Then let’s get on to some safer ground. “Central Reservation” is a glorious accomplishment–the kind of album we critics get all hot and bothered over and you rock fans will want to keep in your collections forever. Orton’s in love with melancholy: her songs drift along on oceans of strings, with brushed drums and Stax-style organ adding cushions of soul. Her lyrics are less narratives than fragments of personal philosophy; she ruminates about the miserable ways people treat each other, and looks for comfort in her own solitude. Her influences are tiptop. She got her break working with techno giants the Chemical Brothers, but she’s also steeped in ’60s folk. She’s got a hint of Dusty Springfield’s yearning in her voice, and like another of her heroes, Joni Mitchell, she can be a bit of a crank. “I f—in’ hate doin’ interviews,” she says, her demeanor shifting from angelic to fierce. “I don’t like being questioned, ever.”
And yet, at the next moment she’s opening herself up with abandon. She’s from Norfolk, England, which she describes as “flat as a pancake. Amazing horizons. Sky coming down to your toes.” She dreamed of being an actress, a blues singer, a writer–anything that would spark her imagination. “I used to sing in the bath–whole little mini-operas,” she says. “And I’ve always written, since I was young. Poems, metaphors, little synopses of emotions.” Much of her inspiration–and her rebellious spirit–comes from her mother. “She had a wildness to her,” says Beth. “Her parents were quite religious, and she was kind of repressed. She had this thing that one day she’d stand up in church and shout ‘Penis!’ at the top of her voice.”
She laughs again, a slightly manic laugh. “You know that feeling?” she continues. “Like you’re just going to throw yourself under a train or something? I think people in general get that way.” She likes this idea. She sits back on the hillside and thinks it over. Then just as quickly it’s gone, and she’s looking at you, wondering what on earth you’re going to ask next.
