MIKAELA DAVIS

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Every universe begins with a singular point, a quiet corner where instinct speaks loudest, where existential imagination can stretch its limbs. For acclaimed harpist and songwriter Mikaela Davis’ new album, Graceland Way (due April 24th via Kill Rock Stars), that singularity was a hillside home in Chevy Chase Canyon on the titular street, a spot nestled in Los Angeles County where time slowed, the world fell away, and Davis could create from a sense of warmth and passion. Graceland Way is the product of weeks spent watching dusk settle over the hills, encircled by the totemic presence of the studio’s pet black cat: the ever-watchful Bubu, a symbol of witchy good luck and quiet protection. The “canyon country” epic born of that work ties a neo-western future back to the lineage of Laurel Canyon, the mythos of Elvis’s Graceland, and Paul Simon’s restless reinvention. And across that grand sweep, Graceland Way explores the fragile humanity-defining balance of light and dark, grace and struggle, rose and thorn, as well as the mystical power found at their nexus.

The precise origin of Davis’ musical big bang comes in the form of Glendale’s UHF Studio, home of producer/bassist Dan Horne. Davis’ other trusted collaborator in the process was noted guitarist John Lee Shannon. The trio co-produced Graceland Way, a cozy braintrust that made the songs flow intuitively. “The studio was in Dan’s house, and we would just stay for a couple of weeks and work when the spirit moved us,” she explains. “It was a really fun way to work, and the best part was having Bubu there. He’s our best friend.”

Graceland Way also marks the debut of the Davis-Shannon songwriting partnership, the pair finding the album's message as her harp, his guitar, and their joint melodies unfurled. “The songs were written from our personal experience, but together they tell the arc of humanity,” she says. “The album tells the story of a character that any listener can identify with.” That’s immediately evident from the opening track “(Looking Through) Rose Colored Glasses”; after opening with a harp glissando burst reminiscent of being burst through a blissful wormhole, the track sets the listener out on a journey into the unknown after being jilted by a lover. “Throwing pennies in an empty fountain/ Rainbows in the dark/ Pulling petals from a dying flower/ A sudden change of heart,” she sings, the dark Western tones aided by Kurt G. Johnson’s pedal steel guitar and transformative harmonies from guest vocalists Madison Cunningham and Tim Heidecker. (“I love Madison. She's one of my favorite songwriters,” Davis says. “I feel like I found my Emmylou.”) But even in this pained origin story, Davis’ glittering, opalescent voice and evocative harp find a depth of beauty.

That duality is then immediately challenged in “Nothin’s On The Radio”, where the antihero arrives in a city devoid of meaning. “It already feels dystopic living in a world today where radio stations are all owned by a handful of corporations, all playing the same artists. Gone are the days when the radio was a way to bring people together, to amplify the voices of freaks and weirdos from all corners of the world,” she says. “I was fortunate to grow up in the last years of the golden age of FM radio, and being able to tune into this magical world far beyond my own was a transformative experience. Hearing artists like Sheryl Crow and Vanessa Carlton coming through the car stereo is what made me want to write songs and play music in the first place.” The resulting song, paradoxically, has all the smoky warmth of an alt radio hit, Neal Francis' organ and Shannon's swaggering guitar buttressing Davis’ crystalline calls: “Take me higher baby, like my favorite song/ Turn it up a little, ‘til the static is gone.”

The transportive power of music unifies the record—and Davis’ career at large. “The ability to shift our consciousness and remind us of our shared experience, how we are all connected, is what makes music so important,” she says. “My purpose in life is to create that magic and bring it to other people.” One of Davis’ first memories with that potential came when she first picked up a harp, inspired to play in honor of her then-recently-passed grandmother. “There’s something soothing and powerful about playing an instrument, especially when it’s twice the size of you,” she says.

As the album progresses and the story continues, Davis and her compatriots explore magic and mysticism on “11:11” and surrendering to the universe on “Wild Flower”. Darkness returns, as it tends to do, on the haunting “Mizmoon”, harp low end and rattling percussion giving way to slippery shadows of violin and more plinking harp. Written by Cass McCombs, the track draws inspiration from Patricia “Mizmoon” Soltysik, cofounder of the Symbionese Liberation Army. “When Cass first sent over the track, it was the coolest thing I'd ever heard,” Davis says. “The music and lyrics create such an ominous mood and I could imagine how the harp would carry the song right away.”

Whether surviving the dark night of the soul in a wasted robotic landscape on “Starlite Tonite” (“It’s a cautionary tale about corporate greed taking us past the point of no return”), using physicality as a replacement for meaning on “Junk Love” (featuring harmonies from Wednesday vocalist Karly Hartzman), or finding some sense of self through rejecting expectations on “(That’s Not) Who I Wanna Be”, Graceland Way not only works through balance in its lyrical themes, but in its expansive musicality. Davis’ harp masterfully powers the wide variety of soundscapes, taking on an ecstatic range of emotional color.

And across that kaleidoscopic journey, everything remains inextricably tied back to its origin. “At the end of the journey, the place you were destined for all along isn’t even a place, it’s a state of mind: Graceland Way,” Davis says. “It’s all interconnected and the universe balances itself. You need the dark to see the light, and the most beauty usually happens where the two meet.”