Midsommar Round Up - Deep Dark Woods, Remorae, Krissy Matthews : Album Review(s) – At The Barrier (2024)

With no connection bar their lateness, trad.arr. through a Saskatoon shutter, folktronica of an an Anglo-French origin and blues from (ish) Norway.

DEEP DARK WOODS : BROADSIDE BALLADS VOL. III

(Victory Pool Records)

You’d think this to be a 3rd set, what with labels and tins, all of that, but it isn’t that simple. Is it ever, in the murky world of trad. arr., especially when glimpsed through a transatlantic lens? Deep Dark Woods have been a band, a Canadian band, for some few years, but, often as not, these days will find founder member, Ryan Boldt, as last man standing, as he takes the show on the road in a solo setting. In fairness, he did release a solo Broadside Ballads, under his own name, in 2015, ahead a band release of Vol. II, an EP, five years later. And there look to be eight other long players along the way, with varying line-ups. For the purposes of this recording, DDW consist Boldt, with keyboard whiz Geoff Hilhorst and veteran drummer Mike Silverman to round up the numbers, along with a guest or two. Clearly, Boldt is the voice of the band, and quite a distinctive voice it is too, drenched with an inbuilt languor, built from what sounds like regretful experience..

Just eight songs, first out is The Banks Of Lough Erne, perhaps best well known from Dick Gaughan or, as entitled Rambling Irishman, from its first line, by Oysterband. Boldt has a faltering tenor, to which the pleasing harmony of Erin Rae fits like a glove. Rather than uillean pipes or similar, it is the pedal steel of Matt Kelly that sugars the sour storyline, making for a twist of some appeal. Brigg Fair follows and slots into a standard lope of disappointment, Boldt’s guitar a thwack that keeps it going. The steel guitar provides a mournful symphonic feel. My Lagan Love proves it has yet life in it, with room still to extract some pathos from the ancient song. A droning shimmer of, presumably, steel, provides a mystic shiver, with Boldt’s singing tracking his guitar melody, note by individual note.

When does a song become traditional? Is it age or when the author is forgotten? Be that as it may, Spanish Is The Loving Tongue, is an old’un, right enough, from 1907. It carries a hint, melody wise, of another and more contemporary song, also with Spanish in it’s title. (Let’s just say no surprise there.) It’s smoothly sung, suggesting bare feet rather than boots, with Hilhorst’s piano, and, is it, accordion, filling out the texture, steel still in the mix. (In fact, Kelly is becoming quite the star on this performance.) Boldt then extends still further the limit of weariness of tone shown so far, sounding at peak desolé for The co*cky at Bungaree. Those unfamiliar with the language, it is an old Australian ranch song, and has a tune close to The Lakes Of Ponchartrain, and is as pleasant a dirge you will hear all year.

Sticking with mournful, well, actually they all are, comes an old Gaelic air, translated as The Boatman, with ethereal swathes of paired synth and steel as he shifts, briefly, into that tongue, for the chorus. Then, did you know Peggy Gordon to be Canadian in origin? Regardless, it is a delectable lilt of a love song. I’ll swear a ghostly Erin Rae is in there too, this an example where the whole ensemble, including Erik Nielson, on acoustic stand up bass, come together. Possibly the album’s highlight, if kept near to last. Actually last comes Bridget O’Malley, an Irish tale of, is there any other, unrequited love, at least in the words of all these long forgotten seers and sages. Hilhorst adds some lovely twinkling organ, and it makes for some entirely satisfactory closing notes of plangency, and is reminiscent of Planxty’s version of Cliffs Of Doneen.

Her’s an earlier version of Brigg Fair, stripped further back to just Boldt, with voice, guitar and foot:

Deep Dark Woods online: Website / Facebook / X (formerly Twitter) / Instagram

REMORAE : FLOURISH IN GREEN (E.P.)

(Self-released)

Remora is the classification for those fish with a sucker, so as to attach to another fish, thus saving their own energy for theirs. In slang, it becomes a drag, or a hindrance, something I can’t really see this lot, in the plural, being either. Although this is nominally their debut, they have, in one form or another, been around for a while, their previous incarnations being as Folkatron Sessions, also in a number of iterations. Possibly more collective than a fixed membership band, there is a central core of players, and, here, with four songs, drawn, in one way or another, from the tradition, they incorporate a mix of orthodox folk instrumentation: voices, fiddles, guitar, cello even, merged with electronica, and the wild card of trumpet.

Opening with Greyfriars, it starts with an elongated electronic note, before Florence Brady starts to sing, Joseph Woods’ guitar then adding a framework to set it all in. Harmony vocals slot in from Laura Spicely, and it is all very otherworldly, the mix between Spiceley’s fiddle mingling with the wash of synths from Denis Wouters. With cello from Martha Wiltshire, there is a sudden sense of whole. It all sounds relentlessly on the edge of catastrophe, despite the constant current of Woods’ picking. Normal service, thus, in trad. arr.

