The hauntingly soulful blues-folk singer Karen Dalton as soon as described her dream live performance: “She’d be in her living room with friends and playing music,” her friend and fellow musician Peter Stampfel remembers within the new documentary “Karen Dalton: In My Own Time.” “And then somehow the living room would be put on a huge stage, which would be surrounded by a massive audience who would be watching in rapt attention while she ignored them totally and just did whatever she wanted to do.”
Born into postwar poverty and raised in Oklahoma, Dalton had a heat voice that was as creaky and lived-in as a beloved rocking chair. She sang “like Billie Holiday and played guitar like Jimmy Reed,” as Bob Dylan put it in 2004 within the first quantity of his autobiography, “Chronicles” — simply the most-quoted factor anybody’s ever said about Dalton. (Dylan accompanied her on harmonica for a handful of gigs on the early ’60s Greenwich Village coffeehouse circuit; he has also called her his “favorite singer” of that complete scene.)
But as that living-room-as-live-stage suggests, Dalton was not nearly as comfy within the highlight as many of her better-remembered friends. She was detached to fame, and her profession sputtered due to a mixture of arduous luck and self-sabotage. She recorded simply two albums in her lifetime, suffered extended drug and alcohol addictions and succumbed to an AIDS-related sickness in 1993, at age 55.
That name-drop in Dylan’s memoir and the rise of the so-called “freak folk” motion of the early aughts brought revival interest in Dalton’s oeuvre; each of her studio albums — the aching “It’s So Hard to Tell Who’s Going to Love You the Best” (1969) and the cult basic “In My Own Time” (1971) — were then reissued, and a number of other compilations of her home recordings were launched. Dalton was at last applauded as one in all ’60s and ’70s people music’s most expert and idiosyncratic interpreters. The unique, unhurried phrasing heard in her renditions of “Reason to Believe” and “When a Man Loves a Woman,” for instance, make these acquainted songs seem as if they’re being sung for the very first time.
Plenty of posthumous appreciations of Dalton have been written within the past 15 years, and due to her premature death and the crackling ache palpable in her voice, their headlines all seem to explain her with the same phrase: “tragic.”
A primary-time directorial effort by the filmmakers Robert Yapkowitz and Richard Peete, “In My Own Time,” refreshingly, provides a couple of more adjectives to Dalton’s story and persona.
“She was charismatic, and the center of attention when she was in the room,” Yapkowitz said in a cellphone interview. (Neither of the filmmakers met Dalton, but they performed sufficient interviews and analysis to speak about her with a straightforward familiarity.) He insisted that her drug use shouldn’t overshadow the opposite aspects of her life: “She just seemed fun, like a person that I would want to hang out with.”
Peete and Yapkowitz became friends whereas working together within the artwork division of a number of unbiased movies. Their mutual love of Dalton’s music first got here up more than a decade in the past on the Branson, Mo., set of Debra Granik’s brooding, woodsy drama “Winter’s Bone”: “It was the perfect movie to rekindle our interest in Karen,” Peete said with fun.
Moving restlessly from Oklahoma to New York City to Colorado, Dalton lived a nomadic life, which introduced a problem for the filmmakers. “Archival materials, and the folks we interviewed — everything’s sort of scattered across the United States,” Yapkowitz said. “Some people didn’t even know they had them in their closets until we asked them to look,” he said of the many new images featured within the film.
When they first had the idea to make a movie about Dalton — whereas hanging out at a bar one night and noticing that, in Peete’s phrases, “all of her peers were on the jukebox except for Karen” — they thought they may do it in lower than a 12 months. “That was almost seven years ago,” he said.
But making a film about the retiring Dalton posed a bigger predicament, too: Mystery and a way of elusiveness are inherent elements of her music’s enchantment. Dalton resisted the industry’s star-making equipment at nearly every flip, so in some sense the unfinished nature of her physique of labor represents a aware act of defiance against the music industry’s business imperatives. To romanticize her slippery nature can be a mistake, but to fill within the blanks too utterly can be to dishonor her unruly spirit. Peete and Yapkowitz knew they needed to strike a stability between presenting the details of Dalton’s life and permitting for elements of her to stay unknowable.
The author and Dalton fan Rick Moody articulates this pressure originally of the documentary, and Peete said they took his phrases as a sort of mantra: “Some of the incompleteness and the gaps in Karen’s output may have been decisive and part of who she was and how she expressed herself. The thing I don’t want to do is excessively imagine that you can interpret the fragments. I want to be with the songs that are actually there and to try and delight in the legacy of what’s actually there.”
Still, their documentation of Dalton’s fragments became more significant than they even realized. Shortly after digitizing a group of Dalton’s journals, doodles and poetry that she had left within the care of her friend Peter Walker, these papers were all destroyed in a hearth. (In the film, the musician Angel Olsen reads from these journals and superbly conjures the mix of playfulness and emotional depth that characterised Dalton’s voice.)
Though Dalton has audibly influenced artists like Joanna Newsom, Jessica Pratt and Nick Cave, “In My Own Time” is just not the kind of music documentary overstuffed with critics and celebrities expounding on the canonical significance of her work. Most of the time, watching it feels like hanging on a porch with some of Dalton’s closest confidants and surviving family members, buying and selling tales about her favourite horses, her humorously botched recording periods or her homey hospitality. (“Karen made the best beans in the whole world,” we be taught from one in all her Colorado friends.) As a outcome, if only in fleeting glimpses, this long-lost musician comes vividly to life.
In some sense, Dalton appeared to exist within the unsuitable time interval for her abilities to be totally appreciated, and that is a part of her continued mystique. Dalton was something of a proto-indie artist, in search of out a more modest different to the mainstream before such well-trod pathways existed. When I heard Stampfel describe Dalton’s ideally suited performing house as a sort of amplified lounge, I spotted that last 12 months I’d seen the film’s narrator, Olsen, do something fairly comparable, broadcasting an intimate solo livestream from the consolation of her own home.
Maybe that’s the tragedy of Karen Dalton: the truth that she was making music within the unsuitable period. “We’re definitely in a time now when artists can have more control over their own careers and public image,” Yapkowitz said. “If we could say ‘would have, should have, could have,’ the industry has changed and Karen would have been more comfortable in it, to say the least.”