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Seaworthy is a singular,
astoundingly magical creation that announces itself like stride
piano amplified for a very large body of water.
Just when you wonder where all the Ben
Folds clones are, along comes Margrit Eichler and her able-bodied
trio, True Margrit, to dispel the myth. While there are some Folds
comparisons to be made, this is no attempt to fan the keys of a
piano in the style of one who came before or since; Seaworthy is a
singular, astoundingly magical creation that announces itself like
stride piano amplified for a very large body of water (go with me on
this, will you?).
Possessing the soul of a jazz player
trapped in the body of a popster, Eichler tickles the ivories and
stomps on them, often at the same time. It is important to remember
that the piano is a percussive, as well as melodic, instrument, and
this talented, committed player uses that duality to her advantage.
Sweet at one turn and elasticized the next, Eichler's voice
is somewhat reminiscent of Aimee Mann and Andrea Perry; she bends
the notes when it’s appropriate and sings them straight ahead when
it’s not. Hers is a remarkable instrument—emotive, sensitive, and
aggressive when the mood demands. She’s quite the talent, one to be
reckoned with.
Eichler's music falls somewhere in the pond
in which swims Billy Joel, Elton John, Mann and Perry. She’s
intelligent, and not afraid to run the style gamut; she’s confident
enough to deliver a hysterical tour de force, a thinly-veiled song
about sexual confusion (but on whose part?) that is two-thirds of a
step away from brazen, “Members Only.” The poppy number is a catchy
winner, masterfully crafted, with one of the great lyrics of the
year: “Now when I drift off to sleep/I want my piano but you
keep/Strapping that guitar on me/An instrument I do not need.”
Brilliant.
In fact, Eichler's playful use of language and
keen ability to flesh out a story, sometimes with the barest of
details, is one of this singer/songwriter’s greatest, most affecting
traits. In the beautiful ballad “Electricity,” Eichler plays with
the idea of electricity and waters sparking attraction, if not
necessarily traditional contact; the lines “How can you say lights
like sparks on the bay/Don’t reflect on the way waters
illustrate/How they connect like electricity” are boundless as
thoughts to spark our brains as we consider the basis and veracity
of our connections in life.
Channeling the stride piano and
New Orleans jazz of Randy Newman on the sprightly “Deliver Me,”
Eichler weaves a “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” type of tale about blame,
something she sings is “easier to spin…I’m vain enough when I get
killed/To smile at the tears you spill.” With blame, I guess, comes
revenge. Hah!
The idea of wanting something so bad that
you’ll take the risk to survive is explored in the fetching
“Everyone Wins,” wonderfully arranged to spotlight Eichler's piano
and widescreen vocal. The song builds to an aggressive harmony
onslaught, as sweet as it is propulsive. The other ideas explored in
these songs are common to everyone’s consciousness, and
subconscious, to be sure; the spin Eichler puts on them—how she
adapts them to her musical attack—is the key to listeners being awed
by her.
Water can be an incredibly passive image; it just
lays there, affected only by nature’s gyrations and human activity.
The image of water floats in and out of many of these songs. In
“Hours in Reverse,” polar ice caps melt; in “Deliver Me,” the
narrator smiles at the tears a person spills; in “Great Praise,”
stars rain down; and in the closer, “Nothing,” the question is asked
whether there is a “peaceful sea/you can go when you’re not yet
dead/where waters lap and now you’ve snapped/nothing needs to be
said.” Water appears, then, to have somewhat of a three-dimensional
personality, affecting us in many ways, even as simply as the first
drops of a shower slapping one’s eyeglasses with a liquid stain.
At its most extreme, water gets us from here to there;
drinking it makes us stronger, even when our bodies’ inclinations
are to be weak. On this dramatically musical and literate album,
Eichler and her cohorts Gary Hobish and Andrew Bacon, along with a
parcel of special guests, shine their spotlight on all manner of
water—perhaps, most especially, the people who are made of so very
much of it.
Alan
Haber, www.buhdge.com, WEBR Pure
Pop
"Margrit is a genius in the vein of Pete
Townsend"
Joe Cote, San Francisco
Spectrum
"Eichler's songs have their own sexy, anxious take on
interpersonal politics....the language and Eichler's delivery have a
surreal edge...that bridges the gap between what you hear on the
radio and what sticks in your head."
Dmitri
Ragano, San Francisco Bay
Guardian
"...wild woman keyboard player has the heart and soul of a gifted
chanteuse..."
Michael Cronin, Teenage
Kicks
"honky-tonk keyboards with ruby-red vocals...melodies that soar
over keyboarding...hooks that float into your head and stay
there...
