I always felt Paula Cole deserved more. And this goes beyond her once being called the next Kate Bush, or the Best New Artist Grammy she won in 1998, same year she also became the first female Producer of the Year nominee. Come to think of it, she never seemed to be into accolades. She always disliked being told what to achieve. Her 1994 track "Bethlehem" already hinted as much, with lines such as "I've lost five pounds these past few days/Trying to be class president and get straight A's…/I want to be a dog or a lump of clay." But point is, save for being heard in Dawson's Creek's opening credits every week until 2003, she was scarcely heard from since.
And it's not like she even stopped. Since her late 90s heyday, she's released seven more studio albums, from 1999's Amen, billed under the mantle of an eponymous band, to 2024's Lo. Alas, none of them ever matched the groundbreaking success of her 1996 offering.
"This Fire" was produced by Cole herself – hence, the aforementioned Grammy milestone. Compared to the maudlin themes of her debut, "Harbinger", this one offers much more resolve. Sure, the disappointment, heartbreak, and longing still prevail, but there's more sense of liberation and more room to ruminate here. The inlay reflects as much, with the dedication "May our seeds of light open, brighten, and sow peace on earth". And with its 2023 vinyl release, the intensity and passion are more pronounced.
The opener, "Tiger", establishes that she's breaking free. Alluding to her previous Bethlehem analogy, she asserts, "I've left Bethlehem/I feel free/I've left the girl I was supposed to be and/Someday I'll be born". With that, it's made clear. She's no longer bound by the destiny imposed upon her. She's become her own person, and that includes shattering old ideals.
The second track (and first single), "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?", emphasizes as much. In the song, the narrator yearns for the man of her dreams, only to be disillusioned. He's neither John Wayne nor the Lone Ranger. Instead, he's a beer-guzzling bum who takes her for granted. Unfortunately, the sarcasm was lost among casual listeners in 1997, who thought she was romanticizing subservience. She wasn't. But, hey, she made it to Billboard.
The Cowboy frustrations are reinforced by the jarring "Mississippi" and the agitating "Throwing Stones", which sounds like she took notes from "Jagged Little Pill". While "Carmen", "Nietzsche's Eyes", and the Side B opener, "Road to Dead" encapsulate her feeling lost.
The second half ultimately differentiates this album from its predecessor. While Harbinger captured her feeling trapped, this one showed that she's stepping out. In the contemplative third single, ME, my personal favorite, she ponders on her own role in her suffering. "And it's me who is my enemy/Me who beats me up/Me who makes the monsters/Me who strips my confidence", she sings, thereby acknowledging her own self-imposed limits. That's where liberation begins, really – when you recognize your perceived restraints and humbly identify what needs to be fixed. Only then can you be in a better position to let love flow, which aptly and brilliantly enough, is the theme of the next two tracks. There's the sultry ballad "Feeling Love", which made it into the City of Angels soundtrack, and the neo-lullaby Hush Hush Hush, which features Peter Gabriel in guest vocals. It's moving to see the icon she once supported here on board, returning the favor.
The 50-minute opus concludes with "I Don't Want to Wait", a fitting coda, and it's not just because it was her biggest hit and, sadly, her last chartbuster to date. Apart from its association with a youth-oriented show, it was among Paula's most personal compositions. Specifically, it was inspired by how her grandparents' let their best years pass in an unhappy marriage during World War II, and even contains a reference to her ("The years passed by and now he has a granddaughter"). It's as visceral as a surprise radio hit could get. In effect, it mirrored the crossroads she herself faced in her own lifetime and the clarity she patiently continues to pursue to this day ("Will it be yes, or will it be sorry?").
Paula's career languished since, despite numerous attempts to find new labels and continuous low-key releases. Then came her 2022 social media post, which retroactively addressed her prolonged drought. There, she shared photos of two rejection letters from record labels, both dating back to 2004. The more brutal of which went as far as saying that none of her songs were "money cuts" and that she sounded dated. No wonder it took eight years for her to return with 2007's "Courage". Given what was revealed, the title never made more sense. Despite having no hit single to her name in almost a quarter-century, there's comfort knowing that she's still sharing her gift.
Music still defines her to this day, whether she's uploading covers on TikTok and YouTube at 56, or teaching in the Berklee College of Music, where she earned her degree. It takes like a person like Paula Cole to remind us that popularity or validation aren't why we feed our souls. There's still reward in putting your work out there, without obsessing over viability or outcome.
In subscribing to that, she is, without a doubt, that metaphorical fire. She has no plans of getting extinguished.
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