A friend and I stumbled into a chat a while back about the fact that the genesis of so much art lies in the artist’s efforts to process and find a path forward from trauma. We weren’t talking about Brittany Howard’s 2019 solo debut Jaime, but we might as well have been.
Howard is known to most as the frontwoman of Alabama Shakes, a remarkable quartet who made it their mission to take distinctly Southern rock and soul and r&b forms and evolve them into something fresh and new. They were, and more recently once again are, musical subversives of the best kind.
For a time, though—roughly 2017-24—Howard chose to step away from the band. The initial impetus was this set of songs, a deeply personal collection that’s named for Howard’s older sister. Jaime died of retinoblastoma as a young teen, when Brittany Howard was just 10 years old, a traumatic event further amplified by the reality that Jaime was, from a young age, a talented artist who nurtured and inspired Brittany’s own artistic instincts.
I thought about that story a lot across my first couple of listens to this album, in part because my initial reaction to it was very mixed. There are a number of tracks here that feel less like songs intended to engage with an audience, than creations designed to help the artist work through trauma. I truly hope making Jaime served that purpose for Howard… but it doesn’t make for an easy listen.
Interestingly, the title is the only element of this album that feels directly addressed to Jaime. The songs mostly explore Howard’s unique identity as the biracial child of an interracial marriage, who came to understand along her path that she is gay. The arrangements tend to be spare and rather haunting; the band here consists of Howard on guitar (plus occasional keys and drums), her Alabama Shakes bandmate Zac Cockrell on bass, Nate Smith on drums, and Robert Glasper on keyboards.
It's apparent the album is going to be something very different from the opening seconds of “History Repeats,” whose lengthy drum intro prefaces a dive into psychedelic funk, that devolves by the end into a chant—“History repeats and we defeat ourselves come on everybody one more time”—that’s repeated so many times it’s both hypnotic and unsettling. If that wasn’t enough of a left turn, the funky blues “He Loves Me” interpolates a Baptist preacher’s sermon with Howard singing about her particular vision of God: “He loves me / He doesn’t judge me.” It’s… unusual.
Batting third, “Georgia” is downright lovely, a gentle, heartfelt ode to adolescent longing as Howard remembers her own coming of age as a queer woman; a deceptively simple organ solo from guest Lloyd Buchanan leads to an ecstatic crescendo. “Stay High” conjures up post-coital bliss, with Howard’s gentle acoustic strums and Glasper on celeste joined by pulsing bass and drums. “I just want to stay high with you,” she sings on a song that’s so intensely committed to its vibe that it starts to feel like a manic episode.
From there, things only get stranger. “Tomorrow” is a discordant soul-funk fugue that devolves into a sort of theater of the mind; I definitely don’t love it, but it’s impressive. “Short And Sweet” feels improvised, with Howard alone, strumming, longing and musing (“I may be a fool to dream of you / But God, it feels so good to dream at all”). And “13th Century Metal” is the oddest yet, a dense, cacophonous collision of percussive synths and drums, with Howard’s distorted, exhorting, spoken-word vocals over the top.
“Baby” feels like another bit of improv, with loose studio chatter diving straight into the song, which is a lurching, sloppy, angry monologue about her lover kicking her out. The dark energy flows even stronger on “Goat Head,” whose off-kilter keys and drums soundtrack a brutal memory of the harassment and abuse her interracial parents experienced. “I’m one drop of three-fifths, right?” she sings on a number that feels more like an exorcism of trauma than a song.
The light returns for “Presence,” featuring just guest Lavinia Meijer on harp and Howard on drums, guitar and voices; it’s a sweet celebration of connection with another unusual arrangement. Closer “Run To Me” finds Howard delivering a sort of sermon/soliloquy over spare accompaniment, speak-singing a lyric of devotion and comfort for a loved one.
It’s easy to grasp how this ended up as a solo album; in addition to its very specific and personal subject matter, Jaime makes none of the minor concessions to mainstream melodic sensibilities that Alabama Shakes’ Boys & Girls (2012) did (and that 2016’s Sound & Color did to a lesser extent). It’s very much its own thing, a genuinely immersive experience.
Having said all of that, Jaime carries undeniable power and honesty and artistry; it’s just a question of whether Howard’s iconoclastic approach works for you. Some will find it engaging, others impressive, and still others may find it off-putting. I totally get why some folks would give Jaime an “A” (it was nominated for several awards and made numerous “Best of 2019” year-end lists); it’s raw and fearless to a degree that’s indisputably compelling. For me, though, in the end it was an album that I respected more than enjoyed.