by Freq | 2018-04-06T22:59:05+00:000000000530201804 22:59
1 April 2018
Ireland’s David Colohan (of United Bible Studies / Agitated Radio Pilot) and company start things off with a few vocal improvisations. Tales full of ancient ways, chalk and bones, lost histories and weathered stone, crow-picked carrion and curses to the universal robber-time.The warmth of B’ee‘s (the man behind In Gowan Ring) vocals are unbelievable, as the rotary spark of his guitar captivates, Vera‘s accompaniment gift-wrapping the goods in flute, squeezebox and extra vocals. A rich tapestry that troubadours your head, divines some ancient truth. A wisp of summer’s heat alighting that Donovan-like sparkle.
A keen curiosity for the natural world — the pencil-sketch quality of the twelve oak trees of Leipzig or the child-like fascination for a seed-blown dandelion. That lilting flicker of moonlit inspiration that itches his hypnotic baritone, nomadically wandering with wonder, vividly painting, hovering into some lovely darkened hues (reminiscent of his Love Charm début) before heading homeward bound in a family singalong.Following succinctly on from In Gowan Ring, Trappist Afterland delve into the Gnostic, imparting an air of esoteric mystic through the otherworldly quality of their wares. Hooking you up to their acid folk ways, autumnal hues that have you swaying right along. A hearthside of acoustic flames glowing bulb-bright in your head; that touching elegy to his recently deceased canine (Syd the Sundog) a flood of fluid shapes. The lyrical lamp of outsider artist/ poet Norbert H Kox caught up in a parade of hypnotic circulars that leaves a wholesome vibe that compels me to snag a copy of their latest LP. The Revolutionary Army Of The Infant Jesus perform from behind a projected drape. A creepy, Almighty Oz-like image slo-mos to this Górecki-like rub of orchestrated richness. A solemn spell briefly broken by some foolish somebody at the back impatiently shouting “get on with it”, an exclamation that the growing soundtrack quickly absorbs as trickling twilights are carried off on a tide of brooding guitar and Moorish ellipticals. A whirl of textural goodness that Sufis the distorted cloth screen in front of them, puckers the Andrey Tartovsky cinematics into a thunderbolt pagoda of slipping shapes and singing bowl drones.
The strange ritualised vibes of their record releases are perfectly captured, those bewitching harmonies that avatar the ancient aren’t afraid to wallow in noisier climes, psychedelically swoop the melancholic. That chanteuse vocal arrowing the eternal, ceremonially washed in nibbling keys and percussive zither. A closed-eye opulence that explodes in lurid colour as the drapes are finally torn down, perfectly timed for Leslie Hampson‘s voice to soar over kettling Arabesques and shrieking viciousness (that oboe is something else), as her arms Shiva-esque a breathtaking “Shadowlands” finale.they didn’t disappoint, lived up to and beyond their two studio manifestations, both of which are well worth tracking down.
A night of quiet reflection /refraction that more than quashed that weather-blighted Easter weekend.
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