Lindsey Czechowicz

It's like a stack of battered library books or a closet full of hand-me-downs; it's the family china or a friend's couch that becomes a home away from home--treasures borrowed for a time to serve, edify, or beautify. Liza Day is an expert borrower. In the fall of 2005, she borrowed her parents' acoustic guitar in order to write a few songs for a college class. A few weeks later, she borrowed microphones and band instruments for her first demos.

A few years, a few records, and a few midwest tours later, she's keeping up the act. Driving to work, taking a walk, reading a book, you can watch her eyes taking in the world and borrowing whatever she needs from whatever she sees; she carefully eyes places, pages, faces, and the daily news with keen interest, as if you could hear her thinking, "there's a song in there somewhere."

And Liza Day is still borrowing. Born Lindsey Czechowicz, her stage name is one half affectionate nickname and one half borrowed from social justice crusader Dorothy Day. Her music reflects this marriage, half diary-page-reflection and half public service announcement, with sounds appropriated from, well, wherever. From Appalachian folk she borrows rustic textures and deadpan storytelling. From the margins of pop she takes a disregard for tired conventions.

From classic rock she borrows a dash of grit and recklessness. From old soul and gospel she borrows the secrets of voicing urgent conviction with the most human of all instruments. It's all there, it isn't particularly tidy, and ultimately it's nobody's but her own. So then, here's the bargain: let her borrow your ears and a few minutes of your time, and you'll be glad you did.