Blacklisted

Blacklisted is certainly a high-water mark for Case; a statement, if you will.

Neko Case has crafted an album whose quiet drift only adds to its power; it's hard to say if hanging out with Nick Cave on tour had much of an influence on her, but this disc sounds a bit like Case's version of The Boatman's Call, a personal exploration of the heart and soul that proves sad and beautiful can often walk hand in hand.

A candidate for country album of the year. [Nov 2002, p.130]

Blacklisted is soaked to the bone in rueful wit, luxurious miserablism, and morbid cold sweat—c&w virtues too often reduced to self-pity by lesser latter-day sweethearts of the rodeo.

Blacklisted's accompaniment is roundly excellent and evocative, but Case's voice is what really sells the record.

There are exquisite moments here, mostly the simpler ones, but not as many as there should be. [Dec 2002, p.100]

Case continues to refine her mix of alternative-country music and film-noir sensibility on Blacklisted.

A rare record from an extraordinary artist, and one of the year's best.

If you take your pleasure from the sheer palpability of the music -- the way it walks icy fingers up and down your spine, and paints pictures in the air, so real you could step into them -- Blacklisted will enjoy a long, happy stay in your CD player.

Case's own melodies aren't nearly as indelible as the country classics she's emulating. [#10, p.115]

Blacklisted proves that Case's musicianship has evolved alongside her songwriting skills.

In this trans-American setting, Case emerges as a roots powerhouse. [13 Sep 2002, p.156]

While much of "Blacklisted" is hyper-stylized, suited for playing against the backdrop of psychedelic sunsets that only exist in novels and movies, the album's heart remains Case's voice, as real and strong as they come.

Blacklisted rings with lost voices and strange journeys, and does a better job of balancing hope, innocence, and darkness than just about anything I’ve heard in a while.

The songs are spectral, yearning, and a bit opaque, the kind of music appropriate for a bar in which everyone has had a few and feels no better for it.

She's one of a handful of people who could sing the telephone directory. [Dec 2002, p.115]

She treats Americana like a wellspring of weirdness, not a retro refuge. [Sep 2002, p.134]