It’s 2003, and Cat Energy exists in rarefied air. The phrase “chanteuse” is bandied about, an unique label for an American singer-songwriter on an indie label. And, sure, Cat Energy—a.okay.a. Chan Marshall—is beguiling. However the Francophone descriptor fails to conjure the mud her voice kicks up, the grit and moan that dangle within the air after every tune. As Hilton Als famous in a evaluation that August, a Cat Energy present might be shambolic, with Marshall flipping by way of channels that solely she is aware of, sometimes touchdown on a tune. For the listener, the journey is each thrilling and desultory, like hanging out sober whereas your pal journeys on mushrooms.
Richard Avedon’s accompanying portrait discards any notion of Cat Energy’s caprice; there’s no bewilderment or confusion on show, no underlying contradictions. Right here she is, in totality. It could possibly be day or night time—however who cares, as a result of the scene appears to be occurring proper now. Your mind needs to dissect the picture. Is she arriving residence or going out, dressing or undressing? The Bob Dylan shirt is neither on nor off her physique; she’s not masking Dylan, he’s masking her. Displaying. Discarding. Cease, it’s solely a shirt. The unbuttoned denims are happening, developing; the pubic hair is staying both manner. Soak up her morning-after smoky eye. That half smile. Strive squeezing between Cat Energy and Avedon’s lens. The area is slippery, inaccessible; you’re unsure you have been even invited. Ultimately, you’re the one who feels unknown, as short-term because the ash on Marshall’s cigarette. Every little thing else is Cat Energy. ♦
Cat Energy calls for consideration, then resists it.
