At the risk of sounding like Actor’s Studio boffin James Lipton, the loss of a parent at a formative age is one of the most common recurring themes in the biographies of artists. Beth Orton is no exception: her father died when she was 11, her mother eight years later. But traumatic though such events are, they often allow creative types to be released from the yoke of their parents’ approval.

“I was,” Orton says, a willowy figure huddled in her Vicar St. dressing room. “When my mum died I was definitely very freed by it in many, many ways. But it also left me feeling incredibly guilty for a long time, that I experienced this release. I was thinking about this last night: when I was growing up my mum didn’t have a lot of confidence, she was brought up during the war, she felt very repressed by her quite bullying father, and she tried to always instil in me a sense of confidence and self-belief.
“Whereas I had another pretty important role model in my life who constantly told me to shut the fuck up and I didn’t know what I was talking about. And it’s interesting that I became a songwriter who amplified all her thoughts. I think that’s why it’s quite hard sometimes for me to do interviews; I’ve found a way within songs to code my feelings. And I think why I feel such satisfaction with this record in particular, is I really feel I’m being much more direct than I’ve ever been, and that’s a big deal for me.”
The record Ms Orton’s referring to is her fourth long-player Comfort Of Strangers, a predominantly naturalistic, agrarian-sounding collection of songs, and possibly the best post-’70s folk-rock artefact Joe Boyd never produced.
In fact, the desk was manned by Chicago maestro Jim O’Rourke (Tortoise, Sonic Youth) and the end result is a record that doesn’t sound much like either artist’s previous work, one that has divided critics and long time devotees. That said, it’s also won over a few fence-sitters, including this writer. COS is the first Orton album with which I’ve unreservedly fallen in love.
“It feels like a first record!” Orton enthuses. “It’s not that I don’t like what I did before, it’s just that I’ve had to reinvent my life for my own mental and physical health, had to completely start again. I’ve not been in a relationship for a very long time for the exact same reason, I’m fucking wiping the slate clean. I’m at an age and a place where I can make another existence happen. Anyway… I’m saying too much probably.”
And yet, she says far more explicit things in songs like ‘Worms’ and ‘Shadow Of A Doubt’. But then, music often allows people to suspend reality and don an imaginary invisibility cloak.
“That’s a fucking great way of putting it – music is my invisibility cloak,” she nods. “I feel invincible behind the music, I can say anything I want. You’re gonna make me cry in a minute, that’s so true. I go out there and all these things I wouldn’t dare voice, I get all bold… but then I’m pretty good at speaking my mind as well. But not necessarily to a whole room of people over a fucking microphone.”
So where’s the dividing line between the civilian and the performer?
“I think it happens when I’m putting my make-up on. It starts for me with that ritual of eyeliner and mascara and what I’m gonna wear. I know it sounds silly because I’m speaking about the heart here, but it’s a fuckin’ show as well. So it’s a weird paradox or dichotomy or whatever you want to call it. I’m going on stage to be really tender and honest, but I’m doing it with lights.
“For me that’s quite like (the theme of) Comfort Of Strangers,” she continues. “I get this a lot on tour, I meet someone, I know nothing about them, and I end up telling them more than I could ever tell somebody I do know. And then I get home and I see people I’ve known all my life and I can’t fucking say a word – what’s that all about?”
Maybe it’s something that can only be cured by a mortality check. People who survive car crashes or sickness or near death experiences tend to come away with a renewed sense of urgency.
“All of what you just said I’ve experienced. (Orton has struggled in the past with recurring health problems caused by Crohn’s disease – a non-fatal but incurable and extremely painful degenerative illness of the stomach.) And that’s how I am, it’s almost like obsessive-compulsive-obsessive disorder: ‘I cannot waste another minute’. That’s another thing that Jim O’Rourke and I agreed on. This record had to be essential. I had the most incredible need to make this record. And now I get really upset when I make a mistake, when I waste time, when I fuck up with a person, I cant bear it. I want everything to be vital.”