It's hard to say whether being related to someone extremely famous and influential is a blessing or a curse. Yes, association will open doors much quicker, but as the likes of Chris Jagger, Emma Townshend and Julian Lennon can probably attest, it doesn't necessarily guarantee longevity either.
ABIGAIL HOPKINS – as you may or may not know (I actually didn't) – is the daughter of Sir Anthony Hopkins. Actors rarely come of a higher quality and as someone who's spent many an evening on the edge of his seat courtesy of the likes of 'Silence of The Lambs' and 'The Edge' can attest, our cultural heritage would be considerably poorer without his presence.
Sadly, this writer was rather less aware of Abigail Hopkins' presence on the cultural map and it was only when studying her press release that he realised 'The Memoirs of an Outlaw' was her third album, following on from her debut 'Smile Road' (2003) and 2005's 'Blue Satin Alley'. However, even a couple of cursory listens to '..Memoirs' are enough to tell you that Abigail is very much her own woman.
This, of course, is a very good thing as is – on paper – the fact that this album is hard to pigeonhole stylistically. Over an intense 45 minutes, it takes in everything from eerie, Eastern European-style blues to Chamber Folk and even what could be construed as Native Indian work song and is certainly the kind of record that will stop you in your tracks, even in these cynical, heard-it-all-before days.
And, as the old cliché goes, when she's good, Abigail Hopkins is very good indeed. Opener 'Used Car Salesman' is a clanking, malevolent blues which lurches along like PJ Harvey guesting with TomWaits and singing lyrics (“his heart felt like a battery with no charge”) supplied by Raymond Carver or Stan Ridgway . Indeed, the Mid-western weirdness of the lyric is merely accentuated by the polished Englishness of Hopkins' voice and the end result is startling and fascinating.
She's no intention of resting on her laurels, either. A couple of equally recommended tracks come along shortly after in the shape of 'The Last Train' – where Hopkins plays out the harrowing story of a young soldier off to the war (for the last time?) over heavy drums, insistent strums and a pervading sense of mystery – and the title track which has an almost Elizabethan madrigal quality about it. With a touch of Led Zeppelin's 'Battle of Evermore' lobbed in for good measure. It sounds unlikely, I know, yet she pulls it off with something like aplomb.
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Unfortunately, while Hopkins is capable of hitting a few glorious heights, she's also liable to plumb the depths. While I applaud her cinematic lyrical capabilities, songs like 'When Skylarks Fall' and the cod-operatic ethereality of 'Sometimes' are simply too abstract, overwrought and downright pretentious for comfort. Indeed, both remind me why the likes of Kate Bush or Society of Imaginary Friends are flavours of hemlock I rarely partake of.
Talking of hemlock, 'Is This Love' is a real poisoned chalice of a love song. Over growling, bass-heavy piano blues, she offers “if this is love, give me a potion of belladonna and cyanide to drink and may it drive me to frenzy.” Hmm. Perhaps I won't try to tempt Abigail with a Valentine card from Hallmark come next February 14th then. I get the feeling she'd need something rather more exotic. Bouquet of barbed wire, madam? Thank you, that'll do nicely.
She rallies again courtesy of the weird, acoustic folk and choir inflections of 'Miriam The Medium' (incest, depravity and cross-dressing from beyond the grave, anyone?) and the excellent a capella 'Order Number 5114', which is so authentic it could almost edge its' way into the Blind Boys of Alabama's live set. It's an all-too brief affair, though, and soon swamped by the existential angst of 'Blood & Bones' and the death-stuffed finale 'No Turning Back' which are both closer to heavyweight Ingmar Bergman than anything relating to the pop charts and wear stiflingly heavy robes of black for an album released at the height of the summer.
'The Memoirs of an Outlaw' is a frustrating enigma of a record. It wins points for drama and intensity, but the unfortunate by-product is that it often jettisons that all-important tune factor along the way. No doubt her famous Dad is rightly proud of her, but Abigail Hopkins' music here is often too stylised and theatrical to inspire the kind of unalloyed devotion from the masses that is crucial to a lengthy career in this slippery business. And she just hasn't earned that distinction yet, baby.
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