Merritt merits both your time and the patience unrealised, for this surprise treasure trove of kitchen recordings.

Release Date: 29th August 2025

Label: One Riot Records

Format: CD / Vinyl / Digital

LOST COMPANION

Neither new nor a re-release, this is a great lost companion disc to Merritt’s great big wake-up call of an album, 2004’s Tambourine. This is where the laid back country singer showed she was none of that. Or, at least, very little. The clue might have been through the surprising choice of producer, in George Drakoulias, most famous then for steering the sound of the Black Crowes, as well as forays into the catalogues of Primal Scream and Screaming Trees. Her second album, the first, Bramble Rose, had been steeped more in the more anodyne, soft americana wash of Ethan Johns, and, sure, it was good, Tambourine was just stellar.

Twenty one years on, and accompanying a sparkly re-release of Tambourine, either as a set or standalone, here is Time And Patience, a mixed bag of fully formed outtakes and the earlier kitchen (and cabin) demos of some of the standout tracks, displaying the works in progress, in another, quite different light. The come-down Sunday morning, perhaps, after the raucous party the night before. The album is patterned so as to dip between the more polished product and the stripped back simplicity, a ploy that gives a sense of flashback and fast forward, rather than having the two aspects separated in silos, which actually gifts a greater sense of authenticity to the project.

KITCHEN SYNC

It is in her kitchen we start, one of five so-called kitchen recordings, the conceit being we are led to believe it just she in the room, “her spiral notebook, her voice, and her dog Lucy at her side”, It’s a lovely idea, and for the opener, Write My Ticket Home, it may well be the reality. On the Tambourine version, it is a slice of primetime Tom Petty, unsurprising given the presence of Mike Campbell and Benmont Tench, this version is a languid lament, just her own strum, her voice more reminiscent of a younger Joni Mitchell, subject to some similar swoops of register. If less can be more, she gives it a good shot.

Plainest Thing definitely is more, already a country weepie of layered beauty, here it is stark and bittersweet, a gaunt four minutes that is sadness on a stick. Suddenly it is the most potent song she has ever written, needing more than a few moments to accommodate it, as it concludes. In fact, it is just as well that the next sound you hear is Merritt, in the studio, counting, 2, pause, 3,4, to dial down the pressure. Avalon Pier is a rootsy drawl, underset by chunky funky Muscle shoals electric piano. I’d have assumed Tench, but I note Tift is credited for Wurlitzer on the album that begat this session. Again their are Joni-esque swoops in her vocal that raise the rendition well above the LCD that the song might otherwise offer.

SOUTHERN SOUL ON IT’S KNEES

Back to the very well-behaved Lucy and the kitchen, this time there are both acoustic guitar and, possibly, that same Wurlitzer piano, suggesting either double tracking or visitors. Still Pretending teeters on the precipice of the never more wrought delivery later given, but here the control in her about to crack voice and about to break delivery, is wonderful. Sweet Southern soul, on its knees and in wry acceptance of the bad hand dealt. A similar chapel ambience informs Good Hearted Man, and, bereft of all the brass and up-chipped guitars, and, with a normal piano, it smacks of Aretha, sneaking in some secular to a concert at New Bethel Baptist Church. Yes, it’s that good.

It takes a while to realise quite what is going on, for 4th Street Windowsill, a slow, slow burn, starting with electric piano, adding, variously, organ, brass and a rhythm section, with Merritt, too, taking a while to build momentum from her standing start. The sort of melancholy sway that Shelby Lynne had earlier defined to show her own switch away from the mainstream, Merritt oozes class, a sudden realisation, as you her a whoop, that this is a live recording. A vocal chorale swells behind and the band break free before pulling it back down, to rightly exhilarated applause.

RENDERED INTO THE RED

Another pause for reflection is broken by a rush of familiarity as the notes of Tambourine’s opening song, Stray Paper, become apparent. An almost indecently well put together tune with words, even this kitchen recording casts a spell. Someone must have come a’knocking, as there is some woozy dobro, alongside the piano and guitar, a male backing vocal, to boot. The plangency of this rendition is again into the red, it suiting the slightly slower pace. Like in a Sidney Greenstreet film, the slower the ceiling fan, the hotter is the room, same idea, and effect, here.

Broad Daylight purports not to be a demo, and, as it did not appear on the released Tambourine, is presumably, therefore another outtake. The slimmest constituent of this set, and with just voice and strum, I suspect it a demo that didn’t get as far as Drakoulias and his crack team of sessioneers. It isn’t bad, but it isn’t great, either. Time And Patience, the title track, may fall into the same category, but, parenthesised as cabin recording, it is anything but lacklustre. Piano and guitar are much as in her kitchen, but there is what surely must be a drum machine to carry it forward, which it does actually very well. There are other voices too, in the background, and a pedal steel, with the overall effect a mix of uneasiness and comfort; beguiling, probably.

AMMOED UP TO THE HILT

Back to the studio for the final cut, The Last Day I Knew What To Do, a sassy, rock chick assault, from when that was an allowable comment to make. Ammoed up to the hilt by the cream of available talent at Drakoulias’ beck and call, so the likes of Neal Casal, Don Heffington, each now deceased, Robert Randolph and the aforementioned Heartbreakers, it blusters any barriers down to the end of the record. Yee-haw!

If you have Tambourine, you should get this too, but, even if you don’t, there is still more than enough to have you appreciate quite what talent Merritt was then showing.

Here’s one of those kitchen sink specials, Good Hearted Man:

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