Johnny’s On The Water starts with a jolly sequenced riff of plunks and plinks. There is now fretless bass, from Tom O’Connor, rather than the pizzicato cello on the track before. The same vocal combination sounds all very wyrd, and Woods guitar is now plugged in. The masterstroke comes as Lissie Daly chimes in with some Milesian trumpet. The plunk plink a constant percussive metronome, the vocals become a repeated mantra, ahead a swift stop. Well spooky.

The experimental feel notches a step further up, picked electric guitar vying with a distorted soundscape of strings. This is the seven and a half minute Improvisation On St Gilberts. If the original St Gilberts is an Irish reel, you wouldn’t know it, even as sonorous cello and skirling fiddle try to assert dominance. Gradually a pattern emerges, and the reel lurches into a rictus of being. In the absence of any singing, Brady adds the melancholic drawl of a shruti box. In turns both beguiling and bewildering, it hangs more together than apart. A dance more for the frontal lobes than the feet.

Finally, discounting a radio edit of Greyfriars, comes a stonking version of Shirley Collins’ first recording of I Drew My Ship. an eerie “night visiting” song. With nothing but Wouters’ electronics to absorb the grouped vocals of Brady, Spicely, Wiltshire and Woods, it is distinctly unnerving. A solo vocal, Brady, in echo, starts off the process, a drone in the background. The other vocals drop in, siren-like for a chorus, dipping then back to Brady and drone.So it continues, with ghostly repeats sliding in from the seams. The sound of instrumental distress joins the fray, to represent the shipwreck, the vocal now a lament. Catching you unawares, the end insists a likely repeat, so as to make sure.

Unmistakably folk in derivation, this is exactly the way this sort of music, these sort of songs, has to take, to have a viable future outside hardcore enthusiasts. Almost an English Lankum, gentler maybe if with no lesser intent. More, definitely, please.

Here’s their Johnny On The Water:

Remorae online: Website / Facebook / Bandcamp / Instagram

KRISSY MATTHEWS : KRISSY MATTHEWS AND FRIENDS

(Ruf Records)

And friends? A clock of the sleeve above reveals he has more than a few, many of no small status in the world of white electric blues, giants even. So why did I not know if he were a he or a she? Possibly my oversight, as this player seems certainly to have caught a few ears, as he, and he is a he, brings his guitar and voice to the party. Sometimes wary of the star-packed guest populated albums that seem increasingly the way to break a new artist, I have to say there is sufficient of intrigue to reel me in, glad once so drawn,

Matthews has been around the block, playing for half his life and releasing music for the last 13 of his 32 years. As of both British and Norwegian stock, by virtue the latter, he had already played with John Mayall, in Norway, by the time he hit his teens, being then the last support for Jeff Healey in the U.K. ahead that artist’s demise. He then joined the Hamburg Blues Band, in 2015, the premier German blues outfit, wherein he played alongside such visiting greats as Chris Farlowe and Arthur Brown. Here is where he gets to call in all those favours and more, a double album and a bevy of guest musicians adorning every track. (So, where are the bodies buried, Krissy?)

With 24 tracks, time disallows much of a step by step spoonfeed, so, forgive me, let’s go cherry pick. The opener is a standard raunchy slow romp, where the guitar is more inventive than the vocal, which is a mix of cliche and expectation. However, over a definitively leaden rhythm section, Matthews fills both the channels with some muscular play of some earthy refinement. It sorta forgives the rest. The 12 bar and piano chug of Ain’t Got No Troubles On The Road is much better. Brass adds a blithe bluster and I can forgive it being old foghorn leghorn himself, Chris Farlowe, on shared vocals, he sounding both presentable and well preserved here, if less so that Matthews himself. Excellent brass, and this should have opened the set, with Matthews throwing out scorching runs of notes, all burning into each other.

A slow and slinky shimmer, Are You Ashamed Of Me, featuring Heidi Solheim’s vocal, is rather lovely. Very much in the sound and style of Robert Cray, it shifts from a good song, with Matthews’ vocal, to a great one, as Solheim, the queen of the Oslo blues circuit pipes up. Matthews plays some lyrical notes that evoke the younger Peter Green, before wigging out into a prolonged, extemporization of both control and impro. Big Daddy Wilson then grunts and gravels himself through the serviceable Pack It Up, but my jam is more aligned with the syncopated Tomorrows Blues, which features Clem Clempson on guitar and vocal. It also has fabulous trumpet from Anne Hauter. The not half bad piano comes, by the way, from Harry, son of Roger, Waters. Rock And Roll Hootchie Koo carries echoes of the Aerosmith/Run DMC collab, rather too many, in truth, but Learn To Live With The Blues is an agreeable organ led choogler, the Hammond c/o Stevie Kay, Northampton’s finest.

