Pitchfork

I know nothing about Mirah Yom Tov Zeitlyn's early years but I always assumed that The Microphones' most promising alumna grew up in a commune-- the kind where children tend to their own herb garden, perform light kitchen duty and rotate ownership of a bicycle. This (admittedly reductive) theory would explain not only the persistent whiff of the campfire that hovers about Mirah's music, but also her staggering lack of self-consciousness. A terrific songwriter when she bothers to finish her songs, Mirah finds her own creativity fascinating enough to share every stage of the process with her listeners: To date, her albums have brimmed with sketches, songlets, snatches of ambiance (crickets, etc.) and private snapshots of in-studio fun. At times, this 60/40 mix of confessional folk and art brut collage has felt somewhat unnatural and not a little indulgent.

At the same time, Mirah's blissed-out obliviousness to form and format has kept fans and critics in suspense: It was clear that as soon as she dropped the shtick, a great album would follow. Teasers were plentiful-- the Cinemascope sweep of "Cold Cold Water" chief among them-- but the record she hinted at didn't arrive until now. If all the past tense hasn't tipped you off already, C'mon Miracle is it. Mirah, it appears, has made the album we've been waiting for.

The author's endearing weirdness is still present; she's so utterly unconcerned with context that she kicks things off with a jazzy ballad whose chorus coos, "Come away with me." This time around, however, Mirah's wilder impulses miraculously defer to songcraft first-- there's not a meandering note on the album. Her trademark plinky ukulele draws polite curlicues throughout the record (and never receives its own track listing); her barking percussion loops co-exist with warm 60s-style drums.

"The Light" is an immediate highlight. A two-parter that unfolds like a power ballad in reverse, its first 90 seconds rock assuredly with a fantastically winding vocal line, while the second half slows to a serene coffeehouse strum. "We're Both So Sorry" is also quick to stand out-- of all C'mon Miracle's 11 tracks, it comes closest to matching the bizarre grandeur of "Cold Cold Water". Unidentifiable instruments (is that an autoharp? harmonium? horns?) float in and out of its mix, just before a nasty synth pulse takes over halfway through. And at song's end, Mirah's fragile vocal enters just in time to keep it all from collapsing in a heap: "I'm sorry about so much, baby, but I know you understand."

Straightforwardness does occasionally hinder Mirah in the lyric department. "Jerusalem" squanders one of the album's best melodies on "lessons we should learn from all the fighting in the days of old" and the admonishing chorus of, "So, now, Jerusalem, you know that it's not right." Thankfully, the singer's sense of humor reappears just in time, in the album's gentle final third. Mirah loves a fun shuffle (witness Black Mountain Music Project's "Oh! September" and the French-folk pastiche of "Light the Match", off Advisory Committee), and here, "The Dogs of Buenos Aires" and the tango closer "Exactly Where We're From" lighten the proceedings a bit. The album winds down quietly, almost apologetically, as if seized by second thoughts about its own catchiness. But these songs need no apology-- C'mon Miracle is not a crass bid for popularity, just an organic shift towards pop idiom. I hope that Mirah herself doesn't view it as a compromise or a concession; from here, it just looks like growing up.