YOU ARE HERE: LAT HomeCollections


Making Her Move

Beth Orton takes off down a different road with 'Trailer Park,' a natural intersection of '60s folk and '90s techno-dance. This is one singer-songwriter mobilized for the future.

March 08, 1998|Robert Hilburn | Robert Hilburn is The Times' pop music critic

LONDON — Beth Orton shuns the usual interview settings--a record company conference room, say, or a favorite new restaurant--in favor of a restful hour in her own second-floor flat.

"This is my home, the first one I've had on my own, and I love it here," she says with the excitement of someone showing off a new puppy. She's sitting on a couch in a sparsely furnished front room in a mostly residential, working-class area of western London.

"This feeling is new to me because I've never been one to settle down," she says. "When I recorded the album, I was sleeping on the floor in a friend's place. But it's a time in my life when it feels nice to have something of your own. When I'm not [touring], my idea of a good night is just sitting here watching videos or listening to my albums."

On the floor behind her are stacks of records, which are divided almost equally between two pop genres that are often considered polar opposites: the '60s singer-songwriter tradition of Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan and the contemporary techno-dance movement popularized by the Chemical Brothers and Goldie.

It's precisely the marriage of those two styles that helped inject Orton's debut album, "Trailer Park," with an adventurous and appealing edge.

While much has been said over the last 18 months about an impending merger of song-oriented and dance-conscious styles, Orton is one of the few artists who has ventured into that territory in convincing fashion. It's easy to classify the songs on "Trailer Park" as folk, but there are subtle, trance-like dance textures in the arrangements that certify this album's late-'90s copyright.

Though the collection hasn't reached the national sales charts in the U.S., critics on both sides of the Atlantic have been enthusiastic.

"Trailer Park" finished No. 19 in the Village Voice's year-end poll of more than 400 U.S. pop critics, ahead of albums by such other admired figures as Fiona Apple, Ben Folds Five, Ron Sexsmith and Elliott Smith.

Rolling Stone magazine named the album one of the year's 10 best, and Spin hailed Orton's music as a "deft blend of pastoral acoustics and dance-floor effects that builds a lazy, introspective atmosphere, perfectly suited to Orton's ruminations on love and spiritual ambition."

A tall, rail-thin woman of 27, Orton seems both pleased and a bit puzzled by the talk about her being a trailblazer.

"It all came about quite naturally," she says of her musical direction, lighting a cigarette as she sits on a couch. "I love going to clubs and dancing my socks off. . . . At the same time, there was a point around 17 when I discovered Joni Mitchell and Neil Young and the excitement of songs that summarized in just a couple of minutes exactly what I was feeling. . . .

"When I made my record, I wanted to draw on both things. I'm sure I'm not the only one who can go out and go mad in a club and then come home and listen to Joni Mitchell and be totally inside my head. It wasn't an attempt to be [in tune] with what's happening today, but just drawing upon everything I love about music."

Because Orton's songs have such a searching, rootless feel, "Trailer Park" is the perfect title for her album. But the name was largely an accident.

"The original title was 'Winnebago,' " she says, smiling at the incongruity of an album named for the big motor homes. (She abandoned it because of potential copyright violation.) "It sounds odd now, but I just loved the sound of the word and I guess it does suggest the same kind of restlessness as 'Trailer Park.' "

She adopted the second title after becoming fascinated with trailer parks during a trip early last year to Southern California's Mojave Desert to make a video for the album.

"I didn't even know what a trailer park was until I got to California," she says. "But I could identify with the lifestyle. . . . The urge to keep moving, not be tied down.

"When I was young, me and my mum had this plan to live on a boat one day . . . with loads of animals. I also thought for a while about living with a friend in a mobile home."

Orton's music is infused with the sweet melancholy of someone who knows better than to count on anything being permanent, including relationships.

"I don't know how to explain it," she says when asked about the album's tone. "Even as a child, I just loved sad songs. That was my thing. The funny thing is I remember being quite happy as a child. I was very bright and breezy, but I also had this very serious side."

At times, as in "Live as You Dream," she combats the melancholy with a brightness reminiscent of Mitchell's "Chelsea Morning," right down to the hopscotch mannerisms of the vocal. On the moodier "Galaxy of Emptiness," however, there is the aching delicacy of Tim Hardin, whose often-recorded "Reason to Believe" is one of the great songs in the helpless romantic tradition.

Los Angeles Times Articles