The next big hitter to appear is Paul Jones, ex-Manfred Mann and Blues Band maestro of the harp. This follows a sterling performance from the Hamburg Blues Band, with soulful vocals from Gert Lange. But Jones shows exactly why he is the boss, on a fiery version of Al Green’s I’m A Ram. Lest it seem I forget, all the while, Matthews is effortlessly chucking out solos that seems pertinent and perfect to each the varied styles of the genre exhibited here. Suddenly a familiar tune strikes up, that being the sublime melody of The Weight, first by The Band and by so many others , subsequently. It isn’t the best version, but isn’t bad, taking, as so many versions do, the opportunity to run through a gamut of vocalists. Of greater note is the presence of Miller Anderson, singing and playing guitar. He too, unknown to me, has been an alumnus of the Hamburhg Blues Band. Unlisted, there is an extra track 12, an instrumental bluster that features some of the best guitar work from Matthews, a sprightly work out over a loping bass.

Kicking off the second disc is no less than with Jack Bruce’s son, Malcolm, for a spirited 7/4 rally through a song well known through his dad, Sunshine Of Your Love. The tribute is really more toward the recently deceased Pete Brown, the lyricist for that and many other Cream numbers, as Brown had, too, been an erstwhile member of that same Hamburg Blues Band. There, Mathews came to know him well, having him also as a mentor. Dennis Chambers plays the Baker part, with the cake of family iced further by having Maya Bruce, daughter of Malcolm and grand-daughter of Jack, on additional vocals.

Another Norwegian chanteuse, Silje Hagen lifts the southern roadhouse rock of Broken, with some dual guitars adding to a slight Skynyrd-y vibe. Throughout this album he brings in all his guitar chums, and I like that, each urging the other on, and this one is a good example, even if the second player, Rory Evans, isn’t a particularly well known name. Unlike Martin Ace, still flying the flag for Man, the last man standing of the original line-up, if you allow time off for good behaviour along the way. He adds his vocal to a version of 20 Flight Rock, with marks more for enthusiasm than innovation.

Do What I Say tries to reprise the rap and metal model of Rock And Roll Hoochie Koo, if less well, ahead a worthy rerun of Cream deep cut, Outside Woman Blues, again with some double guitar sparring, this time with Rob Tognoni. Matthews’ actual road band, Josh Rigal, bass, and Felix Dehmet, drums, appear together on this one, giving perhaps the closest idea of how Matthews might sound in a live setting.

Some people like John Otway, which is possibly the kindest thing I can say about his inclusion, up next. So, moving swiftly on, to the sublime sophisticated schtick of Hvorfor Stenger Du For Meg, channeling peak Cray once more, in the sumptuous atmosphere created. A lovely track, which has the return of Heidi Solheim, to gild the lily further. Utterly glorious. So Einfach Ist Das, back with the Hamburg Blues Band guys, offers a recreation of how Z.Z. Top might sound, had they come from Schleswig-Holstein rather than Texas. Beth Morris I first read as Beth Hart, thus surprised to hear a textured throaty warble, rather than Hart’s forced raspy gargle; a pleasant surprise, to be fair, proving it isn’t always the big names that count. Fair play!

Losing My Way is always a classic blues theme, and is met by a meat and potatoes riff around finding a way forward. Similarly, Mr Brown’s Blues, an overt tribute to Pete Brown, smacks overmuch of cliche, however heartfelt the lyric, it all coming over as a little trite. Which is a shame, for both Brown and Matthews. Talking of Browns, where’s Arthur, I hear you say, he finally appearing for the final track, a diverting meander through Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood. Taking a little time to get going, it is the clarinet of Felix Peikli that first grabs attention, before the God of Hellfire sparks into distinctive flame, as hammy as he can only be, relishing the grand guignol offered him. Does it extend into 13 minutes of excess, with maniacal howling? Of course it does, it’s compulsory with this particular Mr Brown! There are better songs here, but this is still one you will return to, if only to frighten your friends. I love it!

A long review, but a long album, it is certainly good, if capable of a trim down into a single disc. However, given the different stylistic variations and the panoply of guests, the varying appeal of each track will differ across those chancing upon it. If nothing else, it should cement the name Krissy Matthews better, at least in this beholder.

Here is that fieryburn of Are You Ashamed Of Me, with Heidi Solheim:

Krissy Matthews online: Website / Facebook / X (formerly Twitter) / Instagram

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