Mae Powell : Making Room for the Light
Folks in the Bay Area were probably first introduced to Mae Powell with her 2021 call-to-action single “Fuck I.C.E.“, a song whose title speaks for itself. Unfortunately today, like friggin right now, it still needs to be cranked to eleven. But to hear such a song born out of anger for all the obvious reasons, coming from Powell’s voice—an audible patina that maintains a casual lyrical jetstream of warmth, whimsy and acidic humor, even with such a serious topic—is arresting. When she declares, “Call your representatives/Call your best friend, call your racist Grandma/And say, ‘I love you, but something has got to change,'” it’s rendered with poise, control, a paced tempo, and calm delivery, as she says later in the song, “you can’t fight hate with hate, it’ll only make it grow” with wizened flow, like she just Instacarted some avocados. But, you still get the gravity of the moment and understand, Mae Powell is dead-serious about this matter. That’s star power, people.
Making Room For the Light, her debut for the Colemine/Karma Chief imprint, immediately shows she’s a dreamer, lover, and believer—it’s in the title. These eleven songs in 40 minutes allow Powell to teeter, pause, stretch out, and be comfortable telling stories of self-love, nailing the perfect balance of intimacy and vulnerability by way of that free and easy ’70s Laurel Canyon tapestry. She’s got a Carole King pen game, with Bessie Smith-meets-Margo Timmons of Cowboy Junkies delivery, with just a dash of Peggy Lee cool too.
On Making Room For the Light, these tales, confessions play out as colorful companions to meandering through and about life, but in the live setting they take hold as emblazoned pieces of the writers essence—that’s the intensity that comes through. She’s got this goofy, cool persona on stage as well, doling out quips like explaining her breathtaking “In Comes In Waves” song—that her front row fan club waved their fingers at her during the song—was given to her from a redwood tree she touched in the forest, to another antidote for a song title I can’t even remember because I cracked a rib laughing out loud so hard about her claim of “I wrote this song that time I did mushrooms with my Mom at Christmas.” I mean, you can’t make this stuff up people.
All these tunes draw from the bluesy, folksy, jazz-inspired fakebook of the heart and came to life at her album release show last Thursday at The Independent in San Francisco. Or maybe it’s just Powell lighting up the room. Opening the event with “Tangerine,” an organ-driven country twang—heartfelt mission of love—was complemented by Powell dressed in a regal, emerald overcoat with golden fringes covering a silvery, slinkier outfit. Performing the “squishy-heart” waltz on a stage decorated with buckets of sunflowers at the front, her sweetness and vulnerability, combined with rock star vibes, transfixed the venue with cheers and shouts. It was a record release show dominated by vibes. Yes it’s an often-used term in our collective hip vernacular, but when a word fits, scrabble it up.
At that release show, opening for Powell was Okonski, the new soul-jazz trio project from Brooklyn-based, Baltimore-raised soul singer, drummer, and songwriter Aaron Frazer; during a ridiculous solo he’s doing all the show-stopping drummer cadences. First, the Purdie Shuffle and then the funky drummer from Clyde Stubblefield of James Brown’s band. At the time I didn’t know how this would correspond with Powell’s performance and didn’t care. Those kids in attendance for Powell were grooving, getting their wig blown back, swooning to those archaic but still soul quenching head-nodding grooves that are at least 30 years older than them. The same ones Bay Area folks get from Powell at shows she’s not performing at, just in the audience at local venues, supporting her friends, being an artist of the people, not above.
Label: Karma Chief
Year: 2025
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