It's 1977. You're draped head to toe in velvet. The cigarette girl greets with a smile and a bunny tail. Harold, your dinner companion (on his fourth whiskey sour), smirks while goosing the cigarette girl immediately prior to ordering his rank cigars. Music blares from stage. What artist is crooning at you?
Regardless of whom you picked, Ellen Honert personifies her (or him for that matter). She's a shameless lounge singer. Although her breathiness can be a little much, her rich natural alto carries her performance to the kitsch universe of the jazz vocal. Instead of cleavage hugging gowns, she poses conservatively.
The songs, well yeah … it's an absolute fluff fare. Six are Ellen originals and the rest are well-selected, but ancient covers. Her compositions come off as so effortlessly penned that they were made on the fly. Breath of the Soul stands up because she could sing this review and make it sound inspired and heartfelt.
Damn, Ellen. Although any of Ape .: Quake's street cred is ruined, Breath of the Soul serves as nacho-laden guilty pleasure; it isn't anything new or even risky. We have hope that she will resist resting for the same-sounding record next time and deliver something with a glancing nod to the last couple decades.
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