Review Summary: The water is rising
Bristol, England-based folk musician Matt Elliott is a master of natural pacing. Many of his compositions have this uncanny quality of being neither a minute too long nor short, taking as much time needed for the subject matter to resolve. 2005’s
Drinking Songs, for example, felt like a series of woeful, unshaven, staring-into-a-dirty-mirror dirges of guilt, each lasting until the cigar smouldered and the numbing effects of whisky had plateaued. His albums each have a distinct conceptual tone, while painting a similar shade of remorse.
The Calm Before is interesting in how it falls at the (as of now) tail end of Elliott’s discography; it feels like a prequel of sorts. It’s all very preemptive. The titular song “The Calm Before" speaks of an incoming storm via Elliott’s smooth bass register, conveying a sense of poetic acceptance amidst the rich ambience. As he mentions rain droplets, patches of sun, etc., he feels quite settled, finding solace in direness.
The instrumental passages grant
The Calm Before breathing room, with acoustic guitars, pianos, woodwinds, strings, and deep drones complementing Elliott’s brooding with a sound loosely associated with Britannic gwerzioù (folk songs of lament) and perhaps older Tindersticks. On “I Only Wanted to Give You Everything”, they heighten the gradual realization of a failed romantic pursuit, while he sings uniformly in two octaves, insisting, "
but you don’t love me / but you don’t love me," over and over. The repetition conveys as much with its grim reassurance as a detailed dramatic monologue, while the closing instrumentation delivers a half-hearted acceptance. There aren’t any moments as outright powerful as, say, “The Right To Cry” off of 2013’s
Only Myocardial Infarction Can Break Your Heart, but
The Calm Before seems to occupy an essential prelude in Matt Elliott’s headspace. It just doesn’t have the same level of compositional ambition as some prior work. Woozy bass lines on “Wings & Crown” combined with a ghostly choir eulogizing the protagonist’s projected fall from grace provide an album highlight; but, for the most part, the album is relies on slow, subtle reflections.
The eccentric wallowing of pieces like
Failing Songs (2006) isn’t present, as Elliott’s newest is, to use an all-too-obvious descriptor, comparably sober. Some tracks are augmented by his wry humour: “The Feast of St Stephen” is cynical dark comedy and folklore, touching on blasphemy, attempted rape in religious sects, and manipulation of morals. In contrast, lush closer “The Allegory of the Cave” feels like peaceful recluse, and is mostly wordless. The sensation fits into the album’s context, feeling like both an epilogue and a foreword; it has a sense of conclusiveness, but a little bit of foreboding that Elliott willfully shuts out while the tide is still receded, beachcombing semi-absentmindely. It works in conjunction with the title track, whose intent is a sort of great cleanse to “
blow the dust away / away, to a place where it can never be found or thought of again,” like a tradeoff.
The Calm Before isn’t Matt Elliott’s most immersive work, but it’s absolutely necessary.
