Imagine you're a master carpenter. You've been preparing for years to build your dream house, saving for the perfect plot of land, drafting a floor plan with your favorite architect, hiring the best crew and sourcing the finest materials. As you reach for your hammer to strike the first nail, there's a sudden, sickening twinge, and your arm won't budge.
Alanna Quinn-Broadus, namesake and powerhouse frontwoman of local soul ensemble Alanna Royale, walked offstage and right into this nightmare scenario last fall. Without warning, in the midst of a tour supporting the group's showcase at the Austin City Limits Festival, her voice just disappeared. A visit to a doctor confirmed that continued stress caused a blood vessel to burst in her larynx.
"In normal conversation, your vocal cords vibrate like this," Quinn-Broadus tells the Scene, patting her hands together gently. "But when I sing, this is what I'm doing to them," she says, slapping a swarm of imaginary mosquitoes into oblivion.
Healing the injury would require rest, physical therapy and help from a vocal coach — news that couldn't have come at a tougher time. After months of practice, Alanna Royale hit the ground running in August 2012, and after a year of building a reputation, they'd secured dates opening for soul hero Lee Fields, which would put them in front of audiences all across the country. After the tour, they faced an even bigger challenge: recording sessions for their debut full-length at The Bomb Shelter with Andrija Tokic, whose albums with Benjamin Booker, Alabama Shakes, Clear Plastic Masks and others have earned high praise for a commitment to fidelity that never gets in the way of a dynamite performance — a perfect match for Alanna Royale if ever there was one.
Fully aware of how critical these opportunities were for a new group, Quinn-Broadus, fiancé/guitarist Jared Colby and the band made a plan and attacked it vigorously. A strict regimen of silence and vocal exercises before shows made the tour possible, if nerve-wracking.
"When you lose your voice, so much of your identity is just gone," Quinn-Broadus says. "I cannot describe how scary it is to know that the tiniest cog can stop the whole machine."
Bassist Gabe Golden observed the similarity to the story of legendary Greek warrior Achilles, whose only vulnerability was a small spot on one of his heels. The name stuck to their forthcoming album — one problem solved.
When the time came to record, the full extent of Quinn-Broadus' injury became apparent: Her confidence in judging her own performance had taken a severe blow. It didn't help that her voice couldn't take the strain of recording the album live per Tokic's original plan. But the unflappable producer inspired a level of self-assurance that makes the finished product shine. In spite of all the drama and struggle, the songs and Quinn-Broadus' performance are center-stage, just where they should be. The singer is just as believable calling bullshit on her man — "If you're going to act like an animal, it ain't my fault" — as copping to her own needs: "Rearrange my day, I'm waitin' by my phone / I'm not gonna stop it! You know where I'm comin' from!"
On top of Colby's biting guitars, the well-oiled rhythm section and the nimble horns, stellar vocalists Maureen Murphy and Jaime Babbitt add powerful old-school harmonies, Eleonore Denig and her string section provide perfectly placed sweetening, while Peter Keys (possibly the only living player who could fit into both P-Funk and Lynyrd Skynyrd) and Majestico's Mitch Jones play keys like they've been in the band since their first practice.
It's a fresh-sounding spin on a sound that will never go out of style, and it's the perfect lead-in to the next phase of their career — one that hopefully will be a little less rocky.
Email music@nashvillescene.com.
