Music

Norah Jones is a thorn – albeit an aesthetically pleasing and artfully placed thorn – in the side of all women (and it is women, and their The Word-subscribing partners), with whom her music is presumed to resonate. Of course, there exists a vast swathe of similar, moodily soft-voiced chanteuses – Katie Melua, Diane Krall et al – who do little more than flirt with blues, soul and jazz while keeping one foot firmly on the coffee table. The default objection to them all rests on shifting notions of ‘class’ and ‘sophistication’. And, odd though it might seem to object to a record that’s tastefully restrained in terms of both sonics and emotional pitch, it’s also fair.

Jones’s third LP is an agreeably languid affair that ranges confidently across supper-club jazz and soul, but essentially, it functions as a compilation album for those too lazy – or uninformed – to spin originals by Emmylou Harris, Billie Holiday, Gram Parsons and the rest of her heroes. It’s also devoid of both real sexuality and genuine soul. Tasteful, sure, but this is music, not interior design. Give us some grit, woman, for God’s sake.