“It’s difficult to describe — in a single word or overwrought analogy — how Haitian-American composer / flutist / vocalist Nathalie Joachim’s Fanm d’Ayiti makes me feel. So, I’m going to tell you something about myself that, somehow, encapsulates the emotional journey I have when I listen to Famn d’Ayiti.
I used to cry a lot, until I was about 14. Unsurprisingly, this was a source of frustration and confusion and annoyance for my parents, presumably because no one wants to be out in public with a 12-year-old boy prone to breaking down and weeping at the slightest emotional disturbance. The weird thing about those tears was that they weren’t (always) from genuine sorrow or pain. They just showed up, and there was nothing I could do about it. It was a wave of emotion that was less “this is very very bad” and more “I just gotta wash out these vibes so I can get on with my day.” I’m bringing this up because that feeling — the one that used to precede a deluge of tears onto my boyish cheeks — is exactly what Joachim does to me on this album.
The first part of the album is bright and comforting; the sound of Joachim’s voice is what I imagine a cloud to feel like (refreshingly vapor-y). The strings of the Spektral Quartet in the opening track, “Papa Loko,” are restless, as if they’re waking up from the most rejuvenating of slumbers, but don’t actually need to be awake at the moment. They take their time getting ready, emphasized by the cello walking ever-so-slightly behind the beat, but then catching up right before the bar ends.”