Low
C'mon

Let's say that I spent this Sunday in bed, I think I got up at 9 in the evening. I needed a cigarette, so I got up and went out.
Now, however, it's 5 in the morning on Monday.
The night was spent playing poker and cursing at people who go all-in with 7-2 and flop a full house. I mean, seriously.
The night was all about music, one band in particular: Low.

Ah... Low. It's hard to talk about this (legendary) band. I myself struggle to find the words.
They emerged 17 years ago, in that 1994 full of releases that are still remembered. But that year, I was too young to know them, in fact, I was just born. Their debut is from 1994, and what a debut it was: that "I Could Live In Hope" which, along with the whole slow-core movement, divided listeners in two. A movement that managed to enchant, but also bore to death. Proud supporter of the first faction.

"I Could Live In Hope", who could forget it? I still remember the first time I listened to it. The first time the subdued bass line of "Words" made its way into my ears, the first time the outro of "Lullaby" moved me like few others have, the first time the closing "Sunshine" made me cry intensely, so resigned, yet containing the only glimmer of hope in the entire work. What people call unforgettable emotions, impossible to feel again.
And yet, the same emotions made to feel by the same authors as the first time.

By now, we've seen them in many forms, even dabbling in electronic contaminations in the faltering "Drums And Guns", now the second-to-last studio album.
In this 2011, with "C'mon", they return to their roots, the (s)low-core, marrying it with the most classic of genres: folk-rock.
The Low sound is now the most crystalline and recognizable there is, those desperate, resigned melodies, darker than they seem. Thunderclouds that can't burst as they should. Yet, they hide a faint hopeful vein, sometimes hard to identify.

"C'mon", meaning: how a folk-rock record should sound in 2011, how a record should move in 2011, how an album should close an imposing career in 2011. I don't want to jinx it, obviously, but if they intend to close up shop, they should do it now with a perfect swan song like this work would be.

The album, what to say about the album? Low at the peak of their splendor. Narcoleptic ballads, soft and hypnotic melodies that conquer more with each listen.
And to think it starts with "Try To Sleep", a sweet lullaby featuring an almost pop vein, only to arrive at a final part that, without mincing words, wounds. The flesh and the soul.
That "$20", moving in its simplicity, in those verses sung with a rare sincerity of desperation. A phrase, "My love is for free", repeated several times, that enchants and at the same time, aches.
That "Nothing But Heart", cathartic and repetitive, that hypnotizes the listener from the first notes, and lets time pass without noticing it.
And finally, in closing, almost as a tradition, the trio places what appears to be the only composition presenting a minimum of hope in the entire work. As they did, for example, in "I Could Live In Hope" with "Sunshine", or in "Secret Name" with "Home", here they do it with "Something's Turning Over", an acoustic ballad with a bittersweet aftertaste that sounds almost like a wish ("No, I don't think we'll ever see their faces. No, I don't think we'll ever see the end.").

This album, like every other by Low, is ultimately the soundtrack of our memories. Delicate, poetic, intimate, but also poignant, painful, heavy in the physical sense of the word: a real burden on the heart. As a memory might be, whether near, far, fresh, or hidden. An album that can make us relive a memory, for better or worse.

"Lullaby was not supposed to make you cry," they sang in "Lullaby" in 1994.
Could it really be so? Whether it is or not, they've done it again this time.