Singer-songwriter pours herself into her work.
By Bethany Ericson / For the Journal
Wednesday, July 2, 2003

Rachel McCartney wants to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. But she's not going to force it. The career and life plan of this 33-year-old folk singer is simple. She is going to practice, let go of control and pour herself into the flow. And at Club Passim in Cambridge last Wednesday night, she seemed to be sticking to her intentions.

McCartney, a Somerville resident, uncurls into her songs and her performances, and aims for poignant truths. By her third song, the fans packing Passim were swaying in their chairs. A powerful voice reminiscent of early Patty Griffin or Joan Osborne spilled forth from her thin frame, as her whimsical orange dreadlocks floated about her face. By mid-set she carried the room smoothly from heart-rending musings to full-on rock moments, the tense sinews in her arms the only sign of exertion.

After four years under the wing of Karl Mullen, "the daddy of roots music," in the vibrant arts scene of Pittsburgh, McCartney had made herself known. She'd opened for Patty Griffin, David Gray, Shawn Colvin and John Gorka, and she was making headlines.

Melissa Martin discovered Rachel McCartney working at a Pittsburgh bakery job. Martin went on to choose songs from McCartney's "Eye on the Horizon" album for her independent film "The Bread, My Sweet." But despite all this success, McCartney left Pittsburgh to return once more to the Bay State.

"So I spent some time in Pittsburgh," she tells the audience at Passim, and pauses. No one claps. She laughs.

"In the whole country there is no place as well known as Harvard Square," she'd mused earlier in the day. "There is such a history of busking here." While the currents of onlookers in the Square have embraced street musicians for decades, there is a modern twist to Rachel's grassroots music marketing. She doesn't just take money; she takes e-mail addresses. "This is solely responsible for my following in the Boston area," she claims.

Playing at Club Passim doesn't hurt, either. On stage, she waves to the kids who are outside the windows, dangling their feet over the wall to watch. Four of the songs on her "Interim" CD were recorded at Passim recently, and she has a comfortable presence on stage. "Thanks to Matt [Smith, the daddy of Passim]," she said, "he's nurtured me like the flower I am."

McCartney always arrives ready to simply perform, resigned to the fact that she may have "squeezed the jazz out" of her songs already. But on stage, when she isn't forcing anything, the sparkle reliably returns. She compares the energy that shows up unexpectedly in her songs to prayer, to yoga, to practices that you use to be a channel, rather than actions you take to define yourself.

Her songs lean toward self-discovery metaphors more than straight folk narrative, but don't mistake this for oversensitive gushing. In fact, Rachel may err on the side of volume over subtlety on stage, her voice-as-conduit technique missing some opportunities for softening, or slowing. A little low-key theater, added to a voice like hers, and audiences might even forget to breathe occasionally.

McCartney's voice will grab your attention as you pass by her in subway stops or by the tree on Church Street. Her solo guitar is more of an afterthought. On stage, the talented band that joins her rounds out the sound. The band adds whole new layers of intensity, from the lonely soprano saxophone of Rachel's gifted boyfriend, Plamen Jetchev, to her obvious camaraderie and stirring harmonies with Brian Webb.

McCartney shakes up the room with her rollicking song, "God Made You Right," and is called back for an encore. "That was a healthy bit of roaring" she exclaims, and the standing audience keeps clapping.