Suburban twang

Trisha Yearwood's
middle-class heartache

by Jim Macnie

Sure, she can sing. A mighty throat, a supple way with phrasing, and a talent for making round tones sound as polished as worry beads were all in Trisha Yearwood's bag of tricks when, six years ago, she hit the big time with her first single, the million-selling "She's In Love With the Boy." Each of these attributes have helped make the 33-year-old vocalist one of contemporary country's biggest stars. She has her own perfume fragrance, a new duet with Garth Brooks, and a Discover Card ad campaign. But the knack of sidestepping schmaltz and imbuing her tunes with consequence has been a bit tougher for Yearwood to master. For the longest time, the center of any detailed conversation about her work has been whether or not a steady adherence to formula -- albeit a glossy, seductive formula -- is a detrimental artistic tack.

When you're point person for a zeitgeist, you can expect such scrutiny. Yearwood's new career overview, Songbook (A Collection of Hits) (MCA), reminds that her early discs were key to confirming that a newer, more upscale sound was nudging against the twang and swang of orthodox country. It was a sound quite proud of its proximity to pop, especially the L.A. country-rock that marked the early '70s landscape. Yearwood was blunt about her admiration for Linda Ronstadt from the get-go, and her plush voice was often compared to that of the vet. Hers was a country music where the Eagles' "Take It To the Limit" had more esthetic sway than Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire." It was as if someone had hung a "No Roughhousing" sign around the genre, and those who didn't know better followed its mandate.

Ever since, the search for a perfect expression of poignancy has taken Yearwood through places where sentiment bullies logic. Lyrics that deal with regret outnumber those that express dissatisfaction; flat-out anger and overt silliness, two of country's historical mainstays, rarely raise their heads. Yearwood may sing hardcore drinking tunes and prickly songs of infidelity by such masters as Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson, but you don't hear much anxiety or ire in the air when she does. In interviews she discusses her paramount goal -- communicating powerful emotions -- yet much of her success is due to a measured approach. There's a creaminess to her sound that's a blessing and a curse.

For a long time I was among those who believed the latter designation dominated. But I now think that view misses an important point. The perception that all things country must instantly conjure hickory holler this and front porch that is a cliche whose time has come and gone. Drive around Nashville and you don't see many outhouses. Like other segments of the population, the middle class has its woes, and Yearwood's songs address the quandaries of bedroom communities and subdivisions with the kind of earnest nature that Roy Acuff used to warble about the great speckled bird to church-going hillbillies. The blonde, well-scrubbed singer may be from rural Georgia, but she's also a business school grad and top dog at Trisha Yearwood Inc. Heard in total, her records make a case for the fact that tears over unattained dreams and wayward lovers can just as easily be shed at the Gap as at a honky-tonk. I'd be lying if I told you I don't own a Gap product or two, and as her songs steadily poured out of the radio over the years, I began to reconsider my take on Yearwood's persona. Schmaltz? No question. But flawlessly executed, too. For the most part, Yearwood has become a master of maudlin.

On the cover of '93's The Song Remembers When, the singer was photographed with daisies surrounding her, an innocent and humble flower singing her piece. Thinkin' About You (1995) was full of catchy vignettes that spoke of teens bumping against growing pains, young marrieds deliberating over whether or not satisfaction is guaranteed, and free spirits following their impulses. It was meant to give gravity to literally trite dilemmas, and the melodrama found in her early work was impressively tempered (I wish I could say the same for Songbook's "In Another's Eyes," her duet with Garth). At some points Yearwood cooed with a diva's power, a la k.d. lang. In doing so, she risked conflating pomp and pathos, but the string sections blew kisses to the steel guitars, and Yearwood's consummate control over inflection and nuance kept the country vibe potent. She vividly conjured heartache whenever she wanted.

Last year's Everybody Knows, Yearwood's fourth album, sustained the formula, even as it tweaked the particulars of her dapper music. The mainstream audience remains both target market and subject matter. That ostensibly bucolic neighborhood may have a few weeds erupting here and there, but for the most part the lawns are well-groomed, and the Ford Explorers are washed and waxed. The troubles that do crop up are definitely shared, and not necessarily shallow. There's nothing superficial about realizing you have to eat lots of crow -- beg, almost -- before that last chance at domestic bliss rears its head. In "Believe Me Baby (I Lied)," Yearwood does, quite credibly. Something similar happens in "I Need You." Increasingly she sings her tunes in a voice of women disappointed by the predictability of it all ("that television seems to be your life's ambition," she indicts a zoned-out hubby at one point, but there's more plea than chastisement in her voice). You can picture her drying the dishes and letting bittersweet thoughts sink deeper and deeper into her heart. And who's kidding who? Not every disappointed soul and neglected spouse makes the leap toward Thelma and Louise bravado. Some just keep vacuuming that living room rug. At her most articulate, Yearwood finds a way to convey that confounding immobility.

Which isn't to say that the music doesn't push a few buttons here and there. One tune echoes the theme from Hill Street Blues, a bastion of sentiment which helped bring "real life" poignancy into the modern television arena. Another nudges pop's irksome power balladry into the county realm (with harmony help from fellow schmaltzmeister Vince Gill). As if to atone for those sins, Yearwood reminds that all her protagonists aren't wimps. Though communicating capriciousness isn't one of her strengths, Kevin Welch's "Hello I'm Gone" gives the singer a chance to speak from the perspective of someone who has flown the coop with her dignity intact. She does so quite convincingly.

Like each of her past discs, Everybody Knows is musically meticulous. Yearwood's longtime producer Garth Fundis doesn't allow a glistening guitar line or gossamer trill to squeak out of place. In my dubious days, that overly comely veneer made me wonder if all the content was on the surface. But Yearwood's art is built on the charm of rapport; waxing exquisite is its essence. With her voice more incisive than ever, the luxuriousness of the instruments seems a pleasure. For those who previously found her music as predictable as her voice is commanding, Everybody Knows could be an ear-opener -- it has emotional clout. So if you see a shopper crying in the Kmart underwear aisle, or notice a wistful look in the eye of a mom picking up her kids after soccer practice, it's likely that Yearwood's music is wafting in the air nearby. Suburbia has to have someone interpreting the contours of its soul, and for better or worse, these days it's Trisha Yearwood.

Trisha Yearwood will perform at Foxwoods Resort Casino in Ledyard, Connecticut on September 19 and 20.