In the last ten years, all female singer-songwriters are condemned to be measured against the success and depth of Norah Jones. And during the past decade, few have been able to match the raw talent of Jones — whose sultry voice and uncanny ability to capture the emotion of the moment in four-minute pop symphonies has gone largely unchallenged.

However, in terms of pure raw talent, Jones might have found some formidable competition in Kaydi Johnson, a brilliant songwriter who hails from upstate New York. Johnson is, quite simply, the most original voice I've discovered in the last several years — her writing sensual and honest, her heart naked on the table, revealed in the tumbling stories that make up the best of her body of work.

Johnson has released three CDs to date (Tied, No goDs Allowed and Peasant of The Wreck), and the thing that really separates her from the pack is the writing. In these 'moviescapes' full of bloodied faces, Johnson records the paths of broken people with lost eyes, writing about the ones who have been hit hard but who still somehow remain standing. In sum, these are men and women who have multiple scars but who nonetheless are comfortable with their blemishes — each tear in the skin brings them closer to the edge of the light:

…I say acting because I don't really think he knows who he is. But one thing is sure, he has a body that is very consistent. He might have differences of mind roaming through it but the body moves like clock-work like clock-work. Like music. Like poetry…

— From "Eddie"

"Eddie" is Johnson's true masterwork as she unravels life into the threads of an epic poem. Here, Johnson stamps out her style with indelible flair as the piece moves back and forth between recitation and soft singing: The poet on stage overtaken by the purpose of her own story takes us deep into the labyrinths of herself. And there she kneels: Making love to each and every image in her mind; and there she kneels, reconnecting with spirits just beyond the tongues of this human sphere:

I turn around to look and see nothing but the dark snatching the shadows of trees as we drive away…

— From "Eddie"

"Eddie" is not so much a song as it is a short story or a musical mini-movie. And herein lies the true beauty of Johnson's work. At once, her performances simultaneously intersect various genres and mediums, painting pictures of a half-hidden America (see "American Grocery Store") where shadows stumble about in the ultimate search for self and contentment.

Yet, what's most haunting about Johnson's stories is that she actually allows you to see and taste yourself in her lines — the jumble of words frozen on the paper finding their random order as we stop to breathe. Yes, squint hard and it's not Eddie's face but your own visage flying down that highway in the moonlight — there, lost among the leaves, thirsty to touch what cannot be named or comprehended.

Still, listeners should not be misled into thinking that Johnson's work is only about the writing. Instead, you will find her voice absolutely captivating, its petals blooming into a subtle diamond-honed blade, guided by spirits in the night. Like some unique amalgamation of Rosanne Cash, Bobbie Gentry, Suzanne Vega and Nico, Johnson's delivery soothes and comforts as it searches and aches, polishing the melody of each number into this perfect sun-spotted piece of sky:

Those stars are not really stars, you said, they're lingering reflections of burnt out lights gone dead, they're worlds gone by we can still see — the light-blast twinkling pulse of eternity…

— From "Night Student"

The best music-moments have the knack of infiltrating the consciousness, ending as an extension of the listener's soul. And the best moments in Kaydi Johnson's songs celebrate this magic ritual. The minute you spin one of her records you're embarking on a journey back into yourself — because her "Mary" and her "Eddie" are only archetypes of the hidden self as the universal questions of "Who am I?" and "Where am I going?" are met head-on and with deep urgency.

But as Johnson deftly shows us, the lesson is not to look for answers — since there are none to be found. Rather, the point of the exercise is about digging through the delicate rubble of skin and bone and confronting your own demons still lost on the shelf.

Alas, the sole point of the exercise is to ask yourself endless questions without turning tail and running away from the stale waves of confusion, fear and isolation:

The more I look the more I see, there's something hot inside of me. I'm sister to those burning spheres that shine but have been gone for years…

— From "Night Student"