With her sophomore album Of Love and Loss, B.B. Cole crafts an ode to the intricacies of human relationships, loss, and love. Each track is a vignette, a scene set against a backdrop of country’s rolling plains, gospel’s sacred warmth, and Tex-Mex’s sunlit vibrancy. The album flows like a film, each song a chapter in a larger story, rich with emotion and atmosphere.
The curtains rise on “(The Tale of) Lady Primrose,” a thunderous, rollicking opener that feels like a chase scene through a dusky desert. Marc Miner’s gravelly vocals entwine with Cole’s silky timbre, the two narrators weaving an ambiguous tale of seduction and ruin. The guitars roar, the percussion gallops, and you can almost see the dust clouds rising behind them. The ambiguity of whether Lady Primrose is a femme fatale or a machine only deepens the intrigue.
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/bbcolemusic/
From the desert to a Renaissance courtroom, “Poor Beatrice” softens the tempo but not the drama. This deceptively light country number tells the tragic story of a woman whose life was marred by abuse and whose death became a symbol of injustice. It’s based on the life story of Beatrice Cenci, for curious listeners. The spry, even jovial banjo playing contrasts incongruously with the dire subject matter. The heartache sinks deeper with “A Stolen Heart,” a ballad that feels like a quiet, rainy evening spent reminiscing. Strings gently swell as Cole delivers the tale of a childhood love lost, and her voice—aching yet resolute—finds a perfect balance between vulnerability and strength. The line “What’s a stolen song for a stolen heart?” feels like the thesis of the album itself: the beauty and pain of creation born from loss. “Close At Hand” opens like sunlight spilling through stained glass windows. A soulful gospel-inspired track, layered harmonies, and delicate piano lines frame Cole’s voice. She achieves an almost hymn-like quality. There’s a warmth and a sense of hope and comfort that feels like a reprieve after Of Love and Loss‘ early, darker chapters.
The energy picks up with “Wave of Love,” a buoyant track brimming with optimism. Pedal steel is the dominant instrumental touch listeners will remember, but the overall performance stands out. Cole’s singing is ideal for this sort of classic country material, and adding unexpected splashes of flavor satisfies her penchant for surprising listeners. A darker energy returns with “The Lion and the Virgin”. Adopting a shuffle arrangement for this otherwise edgy cut may soften its subject matter for some listeners or lure them into a false sense of security before lowering the boom. The stripped-back attack draws more attention to the lyrical content; it packs quite a punch. It’s a song steeped in metaphor and rewards careful listening and interpretation.
“The Sun Song” leans heavily into bluesy Americana. The guitars strut and sway, and Cole’s voice takes on a playful edge. It’s a track that sounds wrung out of Cole rather than coaxed and its impassioned tone is difficult to forget. Cole’s collaboration with Lorae on “Over Before It Started” is a poignant duet about the inevitability of fading relationships. Their voices intertwine like two sides of the same coin, the song’s arrangement stripped back to let the raw emotion shine. It’s a quiet yet devastating moment.
“She’s Not Gonna Do It” shifts the tone, blending Tex-Mex rhythms with a sly, rebellious edge. The arrangement feels carefree, almost mischievous as if daring the listener to keep up. The accordion flutters in the background, adding an assertive edge to the song. “Hide and Seek” is a haunting, slow-burning track that embraces a dream-like pacing. The melody tiptoes, the instrumentation shimmers, and Cole’s voice carry a spectral quality. It’s a track that’s as much about what’s unsaid as what’s sung, evoking a sense of longing and mystery. The album closes with the late-night swoons of “Coffee Eyes.” Smoky and sultry, the song feels like the credits rolling on a bittersweet romance. Cole’s voice is intimate, her delivery almost conversational, as if she’s singing directly to you in a dimly lit room. It’s the perfect ending, leaving the listener with the warmth of a lingering embrace and the ache of unresolved emotion.
Of Love and Loss plays out like a timeless collection of short stories or dramatic dialogues set to music. B.B. Cole proves herself a masterful storyteller, blending genres and moods to craft a listening experience that is as evocative as it is deeply human. This is not just an album—it’s a journey, one that invites you to lose yourself in its world again and again.
Chadwick Easton