The latest eclectic release from Bo Meson finds him teaming up with other Discus luminaries to re-imagine the life and possible success of Dylan Thomas through words and soundscapes, using the opportunity to shine a light on what might have been in an alternate universe.
Spread across three long pieces, I find myself thinking that not enough poetry is set to music; Bo has an interesting delivery that varies across the three selections and starts as a flat but clearly enunciated drawl, assured and with thought expressed in each syllable. “Tonight Shall Find No Dying” we hear as a lucid dream of piano, chattering and dusty flirts with a frisson of cymbal, a distant rumble drawing breath in the background.
Later, music hall ghosts ransack the back room, percussives interjecting but making space for themselves so that nobody is cramped. Bo thankfully has the confidence to step back at moments and let Andy and Saichairí McCauly and the two Martins, Archer and Pyne, unfold elemental soundscapes and ancient analogies as Bo intones “My youth is bent by water from the rocks”; a fine moment. There is more structure in the second section, a romantic drum-driven track of sturdy prog-folk-leaning delights. The voice is a little more relaxed here and dissipates into space at points. There is something about this distended realm, finely textured, leaking into the backdrop, that frames the voice and its carefully produced words perfectly.There is no rush, no need for speed as the thoughts are all in place, their half-remembered meanings are laid out for the listener on the most delicate of backings. When the voice vanishes, the vibraphone brings a sleepy jazz dream to fill the aching void; “The doors of his death glided wide” is the sort of line that aches with emotion and there is a darkness, but it isn’t dragged down by it as the vibes prevent that possible descent.
Finally, there is a touch of the lugubrious robot about the last piece, the delivery made as if consumed by a mechanism. It is all unsettled, disturbing alarm calls. When Bo tells us “The photograph is married to the eye”, it doesn’t necessarily sound like a good thing. The imagery is striking, highlighted by stark electronic tones, uneasy throbs and harsh drones. A distant groan off organ rears up off stage, “hopping, hot-leaved and feathered”. The feeling of descent is more palpable as we approach the finale and the voice appears to lose its power. There is a nice similarity with some of the dystopian settings of Map 71 and there are further voiceless gaps that leave the soundscape artists plenty of time to construct the gallows.This meeting of minds accomplishes something pretty remarkable; the poetry is fine and delivered seamlessly, but with plenty of space and opportunity for the backdrops to be fleshed out and made three-dimensional. A one-off, I am sure, but something essential for these long winter’s nights and to extend the Thomas cult for a little longer.
-Mr Olivetti-
