Been Here Before
Broward-Palm Beach New Times
Album review by Lee Zimmerman
Originally published: October 4, 2007
At times, Jamaican-born singer Allison Lee's vocals barely rise above a whisper. Her voice is a hushed, waif-like instrument that betrays vulnerability and supreme confidence. That's an interesting juxtaposition for a singer so shy about her talents that until a few years ago, her coworkers at Miami's Jackson Memorial Hospital didn't know that the full-time anesthesiologist was also a part-time chanteuse. On her recently released debut disc, the aptly titled Been Here Before, Lee's songs work their way under the skin in such an infectious and seductive fashion, it's as if they've existed in some parallel universe and are only now finding their way into the collective consciousness. It's tempting to lock her style midway between the giddy celebration of Carole King and the soft reticence of Norah Jones, but there are strong hints of Aimee Mann, Jewel, and Sarah McLachlan. The title tune bodes well for the rest of the set. Gently lilting in its folk-like tapestry and deft wordplay, it relays a lovelorn tale about a girl who "Made them think she didn't care/She changed her men like underwear." That quiet, beguiling weave of melody and musing grows steadily more engaging, whether it's the remorseful tangle of "Never Stop Running," the meditative rumination of "Beat of My Heart" and "Love Taste," or the all but irrepressible "Backseat," which bears a frisky refrain "Why can't I get you tonight?/How can I make it right in the backseat of your car?" That's a tempting entreaty but no more caressing or compelling than this beautiful set as a whole. On "Beat of My Heart" she coos, "Do you believe in destiny? I do. I do." Given the confidence and craft she exudes here, there's ample reason for her to keep on believing. |
Hardly any of Allison Lee’s co-workers
in a wing of operating rooms at Jackson Memorial Hospital
knew how she spent her free time. No one, she vowed, would
question her commitment to medicine. Few knew that every
few weeks, while most of them slept, Allison spent her nights
on the tiny upstairs stage of an old bar by the Miami River,
awash in smoky shafts of red and yellow light. Or that sometimes
she flew to Los Angeles on weekends to hang with Hollywood
types. The doctors at the hospital never saw her struggle
to wake up every morning before dawn. But Allison never
arrived at work late. On the cusp of becoming an anesthesiologist,
Allison approached her duties quietly and doggedly, to prove
to herself that her lifestyle outside the halls of the hospital
would never derail her fledgling medical career. But as
last fall pushed on, a loose—lipped nurse somehow
found out about Allison’s other life. Suddenly, the
questions came in an uncomfortable flurry.
Co-workers could not fathom what she did.
Allison was so quiet, so reserved. Then one day, Allison,
a slender, cocoa-skinned Jamaican, heard a startling familiar
voice floating through the bustle of the operating room.
Piano music. Smooth music. It was Allison’s voice.
Someone was playing her album on an operating room stereo.
Allison the Singer suddenly crashed into the world of Allison
the Doctor. “To be honest, music is my heart and my
passion. And medicine — I just have so much respect
for it and take it so seriously,” Allison says. “I
see everything as separate. It’s two sides of the
brain.” Back in Jamaica, everyone knew she loved music
and writing. Maybe she loved it because she needed it. Her
parents rarely allowed her out to play. Other kids ran through
the streets of Kingston; she escaped to her father’s
book collection and to the piano. Thumping dance-hall reggae
blared on Jamaica’s air waves. But Allison’s
fingers breathed life into dead composers. Mozart. Beethoven.
Chopin. As she grew older, and attended a well-heeled Catholic
high school, her parents pushed her toward physics and biology.
Parties and dates were out of the question.
A NEW WORLD
Gradually, she tired of just classical music. At 16, a friend
introduced her to jazz, to John Coltrane and Wynton Marsalis.
Something drew her to Miles Davis. His trumpet was rich,
his tempos varied. But Davis was more. He led a band. He
was a painter. His style was impossible to pin down. Maybe,
just maybe, her future lied in such creativity. A trip thousands
of miles away made her path clearer. In tiny Renwick, New
Zealand, where tourists visit famous wineries under an eternally
mild sun, Allison’s zeal for music blossomed. She
went for a year-long foreign exchange program, and indulged
in Japanese, German and journalism classes. Her parent’s
restrictions disappeared. Allison learned from the Kiwi
family with whom she stayed. They owned an antique piano,
and she dug through their old vinyl stash, reveling in unfamiliar
rock groups such as The Doors and The Beatles. There was
so much out there. Why couldn’t she make music her
career? Allison returned to Jamaica ardent about her music.
