Every now and then I encounter an artist whose work I enjoy, but have a difficult time deciding exactly why. After a few weeks of listening to Terese Taylor, I was still no closer to understanding why I'm drawn to her work, so I played the disc for a few friends to help me out. The unanimous response was, "I like it. She sounds like...hmm", which led me to the following thesis: Terese Taylor's music inspires a universal pleasant feeling of déjà vu. You've almost heard it before, but can't put your finger on when, where or any of the other particulars. Taylor's influences never surface enough to allow direct comparison, though ghosts of PJ (in the music) and Liz (in the vocals) haunt her work. If anything, her work music follows the innocent aesthetic of early '90s College Radio artists -- acts that pioneered simple-but-clever ideas without any hope of mainstream success (think Pixies or Throwing Muses).

"Goats for Daddy" is of many examples of Taylor's ability to craft something interesting from a naïve concept. It's structured around a three-bar-chord gesture, sliding up the guitar neck as Taylor spins a Biblical tale of climbing a mountain path with a "billy mountain goat / red ribbon 'round his neck, a present for my dad". The orchestration is almost too simple, stripped down to guitar and a subtle bass-drum/com figure (by Taylor's right-hand man, Rob Johnson) during the verse, then expanded with distorted guitars and full-on bashing drum kit during the chorus. "Your Hand" uses a similar technique, vamping over a simple guitar lick that Taylor could have come up with in twenty seconds. A straightforward backbeat and a wandering bassline provide a complement and a backdrop to the stalker-inspired lyrics ("take a look in my window, open all night / I shut your hand in it / don't you worry about a thing, love"). "Sweet" tries to find home somewhere between Delta blues, country-western, psychedelic rock and the Middle East, but settles for all of the above, like something you might hear on Led Zeppelin's III. Taylor shows her range, both musically and vocally, on "Ghost", strumming her acoustic and singing in a falsetto. The song rises from a whisper to a scream, pulling in something that sounds like field recordings of subway stations combined with ebow feedback, as Taylor's clever words reveal her ghost to be merely a sheet, a façade that's "tired of white sheets / these holes that are my eyes watch as you pass out of sight". The band decides to end with a bang on "Candy", pulling out the stompboxes as Taylor sings her ambiguous request: "candy, I really want some candy". It seems innocent on paper, but the traces of Kim Gordon that have suddenly seeped into Taylor's tone suggest something a bit more devious.

Taylor's no-nonsense approach to her ensemble is accentuated by the naked but well-crafted mix, and will only be further revered when you learn that the entire disc was recorded to two-inch tape by student engineers in two five hour sessions, using "scratch vocals, no overdubs". The "no time to mess around" attitude may be the secret ingredient that gives The Cryingness... its charm and grace; there is a spirit and a depth here that would be lost if Taylor and her performers took a "we'll fix it in the mix" (read: ProTools) approach.

When I'm prompted to explain why this disc holds a special place in my heart, I think about Taylor's musical approach (which I thought was exhausted), the melodies that I can't ignore and the words I can't escape -- and I'm still left with questions. Thank heavens.

Taylor waited five years to release this sophomore outing. I hope she won't be so stingy with her art in the future.