Jessica
Pratt doesn’t have many contemporaries. Her nylon-string reveries exist in a
precarious space between the then and now, and she seems destined to float as a
cult figure for generations—but just the same, she’s right here today, busy and
appreciated. At this point in time, there’s nothing cult about her.
Rather than just the stylistic touchstones—Leonard Cohen, Karen Dalton, Marianne Faithfull—that can be felt in her three albums, it’s almost more prudent to understand Pratt through the spiritual characters of her world: The mystique of Brian Jones. The . . .
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