Damien Jurado

On My Way To Absence
Secretly Canadian, 2005

I’m sitting on the Lygon street tram, heading north, or south (but definitely not east). It’s sunny enough to notice the other passengers without seeing them, and my headphones have become a security blanket draped over a portable bedroom. Slouched and half-asleep, half-peering into the graveyard as it passes by and half-listening to the new mix-tape playing through my discman, the eerie, echoing guitar of 'Sucker' announces itself. Nestled seamlessly between The Silver Jews and Hayden, Damien Jurado paints a scene of regret and revenge in some distant country town, but the darkness wore off weeks ago. I can’t help but wake with a smile, knowing that this is the singer at his best.

“There comes a time in every artist’s career when he disconnects himself from the public,” begins the press release for Damien Jurado’s latest full-length. Supposedly, this record is his first to be free from the constraints of genre, critical opinion and audience expectations. I suspect, however, that this process started long ago. Jurado is no stranger to controversy. Missing from the release is any mention of Postcards And Audio Letters, an LP created entirely from found audio cassettes and answering machines which estranged almost as many fans as his previous work had gained. Nevertheless, his amazing voice, loyal following and knack for album titles have remained intact. Rehearsals For Departure fitted Jurado’s naïve and sorrowful 1999 record of folk-pop perfectly, I Break Chairs gave clear warning as to its indie-rock intentions, and now, to mark a new-found depth of introspection and darkness, comes On My Way To Absence.

Evelyn and I bought Rehearsals For Departure in different years, in different countries, in different seasons. Now we’re sitting on the same balcony sharing a bottle of wine, stopping occasionally to hear a chorus or climax from the new album. 'Big Decision’s lilting guitar twang rings out like a bell after the strummed acoustics of its predecessors, and we both try to sing along, unsure if we’ve heard it before but instantly familiar with the sound – possibly, it is an earlier track Jurado has re-recorded for this album. We talk over the beautiful, poignant 'Lion Tamer', which in any case is already so well-loved to play out in my head anyway: “Patience drips into the sound/ You are nothing to me now.”

Andrew Ramadge is away. This review first published in Beat in 2005.