Local (as in Minnetonka-grown, Wayzata-living, lake-dwelling local) songwriter Courtney Yasmineh wrestles with two driving forces through her album “Sufi Line”: a colorful, brash personality, and an incredible backing band. Courtney grew up at WCC, and we met when she stopped in a few weeks ago to put up some posters for her CD release show. After the meeting, I wore a Sufi Line temporary tatoo on the inside of my wrist for a week; she must have made an impression on me. She speaks her thoughts unapologetically, in person and in music. There’s a playful but deep sensual presence, coupled with a complex spiritual history, and her voice tiptoes the line between being moving and discomforting, finally falling on the side of motion.
On and off, I’ve listened to “Sufi Line” for about a month. The geograpy of the album and of the show last Tuesday reinforce each other with similar themes and execution. When stretching outside of the self lyrically, exploring smoky gospel territory musically, Courtney is unstoppable. Slow-burners like “Nehemiah” and “Survival Time” find songwriter and band meshing over rich writing and playing, unified in a singular, distinctive aesthetic voice. At other times, in poppier and lyrically more self-absorbed moments, only the backing band saves Yasmineh from being a very average singer/songwriter – the kind found in coffeeshops everywhere at 8 on Saturday nights. The balance tips towards the former, and I count myself a Courtney fan, but I hope next time she’ll boil 1/4 of her material off, for a more concentrated mix.
Having mentioned the “boiling” process I see that it’s a maxim I’d stress for everybody; those who live it usually make the greatest art. I try to apply it to myself constantly.
Watching the band at Courtney’s CD release show was plain fun – Jeff on keys (from local heroes Honeydogs) plafully changing tent-revivalist chords into avant-garde explosions, drums comfortably rock-steady and textured like the devil, and guitar playing that reminded me of JV‘s Scott Solter and the new Wilco guy (Nels Klien). To hear these guys bleed the songs out in the luxurious tube tone of vintage amps and keys was a downtown, late-night, bar-closing blessing.
In the middle of her set, the band took a break and Courtney played one of her old tunes, a rambling “autobiographical” ballad about her tortured marriage to Bob Dylan in 1978. I caught myself thinking “This song is for Courtney what “Was I In Bon Jovi For A Second?” is to me”; beyond fact-or-fiction, how much of our past is imagined? And how much does it matter?