Dead Man
Euphoria

THE REVIEW

"Euphoria" is a record of acoustic guitars strolling through the landscapes of a diorama book.
Listening to it means accompanying them as they wander through dusty canyons, surrounded by the whispers of a ghost choir ("Today"), or crossing paths with them on folk-blues rides heading toward the frontier of the Far West ("High Or Low"). It means standing aside to admire them as they evoking dark-folk nightmares akin to Black Widow with timid menacingness ("The Wheel") or warming up by the fire of a pioneer caravan, in the company of banjo and mandolin ("I Must Be Blind").

Folk, blues, and country, mixed like paint powders, diluted with a few drops of psychedelia that blur their outlines. A continuous chase of musical chiaroscuro, of bucolic atmospheres, of pastoral scenes turning into sinister forests, refuge for fierce beasts ("The Wheel"). Lights that seem to want to play hide and seek and melancholic shadows wishing to show themselves in all their splendor. A flute stolen from Ian Anderson and offered as a gift to soft ballads, only rarely scratched by electric guitars, and jazzy waltz patterns that, as if possessed by impalpable prog ambitions, slow down to stagnate in the murky waters of dark sounds, borrowed from the earliest Sabbath ("Rest In Peace").

It is an imperfect record, suffering from a vocal performance not always convincing and a sort of widespread, overly insistent emotionality ("Foot Steps"). It suffers from some lengthiness, a certain complacency in the arrangement phase and, in some episodes, it seems to gaze excessively at its own brightness ("Euphoria"). Yet, it managed to enchant me, envelop me like an old blanket, and keep me company.

Dead Man is a quartet formed in 2003. They come from Orebro, Sweden, and perhaps, given the nostalgic air blowing from those parts lately, it could not be otherwise. Their music smells of dried leaves carried by the wind, of moist earth, of freshly cut hay and sun.

"Euphoria" ('08), is their second record.