plain and piercing.
11. i remember
I always come back to the air horns on Fatigue as an example of Cheek reminding listeners her music isn’t so self-serious, and ‘i remember’ serves a similar purpose. Cheek riffs on classic R&B, singing through laughter – what if ‘elmyra’ was fully upbeat as opposed to just dreamy? More than just an irreverent comedic moment, though, it’s a playful introduction before Cheek fully entertains the idea.
12. birthday
Actually, the idea is more like: What if the lyric was not “Get busy, it’s your birthday” but “Be lonely, it’s your birthday,” which is what Cheek actually sings here, accompanied sumptuously on vocals by Joselia Rebekah Hughes, Rafia Santana, and Tasha Viets-VanLear (aka Tasha, who enlisted L’Rain on her latest album). It’s natural that the most extreme L’Rain song (‘soulless cycle’) would land on the same album as the most ostensibly conventional one, though few deconstructionists of any genre could execute it so meticulously.
13. church of no one
We move from a delightfully lonely song to a darkly reverent one, at once impressionistic and introspective. “Lonely in my head but not my house,” she clarifies, soon after briefly elaborating on the ‘no body / know body’ dichotomy. fata morgana amasses contradictory fragments of self, twisted through non-linear time and mismatched desire, yet finds itself moving forward against all odds, somehow complete.