She longed to play pop- style ballads, driven by the piano
and guitar. She was an artist, even if her style didn’t
fit the mold of Jamaican musicians. During the summer after
New Zealand, she wrote music nonstop. She wrote freelance
concert reviews for magazines. “I want to be a writer,”
Allison announced one day. “And play music.”
Her mother paused. “Well, you should study medicine,”
her mother told her. “And you can write for medical
magazines.” So, Allison attended a Jamaican medical
school after graduating from high school. But her music
would not be swallowed up by anatomy classes and cadavers.
INSPIRATION FOR
SONGS
Allison wrote, and wrote and wrote, mostly folksy love lyrics
inspired by her romances and those of her friends. She mixed
garbled demo tapes in a friend’s cramped bedroom studio.
When her med school class held a Broadway-style fundraising
show, Allison composed and sang. When it was time to head
west, making music grew harder. West was Miami in 1999.
Allison — graduated from Jamaican medical school —
enrolled in an anesthesiology program at Jackson Memorial
Hospital. She moved into a bedroom in her uncle’s
house. There was barely room for her electronic keyboard.
At Jackson, Allison learned the buzz word of anesthesiology:
vigilance. Her tasks were complicated. During surgeries,
among other tasks, she learned to insert breathing tubes
in patients’ tracheas, to set up IVs and administer
powerful drugs, to monitor heart rates and blood loss. Weary
days melted into secluded nights. She returned to her cramped
room to write lyrics and play the keyboard. Slowly, she
made friends. She moved to an apartment in Miami Beach.
Then, in 2001, at a South Beach night club, a friend introduced
her to Robb Boldt, a producer who worked with the likes
of Michael Jackson. She slipped Boldt a demo tape. He would
never call, she thought. He did. Boldt was impressed with
her soothing but catchy voice; it whispered of popular artists
like Jewel and Sarah McLachlan. So they began producing
tracks, with equipment so advanced that Allison could barely
believe it. Her hours became precious. Every spare minute
went into music. Her body suffered. Occasionally, Allison
worked 24-hour shifts at the hospital on Thursday, then
boarded a flight to Los Angeles to work on her music. By
Sunday, she was in Miami. “Move to L.A.,” her
music friends told her. “You’ll never make it
work in Miami.” She was training to work on expectant
mothers when the nurse spread word of Allison’s musical
aspirations. “You write songs?” “How do
you find the time?” “But you’re so shy!”
Uncertainty gnawed at her. She was stunned, almost embarrassed.
But quickly, the novelty wore off on her colleagues. Successful
surgeries continued. And so here in Miami, she would be
both Allison the Doctor and Allison the Singer.
TRAINING COMPLETE
Early one morning, as a purple sky spreads over South Beach.
Allison throws on teal scrubs and white Nikes, hops into
her gold Saturn and turns on the local National Public Radio
station. She eases her car though a still-empty expressway
and pulls into the parking lot at Veterans Affairs Medical
Center. On the third floor, she tames her hair beneath a
flowered cap, then positions herself at the head of an operating
room bed. A man lies there, under fierce saucer-shaped lights,
hooked up to a host of machines. Surgeons will remove part
of his lung. And Allison is the supervising anesthesiologist.
Her training is complete. She still works with many of the
same people from her wing at Jackson Memorial. They know
about her singing. Few mention it. But if anyone asks, Allison
will gladly offer them a rough copy of her album —
which she expects to release soon — and tell them
she is not sure what she’ll do if her music strikes
big. And maybe she’ll invite them to her next performance
at Tobacco Road. Then, at the old bar by the Miami River,
on the tiny upstairs stage, soft-spoken Allison the Doctor
will slide her fingertips across the keyboard, dip her head
close to the microphone And introduce Allison the Singer
to the crowd. |
