Leah Andreone
Veiled
RCA

Is it paradoxical to say that someone can write in ambiguities and still have their message be crystal clear? Maybe. Want proof it could be a true statement? Check out Veiled -- Leah Andreone's debut disc. It will convince you. It will also suck you right in.

Veiled is easily the most compelling release of this year, thus far. Its music is varied and enticing. Its lyrics are deep, dark and maybe even a little disturbing. By the end of the first playing, you long to sit down with Andreone over a cup of coffee and pick her brain -- just to reassure yourself that it is not you who is nuts.

Be ready to hear and read a barrage of comparisons linking Andreone and everyone from Tori Amos and Kate Bush (these two courtesy of her record label) to Jewel and Susanna Hoffs. There may be minor similarities in her vocal delivery to those of Bush and Amos through her warbles and wails. To a lesser extent, her vocal tones could possibly conjure images of Jewel and Hoffs. Here's one more: Alanis Morrisette. If they are referring to the level of diversity here, and only the level of diversity, then this comparison works. The truth being told, in style, tone and delivery, she's an original.

Lyrically, she's bent toward a peculiar fascination for conflict. She's looking for a challenge even if she has to create it herself. She can pick apart the pieces of the most hackneyed cliches and make them provocative and pervasive. There is a great example in "Hell To Pay." If there were no hell to pay / I wonder would you still need a god? Kinda makes you think -- doesn't it? The disc is really front-loaded -- the best stuff comes first. Veiled opens with a multi-rhythmic foray into the world of divorce as seen through the eyes of the guilt-ridden child. Dad threw away her mom / Her mom gave up his name / Crucified by their words / Nailed by shame / She stares into the sun / Self-inflicted pain / She sees that they are blind / Why does she take all the blame? It is not an uncommon storyline by any means, but Andreone brings a newly skewed perspective to it. If the perspective doesn't capture you, the passion in it will.

"Happy Birthday" has an even freakier point of view, and don't count on the music for this track being anything but harsh guitars and traumatized cymbals. How often have you looked at birth from the first-person-fetal perspective? Scared and confused, this kid isn't thrilled with any part of this birth thing. You're pushing hard, it's cramped in here / Is this what warps my head / The lighting's red the pressure's high / Is it birth or is it death? Strong stuff.

Another amazing thing about this disc is found in how well it works as a collective body of work. This is not some random grouping of songs. There is some common thread, a certain magic, that runs through the lyrics from beginning to end. Be it something hidden inside the words or whatever, the repressed yearning of "You Make Me Remember," the abusive tendencies of a formerly abused child in "Problem Child" or "Will You Still Love Me" and its frenzy of anxiety, all fit together somehow. Damn, it's such a strange disc.

Lee Barrish