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What makes the music of Janes so addictive?  Well, I wish I had the answer down pat, but I don't, so I'll point to a parallel. When Pat Boone released In a Metal Mood in 1997, I was one of the only critics in the mood to listen.  I was one of the only ones who stopped laughing long enough to consider the true spirit of rock 'n roll that spawned this oddball collection of Glen Milleresque "metal" melodies.  I resolutely refrained from joining the mockingbird choir of critics with their refrain of jocular jeers and sardonic sneers. You see, most critics were blind to the boon Pat was for the music industry at that time.  While others hacked away at the same old hackneyed cliches, Pat Boone bravely broke new ground.  He was the lone experimenter in the midst of one of least experimental, most prosaic periods in rock history--the late nineties.  In his metal experiment, Pat took a batch of his favorite hard rock tunes and unconventionally "tainted" them with a big band sound.  Though it was no boon for his music career among baby boomers, and TV evangelists ended up standing in line to cast the first stone, the record ended up climbing to the top college radio and alternative charts. 

So where is the parallel here?   Well, I was about to address that.  While Boone and Janes couldn't be farther apart in terms of age, respective influences, and style, the Pacific Northwest punk-improv crowd that pleasurably "suffers" from a severe case of Janes addiction is not much different from the crowd that embraced Pat Boone's In a Metal Mood.  Both artists are well deserving of the following they have drawn because of their willingness to explore new territory--to take creative risks.  Both albums are experimental and that's what makes them inviting, and exciting.  While Boone faced disgrace when he made an about face, Janes won't face the same fate.  She gets to save face because she is more predictable in her unpredictability. Done Gone Fire won't stir up any laughter among critics, but it may bring about a bout of depression here and there.  This set of tunes, tenuously grounded in ambiguous blotches of neo-soul; blues; post-punk folk; avant-garde and gothic rock; gospel; and classical music, is like a set of inkblots on a Rorschach Projective Test.  Though I have administered hundreds of these in the course of my career as a clinical psychologist, I would refrain from administering it to someone who was on the verge of an emotional breakdown.  And I would refrain from imploring a severely depressed or psychotic patient to listen to Done Gone Fire. The album is conspicuously devoid of infectious rhythms or predictable guitar solos.  A person who lives on the emotional edge hungers for such ear candy to serve as an anchor on the shores of an emotionally tumultuous sea.   The songs on Done Gone Fire are so bereft of conventional structure that anyone whose internal boundaries are in the least bit frayed and/or whose defenses are down, will get lost, feeling hopelessly hunted by its haunted halls.  Done Gone Fire is like your shadow looking back at you from a shattered mirror, hung crookedly on a wall of cracked plaster, in the midst of a lamp-less room of gloom and doom. 

On the other hand, for those girded with a strong sense of self and undaunted by the inscrutable mystery and paradox of the human condition, Done Gone Fire is a treasure to behold.  The lyrics are intimate, poetically delivered portraits. "2 am" begins with gently hand-picked acoustic guitar arpeggios that cuddle and caress the lines "2 o'clock in the mornin'/our party's already dead/lovers all nestled in their beds."  Suddenly there is a rude awakening, marked by a scratchy, screeching, yet strangely soulful electric guitar.  This is followed by a return to slumber, compliments of the lullaby cry of a gentle keyboard arrangement.  "Monkey's Song" begins with a paroxysm of nervous laughter followed by the assertive declaration,"You don't own me/I'm not just one of your toys."  While it appears to be a fortuitous coincidence, "The Monkey's Song" is thematically similar to The Monkees' "Cuddly Toy." 

Janes' voice is hypnotic in its intensity. It has the soulful depth of Macy Gray, the bluesy muse of Tracy Chapman, and the alternative grit of Alanis Morresette.  It is the most addictive quality of Janes' music.  Janes' voice, along with the unconventional cadences that guide it into unexplored musical frontiers, have an eerily intoxicating effect on the listener.  Her voice earnestly urges the listener to partake in her tortured, bittersweet journey.  That the journey is ultimately spiritual is revealed in the tenth track, Jerusalem.  That the journey is worth traveling is abundantly clear.  If there is such a thing as a healthy addiction, this is it. 

Bruce L. Thiessen, Ph.D., 
a.k.a. Dr. B. L. T., The Song Shrinkin' Rock Doc  4/5/2002

A few seconds into Liz Janes' debut CD, Done Gone Fire, and the mood has been set. Sad, husky vocals and a sparse, blue guitar give us the album's one-minute and change intro, "Martyr's Grind Up." The sparseness and blueness continue throughout the disc with several sonic surprises thrown in to make sure we're paying attention. What we wind up with is good old blues with off-kilter accents and abstract concepts. This is mood music with a twist.

"Guitar Guitar," the second song on Done Gone Fire, sounds reminiscent of Danielson Famile, with the plucking of a lo-fi guitar and xylophone dropped in here and there for good measure. Rumour has it Janes is a friend of the Danielson clan, and their influence is woven in and out of the rest of the disc, with one family member making an appearance on a song. On "2 am," Janes shows her love of blues with her sad sleepy vocals proclaiming, "Two o' clock in the morning and the party's already dead. Lovers all nestled in their bed." Enter a frantic buzz guitar and a methodic Hammond organ at this point. We've got a picture in our heads now, of Janes messed up and tired singing to no one in particular, except maybe a beer bottle. The song ends with the frantic guitar giving out and two piano tracks playing idly off each other.

The blues continue with the sultry "Proposition." A bluesy guitar line is followed by sweaty drums and Janes' come-hither vocals: "I want you to be my lover tonight. Not tomorrow or never again." In this song, the vocals range from low crawl to defiant high swagger.

The second half of the album features more blues, jazz and folk influences, all thrown together and taught to get along. The songs range from the slow and moving "Tristeza" (featuring Megan Smith of Danielson Famile adding "la la la's") to the defiant "Monkey Song" (sensitive listeners beware of expletive) to the playful "Jerusalem," wherein the vocals, split an octave apart on two tracks, slink in slyly with head jutted forward and shoulders back. The disc also features three instrumentals, the last of which is untitled and finishes off the disc. Each of the instrumentals paints a different mood for the listener (I picture an old dusty room with filtered sunlight and weathered wood floors on the last one). 

This is an unusual disc and in many ways cerebral. The lyrics on several tunes are as abstract as the record's title. But what may be most unusual about the album is the maturity found in Janes' delivery and the skill of craftsmanship in each of these songs. Many different styles exist here, and Janes and Sufjan Stevens, who plays many of the instruments on this disc, have done a fine job in combining them in complementary ways.

Done Gone Fire  is quirky and at times weird, and will unfortunately gather no more than a cult following. But for those of us who do discover Liz Janes, there's hope in this debut for a career of wonderful, creative music. Here's your invitation to sign up.

Dave Kerschbaum / 14 April 2002