Nobody who went down to the Echo in Los Angeles on Wednesday night to see Miya Folick play knew what they were in for. Nobody including Folick herself.
The singer is a staple of the east side. It is not unusual to see her name on the marquee in Echo Park's choice rock room. It's part of the furniture by this point.
Many of those inside the Echo are Folick's people, her community, our community. They're accustomed to seeing her perform regularly, and always innovatively. One of the most affecting shows I've seen in five years living in LA was a Folick show in the garden at the Japanese American Cultural & Community Center downtown. She performed her song "Dead Body" with a group of interpretative dancers while the sound of nearby sirens filled the air overhead. It was her own personal emergency echoing the thousands of personal emergencies happening all around us, as we fumble about the metropolis connected by our disconnects. Folick feels emblematic of the very notion of what it means to be an artist in this city, of what it feels like to struggle and to succeed, and of how it looks whiplashing between those two states.
The people at the Echo are accustomed to Folick's story so far. She grew up in Orange County, was a transplant to LA after spending her formative years studying in New York, and then returned to California with a newfound interest in music-oriented expression. And so she began writing songs and singing them with a gift of a voice that seemed to surprise herself more than it does everyone else. She hired players by vetting available musicians on Tinder. She learned how to co-produce her material.