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Things don't start well. Having an intro that's part Bill Oddie and part
David Attenborough whispering about "the bizarre sounds of nature" as
birds tweet in the background doesn't help. "All we can do is wait and
listen for the first songs to begin" hushes the Oddiebeast and we ponder
that perhaps Parliament Of Owls composed this entire album from inside their
collective arses.
If there's one thing we've learned over the years though it's not to
trust first impressions, despite what other people might tell you. So we put
behind us the slightly pretentious opening and put it down to getting off on
the wrong foot.
And how glad we are that we didn't pass judgement there and then because what follows is 15 songs and 28 minutes of wonderfully
executed folk pop. Bon Iver might have holed up in a shack and eaten
a deer, and he might have some pretty amazing tunes, but Parliament Of Owls
have come up with something that is - honestly! - the equal to his For Emma album.
These very sparse songs last just fleeting moments. They
flit across your consciousness, depositing nuggets of a tune and then
disappear into the ether, leaving you with a feeling of bemusement and on
frequent occasions, wonderment.
Take Birds, a song introduced by an excitable twitcher. The
simple guitar line is barely picked out, barely audible as it hides behind
the gentle vocal line that forces you to concentrate hard to hear it
clearly. By rights this should be one of the most boring things ever, but it is instead oddly beautiful, before being scared away by the microphone pop that heralds the
introduction of the next track.
The likes of Gelatine are home to exquisite vocal harmonies that are
similar to those of Nick Drake or even Fleet Foxes at times.
At a little over a minute long there's no danger of such a track outstaying
its welcome. If anything the compact beauty of these grabbed ideas sparkles
with a heightened fluorescence. Hateful Wrists possesses a dirtier vibe
with a grumbling piano and a thunderous bass drum punctuating the ethereal
mist. And yet at its heart is a mournful tune full of naïve hurt. It aches
in a way that stimulates real empathy in the listener.
A band as idiosyncratic as Parliament Of Owls shouldn't need to resort to
cover versions, but nestled at the heart of this album is a simply stunning
version of The One I Love. It makes R.E.M. sound like frauds,
adding some haunting strings and injecting a strange medieval feel. It
shouldn't work, but it seems to have found a home and a soul in Parliament
Of Owls' interpretation.
If all this sounds like a twee yomp through an English folk nightmare to
you, then be assured that Crow isn't all references to madrigals and the
I-Spy book of British Birds. There are numerous points of reference to be
found within these songs from the folk pop of Simon and Garfunkel to
the slightly spaced out psychedelia of the '60s West Coast bands (August
Sweet), but like the songs themselves these influences are fleeting and hard
to grasp.
The second disc of Crow is basically a remix of the original album, but
with added glitchy breaks and clever drum beats. At first you may find
yourself drawn towards these interpretations ahead of the original album as
they're are more immediate and, crucially, longer, which allows the ideas that
were so ephemeral to become more established.
The allure quickly wears off
however, and the appeal of the original album soon comes calling. The more
time you spend with Crow, the more astounding it becomes. With only 100
physical copies being available this album is unlikely to set any sales
records, but there's little doubt it will become a cult classic in no time
at all. A truly great album.
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Mercury Prize 2009 nominees
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