With the rise of folk (or a modern take on it) as a musical cornerstone these days thanks to acts like Mumford & Sons and Laura Marling among others, it’s important to look back at the songs and artists that have kept the flame of traditional folk alive; the dramatisation of events and journeys, the toil in people’s lives that survive and have shaped the sound of hundreds of lesser banjo bands today.
Edinburgh’s Rob St John’s reputation precedes him after his acclaimed 2011 debut Weald, and this release follows in its footsteps, marking him out as a member of Britain’s finest folk troubadours.
As for the tracks, they’re versions of songs from the early 1900s, and he and his band certainly does them justice, helped by the choir and the ambience of the record itself, which adds some much needed texture.
Recorded live in the main studio of Toad Hall (the Toad himself probably played the vaulting horse), the result is a warm mix of instruments and vocals that fondly recall the old halls where these songs would have been performed.
‘Charcoal Black and the Bonny Grey’ benefits from this atmosphere; it also shows how good his backing band is, the layers of carefully plucked strings and rumbling percussion turning the simple folk song into a veritable work of art.
It’s delicate and menacing all at once.
Unfortunately all the detail in the background means St. John’s vocals are the weak link, somewhat lacking in the gravitas a song like this requires.
However, he works well with the choir, and maybe more importantly, evokes the toil the song was created out of.
‘Shallow Brown’ takes the cake, a ballad that positively shines as a result of the simple, affecting instrumentation and lyrics.
As disembodied voices echo and melt away around of him, St. John’s is more soft and plaintive, and his performance is all the better for it.
Letting his guitar do most of the work, it effortlessly captures the tragedy of leaving your loved ones behind, in a time when all accompaniment like this could make someone weep, before Mumford and Sons, before folk was just a musical fashion accessory.
When St. John’s voice breaks as he sings such simple sentiments as “you know I love my wife and family/so my wife and family grieve me”, it’s a heartbreaking goodbye in the vein of John Donne’s valedictions.
Together, the two make up a soft bundle of melancholy to add to his already impressive repertoire.
The addition of the choir was a genius move; they complete the musical environment that is needed for these songs to soar on record as much as they do.
It’s certainly a sign of investment and love for a genre that lives and dies on one’s authenticity and belief in their art, and St. John’s to be commended for looking to the past as well as the present and making a decisive statement about what kind of artist he wants to be.
Expect much more from him in the near future.
Words: Andrew Maguire
