So Holland headed back to the Bay Area, driven by a budding romance and the warm communal vibe she'd previously encountered.
Odd circumstances seem to follow Holland wherever she lives. One of her first houses in S.F. reportedly was haunted, with both a cat ghost and a shoe-stealing apparition making appearances. (The two gave name to Little Boris & the Shoes, the any-genre-goes improv band in which Holland plays at the Rite Spot every second Friday of the month.) And then there was the wounded cockatiel she brought home, which would often jam with practicing musicians in the house, even soloing on one occasion.
Wednesday, Feb. 19, at 10 p.m.
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Maybe such creatures are drawn to Holland because she has a natural affinity for them. Feathered friends appear in two song titles on Catalpa, a book of birdcalls sits on a shelf in her room, and she mentions gorilla paintings and elephant orchestras in conversation. She even has a new song called "Spooky Pony Blues," which manages to put forth both voodoo metaphysics and salacious insinuations. "I was a horse-crazy little girl; I finally got to stick all that lingo somewhere," Holland laughs.
Recorded over the last year, Catalpa showcases the musician's many talents. Not only does she cover old-time singer Hattie Hudson's "Black Hand Blues," but she also reworks W.B. Yeats' poem "Song of the Wandering Angus" as well as "Mule on de Mount," an African-American work song made famous by writer Zora Neale Hurston. "She's this great role model for me -- someone who did incredible artistic work without a lot of support," Holland says of Hurston. The album also includes improv pieces featuring Holland's guitar and ukulele alongside singing saw, banjo, and bells. But the best songs are stripped-down originals like "All the Morning Birds," in which her vocals threaten to break from the weight of heartache, and "I Wanna Die," which seems as much about the joys of hitting the tarmac as shuffling off this mortal coil. Finally, there's a version of "The Littlest Birds," featuring her lyrical suggestion that "the littlest birds make the prettiest songs."
"There's a Southern kind of darkness coming out of her, like a Leadbelly kind of thing," says Sonny Smith, a local singer/ songwriter who's played with Holland. "Catalpa trees and wanting to die and that kind of thing."
But while the CD offers a good taste of what Holland can do (as will a "pretty fancy" album she's working on with Lemon De George, the sound engineer for the Oscar-nominated film Genghis Blues), nothing compares to the experience of seeing her live, whether it be at an unadorned solo set, a country-blues gig with her trio, or the anything-goes Little Boris nights. In those settings, Holland showcases new material -- coming fast and furious, thanks to a recent breakup and a move from her haunted environs -- and draws from her vast repertoire, digging into songs with the consonant-blurring style of the best jazz singers. "I'm trying to give people this very spontaneous, from-the-heart sound," Holland says. "I really like hearing people sing from the heart."
She also enjoys giving listeners the stories behind her songs, like how she wrote "Gimme That Old-Fashioned Morphine" after taking a Greyhound bus from Texas to California, all hopped up on her grandfather's pain pills, singing traditionals with a touring gospel choir. They don't write them like that anymore.
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