I bought this album for a pound in Manchester's Vinyl Exchange, just because of the artwork. I wasn't expecting much, which is a good thing I suppose, since I don't think I could have predicted just what this album contains. It's edgy, quirky, alternative rock that manages to sound exclusive, as if it was yours and yours only, while being strangely accessible. It might sound like a simple folk-rock record from the opening notes of Mynah Bird's Call, but it's a lot more than that. The rhythms are familiar yet strange, the creepy choir making it sound like some surreal, nightmarish Red Riding Hood. Strings lurk behind you, forcing you into the relative safety of acoustic guitar. The false applause in To Pour Like English Taps grates somewhat, but sarcastic self-congratulation aside, it's a lovely track. Caroline appears to have been recorded in the company of monks, and is all the better for it. To be honest, though, the arty construction and layered instrumentation make you long for something simpler, rawer. Chicory, in that sense, comes a few tracks too late, but now it's offered you're more than grateful. It's very ornate, very English, very enchanting. No, Sawyer's voice isn't the most polished of voices.
But neither is Dylan's, and look what happened there.
No comments:
Post a Comment