Download the album without delay — tomorrow it may be too late.
After a Starland of dreamy, faintly unsettling textures — at moments almost Lynchian — MJ Barker had treated us to a handful of releases now impossible to find, among them Void. Does the Australian simply lack confidence in his own talent? One hopes at least that Bones won't suffer the same fate — consigned to the forgotten corners of the internet — given how quickly we've grown attached to this new record: superbly stripped back, its songwriting at once intense and self-evident.
Standouts include The Great Divide, which carries the air of Calexico in their prime, the Sonoran desert swapped out for the Australian outback, and above all the already-classic Youth — melody of the year for those who warm their post-Covid solitude at the flame of Nick Drake and his kin.
Throughout, the voice of the Melbournian evokes more than ever the late Sparklehorse — an obvious influence on this raw, intimate folk, its saturated electric outbursts breaking through at the surface, suspended somewhere between light and unease.
"For five years I've been writing songs, and many people have compared me to this artist — but being stubborn and ignorant, I'd never taken the time to listen. As usual, I'm an idiot. This thing is brilliant!"
These are the words Mathew Barker — aka Water Music — posted to his Facebook page, referring to none other than Sparklehorse.
The anecdote is amusing, refreshing, even ironic, given that the Virginia-born artist is routinely imitated by emerging musicians whom one forgives readily for falling short of his immense talent. Two years on from his debut LP Mountains, the eight new lo-fi compositions on Wolves — built from dark atmospheres shaped by an understated guitar style, an elegant and rather low, contemplative voice, and a dominant slow tempo — do indeed invite comparison with the world of Mark Linkous.
That said, Mathew Barker only discovered Linkous's work during the final weeks of recording Wolves, and the similarity between the two artists is not, in absolute terms, so obvious. Unlike his late predecessor, Barker permits himself no electric outbursts, and even drifts toward ambient territory in the first half of a closing Wolf 424: Ummo that is nothing short of majestic — in both its sonics and its gradual progression.
"As usual, I'm an idiot," the Australian tells us. But what if this appetite for self-deprecation — paired with impeccable songwriting and an elegant guitar style — were one of the essential foundations of Water Music's identity? Quite possible. He freely cites John Fante and Hank Chinaski to account for the origins of his world-weary but distinguished melancholy, yet makes no reference to musical touchstones when pressed on his influences. A singular artist, then — whose compositional elegance deserves to be valued on its own terms.
"So much has happened in the past twelve months. Recording these tracks in the studio with a band, for one — but given the direction things are taking, it'll be a long time before everything is ready and right. So, fuck it. Here are the original compositions."
A regular presence in these pages, MJ Barker is one of those artists we champion with genuine fervour — to the point that he features in our upcoming compilation paying tribute to Twin Peaks. In the meantime, he continues a captivating solitary body of work, adding an indispensable new chapter to it.
Recent exchanges had indeed given us reason to hope for a record produced with a new formation, details of which MJ Barker had been sharing privately. All the greater, then, was our (delighted) surprise at discovering this bomb dropped without warning on January 21st.
As brilliant as he is unpredictable, Water Music is no stranger to impulsive moves. The previous year he had already unveiled the EP King / Beyond, only to pull it from his Bandcamp page a few weeks later — as if it had never existed.
His discography, like his compositions, is never linear. One must sometimes be vigilant to catch the tracks Water Music makes available — always pay-what-you-want — given how uncertain their lifespan tends to be.
Starland is essential in that it extends and radicalises the tormented quality of the laments this Melbourne-based artist has made his signature. We had begun to lose faith, since the prospect of seeing him evolve within a trio seemed to promise a departure from the lo-fi character that is one of the essential components of his sound — as well as from that eternal, infinite desolation, so authentic it could lift the spirits of anyone inclined to put their own troubles in perspective against those of MJ Barker.
One might have thought the Australian was doing better. Not at all. And if its predecessor Ships was an album of grief — written in the wake of his sister's death by suicide a few weeks prior — Starland breathes no optimism either.
Above all, the quality of these versions conceived as demos is startling. Are those not echoes of Thom Yorke's voice one hears on the disarming Dust? MJ Barker's voice seems perpetually on the edge — and setting aside every cliché, a certain artistic assurance (in lieu of the maturity that is constantly invoked) allows him to move forward with the few certainties that an evident lack of self-confidence nonetheless permits him to accumulate. Standout moment: Magician, potentially the most fully realised thing the artist has produced — a perfect pop song with a labyrinthine construction and a disarming quality without equal.
Starland is not recommended for the most unstable of minds — although, as we said, MJ Barker's despair can help one reassess one's own. That said, this record has more than enough substance to rank as a major release within a lo-fi movement that sees Water Music assert himself as the most promising heir to Mark Linkous or Daniel Johnston.
One of those albums, then — a record for people who think the dark clouds of Songs:Ohia were a bit too chucklesome and Sun Kil Moon could get a little more austere and lonely. The kind of album Leonard Cohen fans hear and say "hmm, you're bringing me down kid."
Black Dog begins with what may be Churchill's depression metaphor sitting at your feet with doleful eyes — a hangdog expression. Oscar Lush half sings, half intones the words of Pheasant Country over a guitar in the semi-distance and a piano a step further back, eventually joined by a falling away trumpet. The lyrical imagery is not bleak exactly, but enigmatic enough — birds at a shoot shown their freedom, short and sweet, and "maybe that's how all freedoms should be" — to leave room for bleakness if you're already carrying it.
Well, yes, but not quite that dark: there's a crack of light under the door, there's a TV on somewhere in the building, this isn't going to end tonight. Stubborn Fool, the first single, while chewing over meaty sources of anger, channels both a downtown Manhattan folk bar in 1962 and an upstate pink house in the shadow of Overlook Mountain in 1967. And Kind Living takes that Band shuffle on a walk around the yard.
Certainly, Lush sits at the intersection of slowcore, sad country and the kind of late-night band — dim lights, Bad Seeds covers — you only find in indie movies and first novels. Port Jackson Cypress Pine, a rich, almost pretty acoustic guitar sound expanding into bursts of organ, siren-like electric guitars and sharp drums, feels like lashing out more than reaching out. Fast N Free curls up near a nearly extinguished fire and tells its story in the quiet tones of a man accepting his fate rather than lamenting it.
In Another Life, the air heavy with tension and regret, touched by harmonica and slowly engulfing his voice in shadow, Lush looks into the grain of the bar and says with a shard of pain: "ain't too late to change your mind, at least not 'til you're dead."
The real sign of shadings more subtle than pure gloom is the final track, Black Dogs — bruised but not burdened, peppered with what sounds like a Theremin but is actually a saw, over plangent David Gilmour guitars. "Everybody cries when they realise what they had ain't worth the hurt at all." But it doesn't wallow. The black dog is held at bay.
There's an intensity to waywardbreed's second album Gathering for the Feast that pulls you in, and holds you close.
The sensitively crafted album of stark folk-inspired songs came together after three years of touring in Europe, songwriting in Berlin, and cultivating collaborative partnerships in Melbourne. In 2013, waywardbreed brought its music home.
Featuring soaring strings, songwriter Justin Avery's passion-fuelled lead vocals, and tender backing vocals from Katie Scott and Elizabeth Barker, the album is the perfect autumnal release — an idyllic record of haunting imagery and soulful sounds.
