By Kjersti Egerdahl

Photo by Megan Holmes

Alela Diane Menig isn’t trying to invent anything new, but the way she pulls old stories and sounds out of the attic makes it all seem fresh. The dusty objects she finds — buckets from the well, jars on the shelf, pieces of string too small to use — thread through her songs and tie them to the past.

“I collect lots of old things — like lace and buttons — and I like to think about who made these things,” she says, “whose dress that button fell off of! Things that I can never actually find out — like who is in an old photograph I bought at the thrift store — really perplex me with wonderment.” Reaching back isn’t groundless nostalgia for her, though; many of her songs are based on family stories, and she feels their influence very strongly. “I had a great-great-aunt who learned to play guitar in the ’20s — and I have her guitar now. I had a great-grandma who played ragtime piano and wrote songs.

These are women I have never known, but I somehow carry on their musical tradition.”The solidity and depth of tradition comes through in every aspect of the Portland artist’s sound. Her rich, low, womanly voice sounds built for the blues, but she uses it for simple, yet vivid, imaginative folk. That voice is what caught the attention of Chris Walla (Death Cab for Cutie) and got him to bring her up to Seattle for the first time, as his opening act in October. She also recorded vocals for a Decemberists track he produced, although Laura Veirs’ take eventually won out.

The instrumentation on Menig’s album The Pirate’s Gospel lets her singing stand out. Acoustic guitar carries the songs, occasionally embroidered with mandolin or piano or a chorus of voices — infrequent touches that add an intimate living-room feel. It’s an authentic impression: the whole album was recorded, with the contributions of old friends (and a few of their kids), in her father’s studio back home in the little town of Nevada City, CA. “I think for a lot of kids who grew up there, it created a good environment to thrive and just do what they do creatively,” says Menig. Still, she knew she needed to leave that insulated world behind in order to do something bigger with her music. “You never meet anyone new,” she says.

“You go to the store, and you see your best friend’s mom, your teacher, some kid from grade school who’s kind of fucked up now...” Menig tried living in San Francisco for a couple of years, but didn’t feel at home until she moved to Portland a year ago. “I like that the seasons change in Portland — they don’t really do that in San Francisco. You’re stuck in this same weather, the trees all look the same — if there are any trees!” Coming from a rural spot with such defined seasons (“in summer it’s really hot and you have to go get in some water”), those natural markers are so reassuring, she says.

Menig is gaining more confidence in human nature too, after the warm welcome Portland has given her. She’s shot up from “weird awkward coffee shop things,” as she puts it, to playing the best midsize venues in town. The Pirate’s Gospel just came out nationally on Holocene Music, the venue Holocene’s new record label. Although it’s not hand-stitched from lace and paper bags like her initial self-released run, Menig admits it’s nice to think it will reach more people. Her aims are modest, though. “Right now I’m just doing music — not by much. Making rent is still scary!” she says with a smile. “Just to have a home to come back to — that’s all I can ask for.” Of course, she’ll always need an attic.

www.aleladiane.com