I remember a recurring dream while I was in college and about an exchange student from Britain who bored me to tears with his stories. I was, in my dream, hanging out with this girl I used to try to impress and Roy (made up name) was droning on and on about his dog back home. I couldn't stop him. For some reason, my throat was closed up, my hands were shaking and an overall sense of dread was welling over me as she looked more and more bored.
Somehow, though, when I woke up, the British guy was the only person I remember form the dream. I can vaguely remember the look of the girl but not her name, her face or the reason I was so worried about her. Roy, I could describe to a police sketch artist and have arrested outside of his home in Manchester.
I can do the same with Gravenhurst's new set of repetitive songs. As must as I want to lambaste them for being boring, tiresome or generally uninspiring, they stick in my head for hours (especially the line "Cold ash, smother the fire") and create havoc on my moods coming to and from my workday. There is a simple genius to each one and a beauty within the repeated lyrics, folk-guitar lines and quiet electronic ambience. In passing, these combinations are pasted together with a dull lacquer—a sheen not unlike stained glass windows in Southern American churches. On further listens and careful consideration, Gravenhurst's ideas shine a little more brightly.
In fact, the songs seem to stand alone quite well despite being a part of a long melancholy movement. The purpose of The Western Lands is not to depress, per se, but to move like a normal set of feelings or a slow, cold day with an overhang of low gray clouds. Moving like a slow truck in the fast lane, The Western Lands intends to force you into enjoying the trees running alongside you, the interactions of everyday life and the idea that one central premise is a necessary evil in a story. This is both the downfall and the apex of Gravenhurst—a risky venture for a label known for its electronic superstars and faux-hip-hop eclecticism. When a song is brilliant, it is capable of mesmerizing even the harshest critics of the folk scene and enthralling the sad bastard in us all. When a song is pointless, The Western Lands can force sleep, indifference and general disappointment.
In the end, the idea falls short of my expectations, but well above the idea that a band can be true to its catalog and still find time to be as moody and part-time excellent as ever. The Western Lands is a dreamscape with memorable characters but a forgettable plot and it is not to be torn apart, but used as a model of effectiveness in a world of repetitive cycles—a world of exploration and experimentation can still bear goodness in repetition and rehashed ideas. |