Ruthie Foster
Runaway Soul
Blue Corn Music
By David Pilot
 There's
a song on Runaway Soul I loathe. It's called "Home,"
and it's the sort of beautiful breathy slow jam/pop number that
Natalie Cole spent so much of the '80's underusing her formidable
voice to record. If it was the title track of a different record,
one populated with similarly pathos inducing mind-freezes, it
could be justly touted as mood music of the highest order. But
that's not the case here, and the company "Home" entertains
on Runaway Soul is sufficiently stellar to make one wonder
how this song made the final cut. So I hate the track simply
because its ill-conceived inclusion kills the progression of
a stellar blues/folk/soul record by an artist I'd never heard
of. A fellow writer on this site a short while back decried
the validity of the self-proclaimed music fan who fails to understand
the depths, nuances and sounds of the blues. His quote, actually,
went:
I am always astounded when someone tells me they don't like
the blues because it all sounds alike or is a limited genre.
To me, a comment like that makes about as much sense as saying
you don't really care for life because you find carbon to be
a limited element -- it shows a basic ignorance of the subject.
I saw myself there, sadly, at least to some degree. My version
of the blues pretty much started with Stevie Ray Vaughn, acknowledged
that B.B. King and Blind Lemon were sort of different from the
Austin guitar god, and understood that Aretha, Ella, Pearl, even
Mahalia Jackson at times transcended this mortal sphere with
their musical visions of life's best and worst. Admittedly I've
not made it much farther than that, but Ruthie Foster may change
me. "Runaway Soul" taught me that within fifteen seconds
of pressing play.
I believe my soul's found a happy home
I believe my soul's found a happy home
And left me waiting here to suffer on my own
Oh yeah. Preach on, Sister. This sounds so much like Aretha
it made me check the credits to be sure it wasn't a cover tune.
It's not. And "Woke Up This Mornin'"? Ms. Franklin's
legacy in all its big pipes glory. The sound goes more to the
best of gospel on the wings of Riley Osborn's Wurlitzer and Lloyd
Maines' percussion, and the chorus harmonies take their place
amid the sublime. These two tracks alone are proof that Ms.
Foster is the honest to God real deal. Vocals like these aren't
made and they're nothing Pro Tools can ever reproduce. "Smalltown
Blues" avoids lyrical depth but still provides a crystalline
showcase for Foster's mind-altering control of tone and considerable
range. The acoustic finger-picking doesn't hurt either.
After a lead-in like that, it's hard not to despise "Home."
Tracks like "Hole In My Pocket" help make up for the
shock, however. Another decidedly non-blues cut (actually a
Terri Hendrix song from way back in 1997), the track better utilizes
Ms. Foster's abilities and proves her adept at genre changes.
Cyd Cassone's background vocals complete the masterpiece.
But blues and gospel are Ruthie Foster's bread and butter,
and the short pop interlude barely manages a respite long enough
for the listener to catch a breath before the truth is back in
tumultuous style. Where "Give You My Love" is upbeat
and satisfying, "Ocean Of Tears (Mama)" is a Deep South
gem that evokes all the worst of Confederate gentility's calloused
disregard while preserving the hope that gave us our best spirituals.
That sense remains on the traditional "Death Came A-Knockin'
(Travelin' Shoes)," arranged here by Foster and Cyd Cassone.
The a cappella intro is jaw dropping, its intensity only magnified
by the sparse accompaniment that subtly intertwines itself as
the verses progress. This is the ghost of Mahalia Jackson,
the spiritual soul of the African-American who turned to music
as the only way to truly heal the pain. There aren't accolades
enough for the power and presentation this track extols.
Ruthie Foster is simply an incredible talent toiling relentlessly
in obscurity down Austin way. A once-promising career and deal
with Atlantic was tabled to allow the artist to handle family
concerns, but now she's back writing and singing on a regular
basis. If the big boys don't come knocking again, it's proof
that the music business is inept. Runaway Soul is music
fit for kings, a cold beer at the toughest roadhouse, the sort
of blues the clubs in Chicago wish they could produce.
*You can find out a bit for yourself at www.ruthiefoster.com, but you'll need your
own copy of this record to really understand. My advice? Don't
be slow whipping out the wallet.
Contact David Pilot at: tailgunner-at-rockzilla.net
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