Other than that, she suggests, why worry? So what if the bluegrass wunderkind has taken a radical step by creating a pop-oriented album devoid of mountain music conventions? So what if her pop move lacks pounding drums, danceable rhythms, sequenced keyboards, or other modern-radio contrivances? So what if the album relies solely on gently paced, pensive songs during an era ruled by aggressive sounds and melodramatic performances?
Krauss shrugs off the gamble she's taken. "When we make a record," she says, speaking of her small cadre of collaborators, "we get the songs together that I like, and we do 'em how they should be done. I don't let anything else sway me."
That may sound perfectly logical. But in this era of arch commercial calculation--when the majority of pop and country artists speak of creating hits rather than creating music--Krauss's dedication to her muse is rare. Would any other young artist who has sold more than a million albums dare create an album without gearing a single song toward radio play?
"I really don't think about that," she says, explaining that the litmus test for her comes from her bandmates and longtime engineer Gary Pacsoza. "If the band likes it, then I'm satisfied. That's pretty much all I'm thinking about when I'm making a record: 'What's the band going to think? What's Gary going to say?' If they're happy with it, it makes me feel good."
On its own quiet terms, Krauss's new album attempts something ambitious. Instead of straining to capture the rhythms of urban life, Krauss weaves acoustic instruments and the crystalline tones of her beautiful voice to create a tender pop album that assays the emotional fallout of lost love better than any beat-driven music could ever achieve. When Krauss softly intones, "Tell me what an empty heart must feel?" or when she despairingly whispers, "I'm living proof of the damage that heartbreak does," the words resonate with an abiding ache that no chest-beating diva or pounding drum loop could equal.
A native of Champaign, Ill. who has resided in Nashville since leaving home nearly a decade ago, the 28-year-old Krauss fell under bluegrass's spell when, at age 12, mentor John Pennell gave her tapes of it to take home with her music lessons. Although she has been a fan since childhood of chord-crunching hard rock--she counts Def Leppard, AC/DC, and Bad Company among her favorites--she became "completely nuts" about bluegrass at the time, she says.
As it turned out, with the help of a succession of carefully picked bandmates, Krauss gradually developed a unique style by embracing the old-time music of Appalachia and finding a personal way to modernize it. Early on, the bluegrass prodigy began experimenting with her arrangements. She used drums and piano on albums as early as 1991, thereby drawing criticism from bluegrass purists. She ignored the naysayers, and her popularity steadily grew until she eventually exploded onto the national scene with a couple of outstanding cover songs that had little to do with bluegrass.
Her palpably emotional version of "When You Say Nothing At All," from a tribute album to the late Keith Whitley, became a huge country hit in 1995, eventually becoming the Country Music Assn.'s single of the year (a ceremony in which Krauss won three other major CMA honors, including female vocalist of the year). She followed that with another 1995 hit, a beautifully rendered pop-country cover of "Baby, Now That I Found You," which had been a hit in 1966 for the Foundations. That same year, Krauss scored a hit duet with Shenandoah on "Somewhere In The Vicinity Of The Heart."
Since then, despite several similarly powerful singles, Krauss hasn't returned to the radio charts. The reason is simple: she doesn't enjoy the financial backing of a major record conglomerate. Despite outlandishly lucrative offers from every top record label on Music Row, Krauss has remained loyal to Boston-based Rounder Records, a smaller company that doesn't own the financial muscle of companies like MCA or RCA (the latter of whom originally put her on the charts by promoting her Whitley cover and her Shenandoah duet). But Krauss remains content. "I couldn't be happier," she says, commenting on both her career status and her choice of record companies.
With a larger company, she says, she'd likely face ongoing pressures while making an album. Record executives would involve themselves in her selection of songs and in how she arranged them, she fears. They would make sure she thought about radio, too. She worries that she would react to such pressure by trying to meet their expectations, and that she eventually would start making records differently than she does now.
"I'm real insecure as it is when I'm making a record," she explains. "If I played something for someone and didn't get the reaction I was expecting, I'd start to second-guess myself. I'd be a basketcase, and it would muck up the whole thing for me."
Instead, she insulates herself with people she trusts while making a record. Once it's finished, she delivers it to her record company. She's happy with this process, she says. Even without massive radio play, she's successful enough to play small theaters and music venues that cater to good sound. "That's really about as big as I want to get," she says.
She's had a taste of bigger things. In 1995, while she was on the radio, she toured as Garth Brooks's opening act. While she appreciated the chance to reach a larger audience, it's not an experience she wants to repeat. "That whole deal is about putting on a show," she says. "We don't really do that. We just play music. That's really what I want: to make good records, and to go out and play good songs. And I want to play 'em in places where I can hear my band and where I can hear myself. That's just the ultimate to me."
