Patrick Wolf
Lupercalia

There are artists who do great things and then unexpectedly fade into oblivion. Like those frightening thunderclaps of a summer storm that you already forget after they explode.
But for this phenomenon of eclipse to happen to certain big names is truly shocking. 
I didn’t adore Patrick Wolf, but I recognized his artistic sensitivity and his ability to always write great songs (the splendid "Hard Times", but generally the whole album "The Bachelor") and, although he was not one of my idols, I have always been curious to listen to something of his and grab every one of his releases.

And yet. Sooner or later, the thunder really does stop rumbling. 

It is indeed possible that after a work like "The Bachelor", an album like "Lupercalia" could be released, which is practically only fascinating for its cryptic title (referring to a folkloric tradition that celebrates love and fertility on Valentine’s Day). Because songs like the poor "House", a childish tune about one's home, you would expect to hear on a children's TV show. Something like "The City", definitely more catchy and fun, would have already been outdated in the '80s, but it's still cute and gives a sense of nostalgia. Much better than an innocuous "Time Of My Life", which never takes off, despite having the foundation, and in the end doesn't evoke the slightest thrill. 

"Bermondsey Street" has a nice opening, almost folktronica, but despite a good arrangement, it quickly fades into anonymity, especially when certain beats seem to reach stadium chant intensity, or worse, Live Aid.
And it's terrible how even in what he did best, crafting heartrending ballads of endless chills, he fails: "Armistice" tries to move the listener, but beyond an enveloping limbo and a beautiful voice, there's absolutely nothing. Trite and predictable, you would expect it from those semi-failed British singers like Will Young, et similia. 

The 50 seconds of "William" are irrelevant, a bit better (but not much) is the carefree "The Future", but if it had been composed during the time of Wolf's early albums, it would surely have been relegated to a b-side.  

"Slow Motion" has the foundations of a great piece, but when it reaches the sort of chorus, it opens airily for all those couples who don't have the courage to say "I love you". And it dangerously recalls "Memory Serves" by Interpol. And in the end, it doesn't know which direction to take, whether to be a serious piece or an Elton John-style ballad.  

Patrick Wolf recycles himself, continuously, and despite the undeniable talent, "Lupercalia" is an album destined for oblivion. This doesn't mean it’s complete rubbish: there are tons of worse stuff, for sure, but there's the problem of the name. The signature behind the work of art. An artist's crap.  

In short, a massive disappointment.

I am too bitter and the coffee is boiling. 

And I, re-listening to "Oblivion", hope for another thunderstorm.