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Rating:
He has Irish origins, and you can hear it a lot on this album, it's a triumph of Celtic suggestions, a folk opera enriched by modern technology, a product of absolute originality and high level. So why hide it, I say, why this destructive ostentation of black? I hate this cover, without mincing words: black background, black t-shirt, hair dyed a vivid red turned black, emo-like hairstyle; dear Paddy didn't get a single thing right, "Wind In The Wires" would have deserved a much better "face", and there would have been thousands of cues to explore, something that truly matched with the actual musical proposal, nocturnal but vivid and shimmering colors, the dull achromaticity of this cover does a terrible disservice firstly to the album itself, and then also to the listener. So far I've mostly talked about myself and my aesthetic ponderings, I'd say that's enough, also because for the rest Patrick Wolf, especially in this album, has a really uncommon charm: melodies and arrangements, these things you notice immediately, but not only that, there's also a magnetic and theatrical vocal style, like a perfect "godchild" of D. Bowie, and above all songwriting of really remarkable level. This is an aspect truly worth delving into thoroughly, such an elegant and effective penmanship is really rare these days: metaphors, vivid and fascinating images to describe his torments and moods, I could cite many, but I won't; suffice to know that they are a means like any other to externalize a soul full of scars: discomfort, alienation, pain for the crudeness and pettiness of "real life" is clearly felt, in "The Libertine" there's rebellion, in "Ghost Song" and "This Weather" introspection and existentialism, "Wind In The Wires" is a triumph of images: the sea, the sky, the electricity, the search for Beauty, something higher even within squalor and sadness, in the extreme difficulty of being oneself in a schematised and homologated society.
But there is also a tireless and continuous search for one's own dimension, a path to follow, a place where one feels truly belonging; "To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield". "Teignmouth" is the brightest example, yearning towards an idealistic horizon, but this path inevitably passes through darkness and pain, "The Railway House" states this clearly, and the journey is anything but clear and outlined, as "The Gypsy King" reaffirms. I have spoken very little about the music, and there is much to say about this as well, however, all you need to know is that "Wind In The Wires" is a theatrical spectacle detailed to the smallest particulars; a show with one single actor, protagonist and antagonist at the same time, with "Tristan" this aspect is addressed and openly declared. The greatest strength of this album is precisely its continuous replay of dualisms on various levels: folk-electronic, music-lyrics, fragility-determination, and above all, form-substance: both have equal rights and dignity, both are equally cared for. This album reminds me of "Barbara Allen", the famous British folk ballad: the symbolism of the rose and the brier intertwining as one, in a knot of love. On this note, perhaps the most representative text of the entire work is that of the ghost track "The Towerns": "It's a wild stretch of land / such a sad place to be / when the night comes heavy down / and the sands turn to sea / many saints have lost their love / many pilgrims died unseen / in that wild stretch of land / in that fire to be free"
Tracklist Lyrics Samples and Videos
01 The Libertine (04:23)
The motorway won't take a horse.
The wanderer has found a course to follow.
The traveller unpacked his bags for the last time.
The troubadour cut off his hand and now he wants mine,
(Oh, no )
Oh no, not me.
The circus girl fell off her horse, now shes paralysed.
The hitchiker was bound and gagged, raped on the roadside.
The libertine is locked in jail.
The pirate sunk and broke his sail.
But I still have to go,
I've got to go, so here I go,
I'm gonna run the risk of being free.
The magicians secrets all revealed.
And the preachers lies are all concealed.
And all our heroes lack any conviction.
They shout through the bars of cliche and addiction.
So I've got to go,
I've got to go, so here I go
I'm gonna run the risk of being free.
And in this drought of truth and invention, whooever shouts the loudest gets the most attention, so we pass the mic and they've got nothing to say except:
Bow down, bow down, bow down to your god.
Then we hit the floor, and make ourselves and idol to bow before.
Well I can't,
And I won't
Bow down,
Anymore...
No more.
02 Teignmouth (04:50)
Teignmouth
On the night train
From the city to the south
I saw spirits
Crawl across the river mouth
In skewed ascension
With no destination
Like this lone bachelor in me
This constant yearning
For great love and learning
For the wind to carry me free
So when the birds fly south
I'll Reach up and hold their tails
Pull up and out of here
And bridle the autumn gales
Down to the burning cliffs
To the unrelenting roll
To marry the untold blisses
And anchor this lost soul
From my window
I saw two birds lost at sea
I caught our reflection
In that silent tragedy
But with hope prevailing
I draw galleons sailing
In full sail billowing free
So when the birds fly south
We'll reach up and hold their tails
Pull up and out of here
And bridle the autumn gales
I give you my hand
The fingers unfold
To have and forever hold
To marry the untold blisses
And anchor this lost soul
05 The Railway House (02:24)
We've found
Our home
Let`s paint these walls
And pull up the weeds
And cast
Our fevers
In stone
Growing out of the drugs
Growing up through the night
Growing up
Growing older
With treasure to be told
I see us growing old
I watch us growing old
Together, together
Together
E
11 Tristan (02:35)
I am the tragedy.
And the heroine.
I am lost And I am rescuing.
The storm is come.
And I am following.
My name is Tristan.
And I am alive.
Forever young.
I come from God knows where.
'Cos now I’m here.
Without a hope or care.
I am trouble.
And I am troubled too.
My name is Tristan.
And I am alive.
Sorrow by name.
And sorrow by nature.
Working for joy.
On overtime.
Stuck on a line.
Of misadventure.
I fear no crime.
I am the victim.
And the murderer.
You speak of love.
But I’ve never heard of her.
I am fucked.
And I am fucking too.
My name is Tristan.
And I am alive.
Sorrow by name
And sorrow by nature.
Working for joy.
On overtime.
Stuck on a line.
Of misadventure.
I fear no crime.
My name is Tristan, and I'm alive. (x2)
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By northernsky
Wolf envelops his works in a romantic mythology made of Nordic landscapes, melancholy/spleen, Tristans and Jacob’s ladders, and above all a desire to escape.
Patrick Wolf is an enormous talent. One on whom I would bet.
