Jaime is the name of
Brittany Howard's sister, a sibling who died from a rare cancer when she was 13 years old.
Howard began reckoning with the enduring ramifications of her loss when she started writing a memoir, an exercise that eventually led to her 2019 solo debut
Jaime. Running a tight 35 minutes but containing a lifetime's worth of drama and insight,
Jaime is bracing in its adventure and generosity. Trace elements of Americana can be heard -- there's nary a trace of the rockabilly roar of her ferocious
Thunderbitch side project -- but
Jaime could never be mistaken for an
Alabama Shakes album. It's too funky and too fluid in how it embraces noise, art, and soul: witness "13th Century Metal," a collaboration with jazz keyboardist
Robert Glasper where an organ stutters like a broken synth, the rhythms are as tight as a loop, and
Howard recites her spoken verse with abandon. It's a moment of coiled fury, but most of
Jaime rolls to a languid, stoned soul beat, allowing
Howard to play with her phrasing; she slides between the sexy, sad, and sweet, sometimes blending all three emotions simultaneously. The depth of feeling may be rooted in autobiography, but
Jaime is a far cry from a stark confessional. It's slippery, elusive, and sober in its intent, even when its sound is decidedly woozy.
Jaime plays the way memories do: specific facts get lost to a truth that gets larger as years pass, where the familiarity can be reassuring yet melancholy.
Howard's embrace of all the mess of life gives
Jaime its sustenance. Her audacity is apparent upon the first listen, but subsequent spins are profound and nourishing. ~ Stephen Thomas Erlewine