Review Summary: More of an epitaph than a celebration of life.
Although Kate Rusby's material has always been excellent, it has also been consistent and predictable. The "Barnsley Nightingale", being a prominent member of the UK folk scene, is responsible for fourteen albums, not including collaborations, EP's, singles, and countless guest appearances. Across that sprawling career, however, her sound has always remained within the same lanes of folk and its instrumentation: traditional and original tracks utilizing song structures built around simple acoustic guitar or piano arrangements, minimal percussion, and Rusby's trademark mournful mezzo-soprano vocals. While there have been very minor deviations within them, such as 2010's "Make the Light"s rawer, more stripped down feeling than 2005's "The Girl Who Couldn't Fly" or 2007's "Awkward Annie," the warm folk arrangements have remained much of the same. Thus, on paper, the thirteenth LP fits the bill to a T.
However, thanks to some small changes, 2014's "Ghost" becomes its own beast entirely.
As "The Outlandish Knight" opens, we're introduced to Rusby's new direction. This track stands out particularly blatantly, thanks to its decidedly minor key and a new component to her sound: electric guitar provided by studio musician Stevie Iveson. While it's easy to fear that unnecessary rock 'n roll will rear its obnoxious head here, the reverb-soaked plucking serves to enhance a new emptier feel, a bleak and mournful atmosphere, living up to the album's revenantial namesake.
As the tracks progress, much like the rest of Rusby's catalog, we find they are split between expressions of somber contemplation and of joyful gaiety. However, contrary to the rest of her catalog, even the joy seems numb, muted, and tired. Tracks such as "Bonnie Bairns", "I Am Sad", "After This", and the title track are guitar-, piano-, and flute-laden exercises in dreariness, while songs like "We Will Sing", "Three Jolly Fishermen", "Martin Said", and "The Magic Penny" are halfheartedly bouncy attempts at jubilee, let down by uninspired repetition and seemingly counterintuitively echoey plucking. While this could be seen as a blatantly negative aspect of Rusby's sound this time around, it instead gives a painful aura of a false smile.
Contrary to her past albums, "Ghost" does not revel in familiar and comfortable authenticity. So much of her past music exudes a feeling of impromptu music-making, whipping out a guitar and playing songs with loved ones around the campfire; here, Rusby sounds very much alone. Tracks like "The Lark", "Falling", "Bitter Boy", and "Little Jack Frost" from early albums give a sense of yearning but safely expressed; "Ghost" revels in its empty melancholy, as if she sits in an abandoned church or atop a cold mountain. Similarly, Rusby's voice feels incredibly at home. While it had always felt slightly off that her shaky and accented croons are so often paired with upbeat and, dare I say, tacky folk arrangements in the past, her mournful sound blossoms to its saddest potential here.
As aforementioned, reiteration is key to this LP's effectiveness. One finds that tracks, which usually reside within the ballpark of 5-6 minutes, rely on instrumental repetition of electric guitar melodies alongside Rusby's vocals to create an almost hypnotic effect, and in many ways, they take center stage, continuing on for a good minute or two after vocals have died away. Because of this, its runtime is a mammoth 12-track hour-long endeavor, and its ambition casts a decidedly un-radio-friendly shadow over its contents. While this may divide casual listeners in particular, fans and newcomers alike will appreciate the vulnerability this album has to offer.
"Ghost", unlike Rusby's past efforts, is not for the casual folk listener. It revels in sadness, contemplates emptiness, and embraces loneliness. While it is certainly a lengthy commitment, it is a worthwhile one, haunting you long after the last notes of the anguished title track fade into silence.
