Freshly emaciated and engaged, Sheryl Crow is living some pop princess’s version of the high life. It was no wonder, then, to me, that she would choose this as the time to release the whimsically-titled Wildflower, her sixth album since her 1993 debut.
Having essentially made a name for herself among the mature, pop/rock mavens of the new millennium, Crow has been delivering soothing, wispy hits for more than a decade. Wildflower is more or less of what we’ve come to expect of Crow. There are catchy beats and sun-soaked, produced tunes that all throb with an undeniable aura of mainstream appeal. Crow’s album reads with a subtle, passive feel because it is almost entirely devoid of a harder side.
Never quite a fan but never quite a hater, I’ve stomached my share of Sheryl Crow hits over the years with little thought to the contrary. Think of Wildflower as easy listening for the Sex and the City crowd. There’s just something about the flowing, airy music that connotes the existence of calming landscapes, tranquil weather and a certain capacity for leisure that seems too vivacious for my Cornell-hardened heart to bear.
Archived article by Tracy Zhang
Arts and Entertainment Editor