Traditions tweaked and honoured, promises delivered.

Release Date: 6th September 2024

Label: self-released

Format: vinyl / digital

It is possible you recall that one of the best finds of this year’s Sidmouth was this trio, keenly observed as having a fresh take on the tradition, adding a modern hex to the runes of the past. That day, 6/8/24, they were making available an early vinyl 7″ version of this, their single, a full month ahead the official release. Both sides, both songs were in their set that day.

Drawn by their shared love of tweaking the tradition, the trio came together in the West Country, performing as, first, a duo and a separate solo act, ahead maximising their strengths. From Staffordshire, Nottinghamshire and Middlesborough, it was further education that drew them south-westward, it then difficult to shake off the attaraction.

Jake Sonny Rowlinson fronts the band, as lead vocalist and main visual presence, playing also harmonium and concertina. Jeremy Bunting plays guitar and percussion, often simultaneously, with a kick drum. He also sings, as does Fran Rowney, who tackles keyboards, whistles, accordion and further vocals. Synthesisers often get harmed in the manufacture of their muse.

The Unquiet Grave is scarcely unknown; everyone has covered it at some stage, with notable versions from Steeleye Span, Gryphon, Jah Wobble, Bellowhead and Lau, not to mention all the greats and good of the more purist folk world. What could possibly be added? Let’s see….

Opening with eerie rhythmic scraping sounds, possibly spade through soil, eerie wind sounds circulate, ahead of some sparse and spare guitar. Rowlinson then peals in with his faltering tenor, the mood totally of desolate moorland, and probably unconsecrated. A drone of harmonium adds further atmospheric, with sporadic drum beats for additional threat. An unnerving and chilly rendition, the build is slow and deliberate, the drone and shovel sounds often becoming the only backdrop. Bunting’s guitar notes dip in and out, the final note being one of menace. Oo-ee-oo.

By contrast, Bowerman starts like some Anglo electric blues circa 1966, with the keyboard on full Hammond mode, and a bass and drum line that expects the raw holler of John Mayall to burst forth. It doesn’t, clearly, it’s Rowlinson, the vocal melody a contrast to the scaffolding around it, almost at odds, just enough not to be.

The song, penned by the band, tells tale around the Bowerman’s Nose, a column of rock on Dartmoor. The contrasting patterns of vocal and backing expand, as Bunting and Rowney dip in with falsetto bvs, with, then, some handclap effects contributing still further to the overall genre disorientation. Rowney’s organ is tremendous, and, as Rowlinson adds little touches of Gillan-esque squawl, it becomes a hypnotic hocus-pocus. Very different from the flip, and quite intriguing.

Here’s the A side:

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