image & words//chris zakorchemny

A portrait of Laura Marling before her show at Johnny Brenda’s in Philadelphia on May 15, 2010.

Soon after Laura Marling’s black touring van arrives in the Fishtown section of Philadelphia, four girls pour out of the doors and begin taking pictures of each other. They make up the Smoke Fairies and Marling’s band, and look more excited to get out of The Darth Vadar van – as Marling calls it – than note the gritty roads and land plots lining this offbeat section of Philly. Marling, meanwhile, is removed from the giddy cluster, learning her schedule for the rest of the night: press, dinner, sound check, down time, gig, back to Vader van, and maybe time for knitting.

Marling spent the past two days in Brooklyn and Manhattan, playing gigs, radio shows, having a picnic and hunting for cameras. For the next few weeks she will remain on tour in the US, far removed from London and her home in Shepherd’s Bush – an affluent part of town she describes as full of ‘yummy mummies.’

On a perfect day, Marling is just like anyone else. It’s the weekend. She picks up the papers at the corner store, makes breakfast with her flatmates, takes a walk in the park and ends the night with friends in the pub. Describing this to me, the born and raised Brit gives the impression she’s much more interested in living her life than wondering how she can sound more like Nick Drake, or where her music lies in comparison to Noah and the Whale.

Recently turned 20, the young, but wise female voice of Britain’s thriving folk scene still has the questions and looming distrust any 20 year-old would have. She wants to be home with friends, is learning who to put her trust in, and has a genial offstage manner that can’t tell that she is the new face of a genre. (Rock star, she is not.)

In previous interviews, Marling rarely expands on how she relates to her songs, almost hiding behind the characters she creates. She talks about her life and world of song like they’re completely different things. Yet, in the building and courageous “Rambling Man,” from I Speak Because I Can, there was a lyric that felt less opaque than a character at arm’s length. “It’s hard to accept yourself as someone you don’t desire / as someone you don’t want to be.” It was something anyone – including her – would be able to relate to, whether she was hiding behind a character or not.

“In that context it’s written describing the character, but everything you write is eventually about yourself,” Marling says, soft-spoken but articulate. “I think when I was brought up, it was really drummed into me that everyone has the capability to change and be good and do good. And though that was really good advice, it leaves you with a lot of guilt. I think at some point in your life, you have to accept your slight misgivings and do your best to know yourself.”

It’s the days of doubt and guilt when Marling finds her place in song. She recently finished writing her next album and will record through June. It is still untitled. “It will probably be the last track name, again,” she says strategically, hiding a grin. She says it will explore the potential of the human condition.

“I’ve got this kind of love-hate relationship with humanity,” Marling says, between bites of asparagus and tofu. “I think everyone does. Sometimes people completely surprise you and sometimes they disappoint you beyond belief.”

“There’s a lot of future contemplation about what one person can become, given time and experience, whereas I Speak Because I Can was a bit more present, and Alas, I Cannot Swim was past. So, this may be my last album.”

Marling’s sense of wit is refreshing, especially for someone whose work is so emotionally serious. She recently appeared on the cover of the British music magazine NME with a quote under her name: “Talent, integrity and self-loathing…the three things every artist needs.” On the surface, the quote gives shock value, but Marling knows it’s the self-doubt and insecurity that people connect to.

“The reason the music touches you is because self-loathing is a universal thing,” Marling says. “I think it’s something most people have. It’s much easier to write an unhappy song than a happy song.”

So, she’s not going to write a happy song any time soon, right?

“That’s what I get worried about!” Marling says, smiling. “What if I was perfectly happy and never wrote a song again?”

Let’s hope, for music’s sake, that discontent creeps on a bit longer.

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For more information on Laura Marling, check out her MySpace or website.