On the abandoned nature trails once roamed by Bon Iver, still immersed in their symbolic and technological quest, we find an unexpected Damon Albarn. I must confess that I ended the previous review of the admittedly beautiful Everyday Robots by commenting on a certain overall heaviness, both musically and thematically. It seems, however, that Albarn intentionally wanted to prove me wrong by writing an album precisely monolithic and monothematic, demonstrating his ability to take on a challenge that few pop authors would face today. The result is truly surprising, and we should be grateful for the courage of this sincerely tormented artist, capable of reconciling the irreconcilable, as all greats can do.
A work deep in both time and space. It's hard not to catch the echoes of Pink Floyd of the 60s (Combustion), the jazz inspirations of the latest Bowie (The Cormorant), or even, and I am sure I'm not mistaken about his musical knowledge, the 70s experiments of Battiato (Esja). Written in his home in Iceland, not surprisingly during the lockdown (for the British in early 2021), the lyrics and music reflect a moment of emotional fragility and intense contemplation of nature, effectively a Sturm und Drang of the early millennium. The expression The Nearer the Fountain, More Pure the Stream Flows must have been something akin to a mantra during composition, as in addition to giving the album and the first track their titles, it recurs in whole or partially in the lyrics of no fewer than four tracks.
An album easy to initially read but requiring prolonged assimilation, it shines best over the long haul. The opening title track is essentially the philological note of the album, inspired by the poem Love and Memory by John Clare, it instills in the listener the atmospheres one will find themselves in for almost all 40 minutes of its duration. Royal Morning Blue showcases its more frivolous and immediate side, a piece halfway between the latest Blur and Gorillaz, almost a handbook of Albarn's style. The classical and cinematic Darkness to Light fully reflects the mood that permeates the work, vividly describing the changes of light, probably in the depths of winter, of the Icelandic landscape. The Tower of Montevideo represents a physical and musical departure from well-trodden paths, enriching the listening experience with its club-like atmosphere; the carpet of horns adorning it is not to be missed. Blur metaphorically returns at the end with Polaris, an incursion into pop-declined psychedelia, of which our maestro is: some will remember Yuko And Hiro, the closing track of the famous The Great Escape, demonstrating that a long-time author inevitably draws on his past, without thereby losing originality.
The final impressions are of a Damon Albarn reaching complete maturity, having produced an album that is an admirable synthesis of a unique and delicate period and the musical baggage he carries. The extreme care of the sounds and brilliance in writing do not induce regret for the easier listening episodes, which he is also capable of. The main sensation is that as a solo artist, that is, free from his traveling companions (and he has many), the creative freedom he enjoys becomes a decisive added value. We can only hope not to wait another seven years to see him work in these roles again.
Tracklist
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