The music of Diane Cluck is her own. She is at the mouth of a river of songwriters whose germination began as a seed of the originality of this singular voice. It is music that breeds obsession, and free and open stream from the mind, tempered by that incomparable and precise instrument she has given over only apprehensively. Despite her relatively limited output in the last decade, the impact has been deep and wide. If Brian Eno is right and the fifty thousand or so who bought the Velvet Underground record all went on to start bands, then the 500 people who have bought Diane’s have all gone on to write an honest record. We start in a communal home, a room in which has been offered up by a fan. Amidst the dozen or so who live in the space full time, we duck into a bedroom to begin simply. When we finish, Diane decides to engage the mystery and invite the house to join in. Fresh off of a pie making and song circle the night before, one joins her on the accordian for a song appropriately devoted to the spirit of community.
We again seek the solace of one of the many rooms, this time a sun-drenched common space in the attic. A baby plays, a quilt is laid out, residents come and go as Diane and her powerful song cast a clearly defined light and shadow on the floor.