Let it be revealed… This Welsh trio is now releasing its third album, following a mind-blowing debut and a sophomore delight which were both dutifully reviewed by the tribal Prog Rogue. With a fair amount of trepidation, I received this advance copy from Steve Hughes , asking if I would be willing to write up another patented adjective-laden essay, to which I responded with the greenest of lights! This veteran crew is like a Pommard Grand Cru, distilling a scenic concoction of imaginative and cinematographic pieces that raise the bar of the oft-misjudged and abused Neo-Prog banner, well into the upper stratosphere. Three hyper-talented instrumentalists remain the core of this tribe : guitarist extraordinaire Chris Jones, Jon Kinsey mastering vocals, the drum stool and keyboards with equal zeal and multi-instrumentalist Steve Hughes who handles the rugged bass duties including bass pedals, and a slew of keyboard implements. Five sizeable tracks that will burn your mind, scratch your skin and hopefully, wound your soul.
Not being ever able to have a full night of sleep is a horrible burden and surely far from healthy, over stimulated by all the humming seduction of our omnipresent technology. “Insomniac” is a turbulent affair, tossing sonic pillows in the air, pulling on hopeless blankets of mood and atmosphere, the burping bass and seductive vocals combining to keep the eye lids wide open. The steady beat parallels the loud pulse of the heart, in its twisted agony of not being able to rest comfortably, while the keys illustrate the numbness of a mind unwilling to turn off the internal switches. Jon’s vocals are more pleading that just mere singing, as if the slaying of imaginary dragons seems to overtake the burning desire for slumber. It’s a serpentine torment, mellotron strings increasing the light-headedness and a reptilian bass tongue refusing to fall gently asleep. Definitely not a snore fest….
Playfully smooth reality takes over with the quivering “Sown Seeds”, a silky pattern of slashing guitars, coarse bass ruffles and sugary synths, that plows the field with a sincere vocal, a grandiose and airy melodic line that liberates a liquid guitar solo that soaks deep into the soil of the soul. Kinsey is surely one of those rare commodities in rock music , a terrific drummer with a powerfully effective set of lungs, a most impressive display in a concert setting, to be sure.
A dozen cinematographic minutes are presented on the very a propos ,“Praying to False Gods”, a clever diatribe on our penchant for blindly believing opinions on social media, the complete absence of critical thinking, and the acceptance of eliminating the need for a counter argument. A society fixated on 7 second bites, hopelessly addicted to the next dose of stimulation where one chooses to believe what makes them feel good about their values, a very well trodden path of disillusion that has brough upon countless tragedies. Technical cocaine. Politicians demand trust and deserve scorn, but the sheepish lemmings follow. A stunning track that drips in overt symphonics with a lyrical ‘glittering prize’ that looks back to gentler/simpler times. A cursed modern world that claims to know everything but understands nothing. How can you expect an answer when you don’t comprehend the question. Everyone talks about the parroted problem, yet no one about any solution whatsoever.
Well, cuckoo to you, “Over the Garden Wall” has that unmistakable lightness associated with the British Isles, a tapestry of bucolic sonorities that joyfully play with words, tones and atmospheres, spawning all the great classic prog bands (Jethro Tull, The Strawbs, Gryphon, Oldfield and of course, vintage Genesis) and a new generation as well (Iona, the Morrigan, Colin Masson, etc..). The concussive insertion of mellotron squalls shove this straight into orchestral symphonics, a glorious slice of genius.
The goliath finale “Scars” is a gauze-laden almost 15-minute bandage, protecting the sensitive healing that may never return to form. The elegant piano leads the charge in this culminating and ebullient foray into shimmering guitar interfaces from Mister Jones , echoing percussives and dramatic melodic curves into simplicity that quickly veer into absurd moments of passion, the startling vocals in particular flirting with gilded theater. Yes, it hurts to be in love, and there is always a fine line between pleasure and pain. Emotionally and physically, the human is a defenceless creature, often impossibly weak, choosing between courage and despair often on a whim, and suffering the consequences. Scars are everywhere, as a reminder of our inherent fragility, especially in a disposable world where values are just a temporary fad. Well, prog isn’t and never was , perhaps will never be if AI can be kept at bay, as a tool and not a ‘false god’ . When the music dies, the world will shut down for evermore, leaving behind torture vestiges of what could have been. Let us keep the earth spinning records.
Another jewel in the Neo-prog pantheon, and a band that can claim success with their first three splendid albums becoming testaments to our aural pleasure. Definitely an absolute keeper, along with the recent Pallas and Credo albums.
5 Welsh plights