| Summary: I hope you find it 'cause I could not find it in me |
6 of 6 thought this review was well written
Born to blind parents and growing up with a fully functional pipe organ in his basement, it only seems right that William Fitzsimmons would gravitate towards music. His haunting 2006 debut Until When We Are Ghosts is a masterpiece in bedroom recording that resides in the same vein of singer-songwriter folk as early Iron and Wine releases.
Much like his stylistic peers in the singer-songwriter world, Sam Beam and Elliott Smith, Fitzsimmons' voice is a delicate and silky smooth whisper awash in an ethereal calm. His words are veiled in a welcoming solace like a warm blanket on a cold night. This gives his cripplingly soul bearing musings an almost lullaby-ish quality to them that almost makes you forget the weight of his subject matter, whether it's the perseverance of his blind mother, grieving the loss of a loved one, or just wanting to be a better human being.
Recorded in Fitzsimmons' home studio, the production on Until When We Are Ghosts is flawless. Every note rings out crystal clear. Although it is a primarily acoustic entity, Fitzsimmons adds sampled drum beats when needed. As with most albums of its ilk, Until When We Are Ghost's charm relies on its simplicity. His modest guitar work retains a pensive air that wondrously sets the mood for his lyrics. The occasional overdubs help his slow-burning numbers pull on the heartstrings in ways that few songs can.
Until When We Are Ghosts is the ultimate mood album. With autumn creeping into existence, it makes a perfect soundtrack for the reflection that comes with the inclement weather, shorter days, and colder nights. If only all debuts could be this good.
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