The Sublime Comedy of Patty Griffin

It’s been said that true comedy begins with a funeral and end with a wedding. Given that, most of Patty Griffin’s recording career has been a series of comedies. Hating her Nile Rodgers-produced debut, Griffin’s label effectively buried it with a refusal to release it. Then came a wedding of sorts, the critically lauded Living With Ghosts, followed by the feisty, career-defining Flaming Red, full of punk and pathos. A sort-of honeymoon for Griffin, Red created palpable anticipation for her follow-up. Unfortunately, Silver Bell also ended up interred in a musical mausoleum, this time by Interscope, the company that acquired Griffin in a corporate reshuffle. It’s not as uncommon as you might think: Sheryl Crow, Ryan Adams, Liz Phair and Abra Moore are just a few of the artists that, for a variety of reasons, have had projects shelved.

But the idea of a Patty Griffin record languishing in corporate limbo is particularly frustrating, given her singular vocal and writing talents. Her voice, delicate and sylph-like, then suddenly a gospel holler filling the corners of one’s soul, demands great material—it seems an offense against nature to trouble those pipes with pedestrian tunesmithy. Fortunately Griffin has one of the most adroit pens in American songcraft. She’s the kind of performer on whom critics pour superlatives, like leis at a Hawaiian airport; the sort of talent that gives other artists moments of awe and self-doubt.

So when Dave Matthews’ fledgling ATO label came calling, Griffin’s followers felt relieved. By all accounts ATO is hands-off, a musician’s label, and it’s hard to argue with the results. 1000 Kisses, her first ATO record, was a stunning acoustic affair along the lines of Living With Ghosts. The CD introduced now-classic Griffin-penned songs such as “Rain” and “Long Ride Home” and reaffirmed her remarkable ability to wrap themes of loss and heartache with the characteristic warmth that makes her writing both personal and universal.

The Galadriel of Americana herself, Emmylou Harris, remarks, “Patty Griffin says the thing we’re all saying about love and death and longing, but she says it in a completely new way. She opens up whole new wounds—in the best possible way. It’s that hurt where you have to go to that place you want to be hurt.”

And Harris is absolutely right. On Impossible Dream, Griffin’s latest release, the tracks that twinge most also have the greatest pull—the wistful ache of “The Rowing Song”; the desolate “Mother of God”; the abandoned hymn of “Kite.” Asked about Harris’ kind words, Griffin immediately picks up the thread but typically directs attention away from herself.

“I think I understand what she’s talking about. For me there are certain artists that can go to a place for you. Lucinda Williams is one and, actually, Trent Reznor is another. Pretty Hate Machine was one of those records that brought some things forward. I was so grateful to him for doing that because I felt like I needed to express that. He gives you access to certain darker places.”

Not to disparage either of the artists mentioned—the potency of Lucinda Williams’ records being indisputable, and Reznor’s evocative power recently reconfirmed in Johnny Cash’s devastating cover of “Hurt”—but Griffin’s writing possesses a quality that makes her special. Dar Williams, herself a considerable talent, agrees:

“Some people have a gift that is really otherworldly. Something touches you when you hear their music that isn’t just the lyrics and melody. Patty chooses words really beautifully, and her melodies are really interesting; at the same time, I think she has a gift that’s found her. There’s an extra layer that’s ethereal.”