Madeleine Peyroux: Bare Bones

With a voice of such maturity, one would expect Ms. Peyroux to be inclined towards withdrawn despondency. At thirty-five years of age though, she refuses to be drawn into the ethos of a hard life. Happiness is there for the taking she continually asserts: you just need to know where to look.

Such austere philosophy is a hard sell in this modern age. A world where psychiatrists place higher on our speed-dial lists than our parents; a world where entire bookcases in literary shops are occupied by self-help titles ranging from "Attitudinal Beliefs", to "The Little Book of Calm", right through to "Networking - The Art of Making Friends". The central tenet being that whatever situation we may find ourselves in, whatever troubles we may face, be it in parenting, social situations, sex, work, sleep, diet, digestion, thought, friendship, appearance, behaviour, body language and countless others: there is a 60,000 word disquisition awaiting you for the low, low price of just £40.

Peyroux lives apart from this naval-gazing world though. Instead, she ascribes to the Bobby McFerrin school of philosophy. "Instead of feeling low / Get high on all the things you have" she intones on album opener "Instead". While the advice may be simplistic, it runs parallel to the compositions. With simple jazz percussion, occasional guitar runs and twinkling piano it carries with it the aura of a post-world war II era watering hole. A time when family and sustenance were all a person desired. Her confident vocals rest easily on top of the musical skeleton. Oft compared to early 20th century jazz singer Billie Holiday, Peyroux's understated husk gently fans out every smacking of the lips, every breath and infuses a weightless life into her syllables.

You could argue that Peyroux presents an intimate, albeit lacking-in-depth attitude to song-writing: both in themes and in arrangements. The eleven tracks offer little in the way of variance. The mood remains in the key of sombre. The themes dwell forever in the realm of restrained and unrestrained optimism. Her answer to most of life's problems appears to be a car-boot sale and the pace rarely saunters above ambling.

Attempts at more upbeat fare fall a little flat. "You Can't Do Me" unwisely pairs staccato piano with porn-film guitar riff. Despite aiming its sights on jovial and playful, the song is acutely depressing. Akin to a child's first step resulting in a table face-plant: there's joy to be derived, but it's obscured by the tragedy of the situation.

Jazz adherents will no doubt find ample delights in her careful, dedicated approach to music. Bare Bones offers little in the way of crossover appeal to foreign genre waters though. While we're adverse to self-styled gurus trickling down titbits of psychology in return for vast riches, we're sure there's got to be more to life than slapping someone in the face and yelling "Get a grip!"