If one thinks of the year 1990, they think of electricity, the return of guitars, the decline of synthesizers. If one approaches "Trees in Winter" with these notions, just because "Trees in Winter" is from that year, they will make a tremendous mistake.
Having permanently set aside the last remnants of industrial and wave that still contaminated the debut EP and the subsequent "Lex Talionis," Tony Wakeford enters the decade of grunge, indie, post-rock, techno, and trip-hop armed with nothing but guitar, flutes, and violins.
In 1990, Tony Wakeford is already, as they say, off on a tangent: his autistic one-way flight, bound for the End of the World, is already at dizzying altitudes. And "Trees in Winter," the consecration of his troubadour art, is nothing but the first link in a tunnel of concentric circles that will lead him unharmed to our days, regardless of the progress of the modern world.
Ian Read is still by his side, though not for long, because soon after the release of "Trees in Winter," he leaves, slamming the door to form his Fire + Ice, another glory of apocalyptic folk. However, Read’s beautiful voice is still there, and it is granted ample space. But it is obvious that Sol Invictus is Wakeford, and that far below we find Karl Blake (bass), Sarah Bradshaw (cello, flute, and vocals), Joolie Woods (violin), and James Mannox (hand percussion): excellent recruits through which the sparse music of Sol Invictus becomes a suggestive folk, although simple and rough, well orchestrated, that has its roots in the most awfully popular, dirty, filthy medieval folk, the kind that grows in the mud, in the stench of the plague, in the shadow of dead trees and stone crosses. Let us add Wakeford’s tragic vein, his passion, his pessimism, and we understand why this folk is called apocalyptic.
"Here we stand like trees in winter": the End of the World is staged.
And what an End of the World. The first five tracks are immortal classics of Sol Invictus and consequently of the entire genre: "English Murder," "Sawney Bean," "Gold is King" (opened by the ranting mumble of Ezra Pound), "Media" (classic of classics), "Looking for Europe" (last legacy of the past with Death in June) are anthems of infinite solitude and indomitable pride.
But let it never be said that the five remaining pieces are any less: "Here We Stand", "Michael" (plundered by Read: it will become part of Fire + Ice's repertoire), "Deceit", "Blood of Summer", the solemn "Trees in Winter". Because the most beautiful song of Sol Invictus and the ugliest one are not that different. Because the Spirit that animates them is always the same.
Sol Invictus is not Art: Sol Invictus is the Spirit that runs fearless and drags the notes against the wind and the frost, through dry leaves, rushing rivers, stormy skies, and where the notes disperse, the Spirit goes on undaunted. Wakeford and Read alternate at the microphone, but absolutely nothing changes. Many men and women will come and go behind Wakeford, but nothing will change a damn thing.
And what really scares you is the impression that the musicians are playing in the Void, that around them there is nothing but desolation: a Void adorned with rubble and bare trees extending their withered branches to the sky. A gray, leaden sky, dense with clouds, promising rain, perhaps the End of the World. And if the guitar will rot in the strings and the wood, that hand will continue to play in the rain, as wood and strings crumble in the hands and the violin slashes the sky and the percussion drive frantic healing dances of despair.
This is the true apocalyptic folk. What Douglas P. does is something else entirely, it is mental appropriation, the disintegration of the Self, while Wakeford's Self is harder and purer than the damn bronze of a Riace. I figured out what the secret of Wakeford is, it's the limits that are his strength: it's his coarse vocal cords intertwining and clog up in that lump in the throat, that damn lump in the throat that even if your throat bursts, you keep singing, cracking, bleeding until there's breath in your throat. And when the breath ends, you continue just the same, with the voice of the heart, with the passion that animates you, with the stubbornness that makes you pig-headed, blind, desperate. A fool singing of the End of the World. Even if you don't know how to play. Even if you are doomed to lose.
Anyone who wants to know something about apocalyptic folk is requested to stop by here.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
01 English Murder (07:24)
I wait here by the coast, in the company of ghosts
I sit and watch the world go by, sometimes I just sit and cry
Just another English murder, a poster on the station wall
Just another English murder, Britannia gone rotten to the core
I carry my guilt like a watch, but one that just won't stop
Doomed by the hands of God, whose giggling won't stop
Chorus
By the line she lies dead, beneath a mattress, her deathbed
In England - this septic isle; in England—Maxwell smiles
Chorus
Just another English murder, your photo on my wall
Just another English murder, it doesn't look like you at all in the dark
03 Gold Is King (06:42)
Gold is king, and the wind blows misery
Gold is king, and the wind blows usury
A falling leaf from a poisoned tree
A fetid river flows into an empty sea
The lute is cracked as is the spinner's wheel
A broken plough stands on a barren field
The sun is dying, dark comes the dawn
And in the womb, the child stillborn
Gold is king, and the wind blows misery
Gold is king, and the wind blows usury
04 Media (02:26)
Here we go again: the same old lies again
The empty words again, the pigs can fly again
From Wall Street to your heart
Neon Hollywood lights the dark,
Hear the bleating of the sheep
At the jokes of a media creep
And there's nothing I can say
See a world of tanks, ruled by a world of banks
Turn up you TV set, forget the chains of debt
See it all go down the drain
Switch channels, do you think it'll change?
Lapping prole food in the sun
Hail the masses—ugly and dumb
And there's nothing I can say
05 Looking for Europe (03:45)
He went looking for Europe, took love in his hand
With eyes of sunlight, like burning sand
Went to the west, rode to the east
Heard of life and honour, looked into the eyes of the beast
Stood in a city, in the gold house of whores
Said: ''I'm looking for Europe'', then you're looking for war
Sat on the throne of Arthur, held Boudica's sword
Kissed the flags of the great, beneath the towers so tall
Climbed up the hillside, where the eagle still flies
Said: ''I'm looking for Europe'', well be ready to cry
He walked to the forest, to the lair of the wolf
Said: ''I'm looking for Europe, I'll tell you truth.''
Some find it in a flag, some in the beat of a drum
Some with a book, and some with a gun
Some in a kiss, and some on the march
But if you're looking for Europe, best look in your heart
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