by Christopher J. Lee
Along with Royal Trux, Pavement, Silver Jews, Palace Brothers, and Smog, Edith Frost was a key figure of Drag City’s early roster during the 1990s, frequently collaborating with her labelmates on her initial recordings. Frost’s debut, Calling Over Time (1997) had the involvement of DC stalwarts like David Grubbs, Jim O’Rourke, Sean O’Hagan, and Rian Murphy. Her second LP, Telescopic (1998), was produced by Jennifer Herrema and Neil Hagerty of Royal Trux. Steve Albini engineered her third release, Wonder Wonder (2001). However, following 2005’s It’s a Game, she went dormant.
“Can you hear me?” is the inquisitive, softly delivered line that opens “Another Year,” the first track on In Space, Frost’s first album in two decades. It breaks an awkward and unexplained silence, both professional and personal, coaxing the listener back like a past confidant. “Been a long time, but I’m all right,” she concedes. “At least I survived. Some would never make it home.”
In Space sustains this mood of warm familiarity over the course of its 12 songs, which follow one another like revealed diary entries for about 40 minutes. The hovering sense of self-awareness about being absent for so long remains this LP’s defining theme. Like a lover who absconds without leaving a message and is now trying to defend their reasons, In Space exudes elements of quiet self-assurance and surrendered vulnerability. Yet, this type of situation involving miscommunication, disappearance, and belated explanation is on par with Frost’s past work.
Such circumstances of crossed wires form a prominent theme in Frost’s most memorable lyrics. On her country-inflected, barroom piano number “Emergency” off It’s a Game, Frost throws her hands up, saying, “You’ve been making plans with another woman, I don’t know what. It’s got to be an emergency because it feels like you’re lying to me.” On one of her most admired songs, “Temporary Loan,” from Calling Over Time, she recognizes the love of a broken relationship as being only a short-lived transaction in retrospect. “Someone else will help him,” Frost bleakly resolves. “I’ll pretend to forget the past. I’ll look for a love that lasts.”
Though there are experimental departures on her past LPs, especially Telescopic helmed by Royal Trux, which has outbursts of electric guitar on “Walk on the Fire” and menacing feedback on “Telescopic,” a classic Frost composition largely sticks to a minimalist approach involving either acoustic guitar or upright piano with an organ, pedal steel, or violin providing modest background ambience. With their southern lilt and lyrical content often involving being wronged by a man, her vocals can resemble those of Gillian Welch. On other tracks, her urbane observations recall those of Aimee Mann. In Space largely returns to this established approach, if in a slightly more folk pop and less countryfied manner.
As noted before, the tracks on this LP line up like a series of journal entries, recording commonplace occasions that would go unrecognized if they weren’t set to music. The track titles themselves resemble fragmented thoughts you might write down as a note-to-self – “…Nothing Comes Around,” “What a Drag,” “Can’t Sleep,” and “Back Again.” As such, Frost’s lyrics can come across as internal monologues. “I say too much, I wait too long, I wait forever and notice that it’s gone,” she quietly admits on “…Nothing Comes Around.” At other moments, her feelings are clearly directed toward someone else, even if they are unaware. On the melancholic “What a Drag,” she suggests to an unnamed counterpart with sincerity, “Maybe we could try destroying both our lives to grow them into something stronger.” Whether she is expressing small private anxieties or trying to find the words to alert another person about how she feels, Frost’s lyrics never waver from locating and communicating some form of truth.
This isn’t to say that Frost lacks humor or a sense of fun. With its organ melody and backroom lounge atmosphere, “Back Again” imparts a sense of satisfied resolution, emphasized when Frost beautifully delivers harsh lines like “I’d rather go blind than to see you one more time.” Meanwhile, “Little Sign” is Frost’s version of rocking out. This track isn’t loud per se, but the pace is faster, the melody line coy and playful, and the vocals bolder, daring her nameless protagonist to put their heart on the line.
Frost’s songwriting has always been character-based, even if she herself is the main character. It evokes the drive-by worlds of dirty realism found in the short fiction of Raymond Carver and Flannery O’Connor. There are no grand statements on In Space, but Frost grasps the moral questions that can surface in relationships and passing everyday moments. Similar to Drag City peers like Bill Callahan and the late David Berman, an updated version of the old, weird America courses through this LP and the rest of her catalogue, replete with lost souls, mislaid plans, revenge fantasies, and the overlooked fates of people holding on for one last chance at redemption. Despite her absence, Frost hasn’t lost her touch. It’s good to have her back.