Kleinmeister, the new album by Ruth Garbus, is a rarity, the holy wastewater of folk-rock decanted into the Lake of Avalon by a provincial plebe, turned into wine. It is sublime, and absurd, and infused with the green hills, grey cemeteries, and plastic detritus of her Brattleboro, Vermont home.
These compositions come from an odd but familiar world, chiaroscuro silver litter in the beam of a flashlight. In Garbus’s voice, too, the dark and light are combined - even the highest pitches contain pools of undertones, a depth. (She became fully expressed as a mezzo soprano, in both her range and her soul, with the aid of opera singer Jim Anderson, whom she studied with in 2017/18.)
These compositions come from an odd but familiar world, chiaroscuro silver litter in the beam of a flashlight. In Garbus’s voice, too, the dark and light are combined - even the highest pitches contain pools of undertones, a depth. (She became fully expressed as a mezzo soprano, in both her range and her soul, with the aid of opera singer Jim Anderson, whom she studied with in 2017/18.)
