It seemed only a matter of time before Julien Baker would combust. Monday at the first of a sold-out three-night residency at Thalia Hall, the singer-songwriter performed with the kind of extreme intensity that can be difficult to watch and feels both thrilling and draining to witness. She made it impossible for anyone to look away, and matched the fervor of her lyrics with spontaneous body language and unfiltered banter that underlined her tightly wound passion.
Raw and unscripted, the 90-minute concert marked a memorable way to start a tour, Baker’s first headline outing in two years. Aside from sticking to an apparent setlist, the 28-year-old approached the show by refusing to trade in predictability or artifice. Backed by a five-piece band amid a spartan stage setup, and venturing deep into her catalog, she stood as the antithesis of most peers and predecessors with her degree of success.
Nervous, excited, jittery, sincere and occasionally unable to keep her focus, Baker operated on a wavelength that brought her to an eye-to-eye level with fans and established her as a relatable person rather than an untouchable, unknowable celebrity. That didn’t mean she didn’t take her craft seriously. Indeed, Baker’s recurrent concerns about getting everything right, her admitted apprehension over remembering words and playing tunes alone, demonstrated a heightened conscientiousness and unguarded honesty few entertainers openly share.
Yes, Baker and company erred at several points, though her worries about the hoarseness of her voice — she said she overtaxed it in rehearsals — largely proved unfounded when she opened her mouth to sing. The various missteps and imperfections felt as if they belonged and, oddly enough, enhanced the fearlessness and courage with which Baker addressed harrowing topics ranging from mental illness and violent abuse to debilitating doubt and loneliness.
For all the pain and anguish in her songs, Baker continues to enjoy an ascent that a majority of burgeoning musicians would envy. Her still-developing career is evidence that listeners can still suss out singular talent even in a pop-culture landscape overstuffed with countless options and here-today-gone-tomorrow hypes vying for attention.
A decade ago, using studio time given to her by a friend, Baker recorded what became her debut in just three days while studying to be a teacher at Middle Tennessee State University. Though she didn’t expect many people outside her immediate orbit to hear them, the songs became a word-of-mouth sensation. After an indie imprint signed her and formally released the material as the “Sprained Ankle” LP, Baker landed on record-label radars and major media outlets’ best-of-year lists.
Virtually overnight, the Tennessee native went from pursuing a college education to headlining a national tour. She shared a compelling backstory that included candid details about her evangelical upbringing, battles with addictions and decision as a teenager to come out as queer to her parents. Baker’s critically acclaimed sophomore album (“Turn Out the Lights,” 2017) further expanded her profile and, the following year, she formed Boygenius with Lucy Dacus and Phoebe Bridgers.
Despite releasing just two EPs and one full-length to date, Boygenius has won three Grammy Awards and cultivated enough interest that it finished touring last fall with a capacity show at the Hollywood Bowl.
Who knows, Baker’s own material might work in such settings, but its personal intimacy and intricate architecture — moody violins, atmospheric keyboards, spare guitars, chamber-inspired orchestrations — are better-suited for halls and theaters. Her three solo turns on Monday, which included the disarming “Guthrie” and a searing rendition of “Something” during which every utterance of the titular word registered as a self-inflicted gutpunch, benefited from the coziness of the mid-sized venue.
Wearing a white button-down shirt and jeans, with her hair pulled into a ponytail bun, Baker, too, appeared comfortable in an environment in which she could forge a close bond with the audience. Having previously dealt with stage fright, she revealed she no longer enjoys playing without a support band and encouraged anyone who knew the words to sing along. With rare exception, the latter request went unheeded. The hushed crowd treated Baker’s emotional outpourings with reverence of scripture.
During the faintest moments, the faint hum of amplifiers framed Baker’s delicate vocals. Expressed as whispers, asides, exhales and shudders, her gentle singing confirmed quiet moments can have as much volume as full-throated cries. Well-placed screams and howls also figured in Baker’s repertoire. She frequently delivered loud passages when standing feet away from the microphone stand or shifting her stance.
The movements altered her words’ pitch, and instilled the sensation that she was either trying to flee a bad situation, engaged in a heated confrontation or yelling into an abyss. Even with a guitar or keyboard shielding her rail-thin physique, Baker couldn’t disguise the physical impact the songs registered on her body or the anxiety they triggered in her mind.
Pointing at her temple, running her hands through her hair, covering her mouth with her forearm, shaking her head, squeezing her eyes shut, unconsciously transferring the weight from one leg to another: Baker looked as if she’d pull the bones out from beneath her skin as she chronicled traumas, faults and hurts with unsparing conviction. Far more dynamic live than on the studio recordings, the taut rhythmic structures of the songs accentuated the struggles with faith, forgiveness and optimism the singer explored via bruised, bloodied narratives.
Baker’s music is not generally fun or always easy to digest, particularly given the explicit references to suicidal thoughts, toxic relapses, self-destructive behaviors and all manner of failures. Yet it often sounded momentous and freeing — the balladic frameworks of fare such as “Crying Wolf” and “Funeral Pyre” beautiful and melodic, the crashing urgency of “Tokyo” and “Hardline” effervescent and cathartic — and spoke to vital issues without coming across as self-serving.
“I’m so (expletive) happy, you just can’t (expletive) tell,” Baker announced, typically subdued and aware of the irony, as she explained how much playing matters to her. She later gave a few clearer signs of her temperament. Baker climbed atop the drum riser to bash out punk-style chords on her electric guitar; stomped around and double-over her instrument during another explosive sequence and, ultimately, let her hair fall over her shoulders.
That, and led the band through two live premieres (the obscure seven-inch B-side “Conversation Piece,” the brand-new and unreleased “Middle Children”) and waged a conflicted war for snatching some semblance of goodness out of the jaws of despair. In the fractured episodes of “Ziptie,” “Appointments” and “Ringside,” Baker didn’t identify fixed solutions or guaranteed redemption. Still, the songs hit on the potential of mercy and hope, and of trying against all odds to conquer sensations of dread, sadness and emptiness.
For Baker, and everyone now struggling to reconcile the notions of kindness and decency against the evils that humans continue to do to one another and the planet, it’s a start to a long-overdue conversation.
Bob Gendron is a freelance critic.
Setlist from Thalia Hall Sept. 23:
“Guthrie”
“Bloodshot”
“Conversation Piece”
“Shadowboxing”
“Funeral Pyre”
“Sprained Ankle”
“Ziptie”
“Something”
“Song in E”
“Crying Wolf”
“Middle Children”
“Tokyo”
“Red Door”
“Relative Fiction”
“Appointments”
Encore
“Turn Out the Lights”
“Ringside”
“Hardline”
