Few things come to mind that fulfil their purpose only once broken. But perhaps this is precisely what makes the wishbone such an intriguing talisman and namesake for South London-based multidisciplinary artist Clara Mann. Drawing on a centuries-old physical manifestation of human longing, the 24-year-old singer-songwriter reminds us with her sophomore record that, in order to bring us closer to fulfilment, things sometimes simply need to break apart, the fragments becoming the very starting point for something entirely new.
And perhaps that is exactly what this collection of eleven songs seems to represent for Mann herself. Something new. Something that, by her own admission, has never come easily to her: daring to imagine that good things might lie ahead, while still acknowledging the fragility and uncertainty intertwined with the very act of dreaming. Perhaps it is precisely this willingness not only to accept but to embrace the uncertainty of making wishes for herself that finds its reflection in Mann’s voice, which, on Wishbone, sounds more self-assured and poised than ever.
There is something fitting about Fortuna, the first song Mann wrote for Wishbone, also being the one to open it. Finding her grappling with the growing distance between herself and the life she once knew, the song serves as a point of departure just as much as a continuation of what once was. With percussion drifting somewhere in the background, almost like a distant heartbeat, Fortuna creates a haunting atmosphere while building a bridge back to the album’s predecessor, Rift.
Yet where her previous record was an introspective look inward, tinged with a blue hue of nostalgia and the pain of a relationship unravelling, one thing becomes clear early on: Mann doesn’t quite allow that same melancholy to bleed into the rest of Wishbone. Instead, she now sets her sights on what lies ahead. What lies outside of herself. And one can only hope that what awaits her will prove as fortunate as the track’s title suggests.
This moment of stillness, as though we were standing at the threshold of a story yet to be told, has an almost folkloric quality, leaving the listener eager for Mann to turn the page. But then again, what else would one expect from an artist who has built quite a reputation for crafting songs of such delicacy and intimacy? Yet on Wishbone, neither of these qualities should be mistaken for simplicity or linearity. At times, I would even go so far as to describe Mann’s delivery as almost violent and, in the broader context of the album, somewhat chaotic.
This is simply because Wishbone, rather than seeking to resolve the emotional contradictions at its heart, seems content to let them coexist, capturing the dualities of falling in love as though they could only truly be understood by surrendering to them. Perhaps nowhere is this more apparent than on the album’s centrepiece, Oblivion, where Mann finds herself caught between the exhilaration of newfound love and the fear of losing herself within it. Against the tension of the guitar- and viola-driven arrangement, her voice feels both weightless and heavy at once, carrying the album’s lyrical contradictions into its very sound.
Perhaps this newfound intensity also has something to do with her willingness to let others into a musical world that once seemed to belong to her alone. With arrangements growing beyond the intimacy of a solitary voice and instrument, the songs seem to gain a life of their own, occasionally threatening to spill beyond the boundaries that might once have contained them.
But even amid the emotional turmoil, no matter how gently Mann’s voice may carry us through it, there are still moments of quiet on the album, allowing not only her but also us to catch our breath, recentre ourselves and reflect. Take The Izaac Walton Hotel, for instance, a slow piano ballad in which Mann’s restrained, almost inward-looking vocal delivery leaves just enough space for her private emotional world to unfold, inviting us to linger within it.
The same can be said of All My Devotion, one of the most stripped-back tracks on Wishbone, in which Mann expresses a simple yet deeply felt sense of longing and loss with an almost effortless lightness. Its lyrics further establish Mann within the world she has painted throughout the album as a forward-moving protagonist who has learned to carry on without depending on others, yet still longs for a love that could make her stop moving.
This folkloric archetype of the restless wanderer, driven by a longing for something, also finds its way into Connie’s Song, albeit in a different guise. This tender lament for American folk singer-songwriter Connie Converse, who disappeared in August 1974 and was never heard from again, explores another side of this longing: the desire to disappear from the life we’ve built, to leave everything behind and begin anew somewhere beyond the reach of those who once knew us.
Yet Mann’s story, or at least the part of it she is willing to share with us on Wishbone, does not end in disappearance, nor in the sometimes tempting belief that something better might only be found by leaving everything familiar behind. Instead, it ends with a return. Or perhaps, in her case, with arriving home.
With Song for Joy and Video Games, she turns once more towards the world she has spent much of the album learning to embrace. On the latter, even the simple act of observing a loved one in an unguarded moment becomes something worthy of a song, showcasing not only Mann’s gift for songwriting but also her growing ability to recognise the beauty of what is there and probably has been there all along. She leaves us with quiet musical benedictions, expressed in words such as those from Song for Joy: “Sure as the water flows over the dam / Good things will find me wherever I am.”
Ultimately, Wishbone finds Clara Mann at her strongest, simply because she has learned to accept herself at her weakest. She recognises that light and darkness, as well as beauty and ruin, can all emerge from a spark struck from the very same flint. And that even the brightest passages are sometimes made legible only by shadow.
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