Natural gem

Jewel charms at the Orpheum

by Joan Anderman

Jewel is at that profoundly brief, luminous moment in life when the irrepressible blush of her youth and the emerging depth and breadth of her talent converge, and she throws a truly radiant light. What a surprise. Her debut CD, Pieces of You, released two years ago this week, was promising yet burdened with noodling folk tunes and navel-gazing adolescent poetry. But Jewel has found humor and wit and a new finesse with her sometimes stunning crazy quilt of a singing voice. Not to suggest that she's abandoned her coffeehouse roots for a slick stage show. At a sold-out Orpheum show last Friday (with openers Rugburns) she was loose and natural as ever, down to the flowing, flowered dress and bare, fresh-scrubbed face.

Jewel has, simply, ripened. Surely the last two years spent opening for Bob Dylan, Neil Young (an early supporter whose Northern California studio she recorded in), the Ramones, goth-rocker Peter Murphy (an especially bizarre pairing), and Belly, among others, stirred her creative juices. A good half of her set at the Orpheum was devoted to new material, a wryly exuberant batch of songs that by comparison made the tunes from her album sound plodding and puerile. "I got to sing with Bob Dylan; I got to smell his garlic breath. That's how cool I am!" she reported (one of several outbursts celebrating her freshly minted star status) in introduction to the Dylan-inspired "Sometimes It Can Be That Way," an acerbic tome crammed with dry quips like "I'm sorry if Jesus died for my sins, I promise it'll never happen again."

After seeing her in concert, I can understand why Jewel's record company (Atlantic) bucked industry protocol and stuck with her while Pieces of You languished for more than a year after its release (the wait has paid off; the album, now double-platinum, has been on the Billboard album charts for a year and is in the Top 10). She's a natural performer who turns on in direct proportion to turning on her audience. On a spare stage scattered with bunches of red roses and a massive cluster of white candles, Jewel opened with an a cappella rendering of "Near You Always," followed by "Morning Song" -- both lightweight folk ballads. She can gild the simple song, though, with low murmurs, throaty wails, girlish patter, and soaring soprano meanderings. There are shades of both Joans (Baez and Osborne), Emmylou Harris, and Rickie Lee Jones -- especially on her first single, "Who Will Save Your Soul," which itself sounds uncomfortably similar to any number of Rickie Lee tunes. It's a winsome, jazzy piece that begs for improvisation, but Jewel's live performance rarely strayed from the recording's licks and melodies.

She did let herself stretch on the new stuff, thrilled, I imagine, to be charting new territory. "Run, Tonto, Run" was an earnest blues-rocker. "It's Nothing Without Love" was a lovely blithe waltz. "I Love Boston" is a spontaneous(-sounding) recitation of her experiences at local landmarks -- T.T. the Bear's Place, the Middle East, Mama Kin, the Fenway, Harvard Square, etc. (Jewel loses big points if she revises this bit in every city). And then there was "My Own Private God's Gift to Women," a power-punk retort to an asshole who picked her up hitchhiking: "I've been saving myself my whole life for a slimeball like you/I'm so desperate I'll do your mom and you."

Glorious strains of cello, a delicate smattering of percussion, and Jewel's acoustic guitar adorned the gentler songs; occasional backbone was supplied by members of the opening act, Rugburns, a local San Diego folk-pop trio whose singer/guitarist, Steve Poltz, is Jewel's good buddy and songwriting partner. Rugburns deserve a listen, and better still a look: three cute guys in a line, bouncing in unison and playing really smart Western-inflected folk rock on acoustic guitar, acoustic bass, and snare drum, and making more music than a lot of bigger, louder bands crank out. Tongues rammed in cheek, they investigated the twisted corners of love and heartache in songs like "Baby I'm Gonna Have To Give You Up for Lent," "The Impala of Love," and "Daddy, She's a Goddess (Can We Keep Her)," on which Jewel made an early appearance, a cowboy's dream in jeans and boots, dancing like a giddy kid and singing like an angel.

There's the heart of Jewel's appeal: she's a 22-year-old Gen Xer who doesn't trade in anger and angst, and a polished, proficient vocalist who hits bad notes 'cause they feel right. She's a sweet girl who flips off obnoxious fans. She wrote a punk song and sang a lullaby. Jewel yodels, sexily. Now that's cool.