Scott Mobley, Redding Record
Searchlight
Some voices hide in corners waiting to be noticed; others stomp
center stage and refuse to budge. Margrit Eichler, a Demo Tape
winner a few years back, has a melodic rasp that lands her splat in
the latter category. Conjuring images of chain-smoking dames in
smoke-filled clubs, her bluesy phrasings and rumbling timbre are at
the stylistic core of True Margrit. The rest of the band is no small
shakes either. On "Jamie," staggered syncopation creates a shifty
mood that's just right for this lyrical dip into the vicissitudes of
junkiedom. A combo of xylophone and lounge piano in "All Of The
Atoms Strung Together" issues an irresistible call to shimmy across
a dance floor, martini in hand. But you wouldn't want to meet
Margrit out there. "What if I stepped on your feet/ rather than
admit defeat?" she croons in "Farther Astray." "What if I stayed
just in reach/ but far enough I could retreat?" Um, I'll just sit
this one out, thanks. "Blind Man's Bluff" emits waves of woeful
country-western twang; "One Out Of Many" gets downright bitter with
it's growling chorus of "Do I matter anymore?/ Don't answer that./ I
didn't ask." Oh, Margrit; you know they'll tell you anything you
want.
Neva
Chonin, San
Francisco Bay Guardian
Beat: Local Band Top 20
Loud guitars can eventually be as
irritating as somebody kicking a bruise on your shin. True Margrit's
keyboard-driven sound is a welcome relief. At live shows her funky
syncopations and energetic persona are refreshing and distinguish
her music from so many of the doom-and-gloom combos found on the
scene. Her new nine-song demo contains a commendable batch of songs.
"All Of The Atoms Strung Together," a sprawling,
state-of-the-universe lament has an open structure that's perfect
for letting her piano roam and tumble all over the place. "Jamie,"
an ambiguous tune about a street hustler who may or may not be in
control of his life, shows off her vocal skills to good advantage.
"Blind Man's Bluff" has bluesy arpeggios and pedal steel flavorings
with a tempo reminiscent of the Stone's "Love In Vain," and is a
moving portrait of a person who sees only the dark side of things.
"You Are Here" runs in a more positive vein:
"If your map's in
tatters/ don't mean you'll go astray/ every direction leads to the
day."
True Margrit has to be one of the best keyboardists in
town. The whole band is up to the challenge of both the ballads and
the up-tempo tunes like "Heat Lightning." This demo is a
keeper.
Haight-Ashbury Free
Press
In Performance at the I-Beam, San Francisco
True Margrit, led
by Margrit Eichler, pulled a lot of musical surprises from out of
her hats (which she changed frequently during her set). This girl is
different and holds her own; her tunes are hooky and melodic and her
voice that night was perfect. At times she played keys while the
band rocked behind her. Echoes of Chrissie Hynde, Television and
Joni Mitchell came to mind while listening to her set. "True
Margrit" may just be a true star.
Jay
Siekierski, Haight-Ashbury Free
Press
Squat, driven, immersed in the bliss of creation, a Neanderthal
paints the wall of a cave on the cover of True Margrit's four-song
cassette Sympathetic Magic.
The band seems to have a fascination with the primitive.
Frontwoman Margrit Eichler pillages the common currency of
bare-bones traditional pop in search of buried treasure and pretty
much finds it. The singer/songwriter/keyboardist can distinguish
between the bland and the beautiful in folk/rock/blues/pop and
create a bass and keyboard driven sound that bridges the gap between
what you hear on the radio and what sticks in your head.
The title track begins with Eichler's sultry vocals rocked
back-and-forth on a start-stop bass line. This leads into a hummable
refrain with some loopy, free-spirited lyrics: "I'd be sorry but
there's no time/ I've been waiting to unwind/ All the cords that
wrap around my arms and legs and hold me to the ground."
The language and Eichler's delivery have a surreal edge
to them. (What do you expect from a band whose name conjures up
images of John Wayne and the paintings of René
Magritte?)
Although they cover familiar love-hate
territory, Eichler's songs have their own sexy, anxious take on
personal politics. "Our conversations are taxis rushing by/ Barely
missing our toes," goes a line from "Hey, We Are Driving."
Musically, Eichler, guitarist Chris Martin, a bassist called
Uncle Bobo, and drummer Bob Lurie give the tape a crisp,
professional sound. And with studio-quality production by Robert Bob
Geller, Eichler seems to be ahead of the game.
Picture Joni Mitchell wandering out of
jazz La-La Land and into the '90s club scene. Picture Edie Brickell
backed by a band with funk/blues chops. Better yet, avoid unfair
comparisons and take this up-and-comer on her own
merits.
Dmitri
Ragano, San
Francisco Bay Guardian
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