Languid and louche, inspiring string laden retro-tropicalia from the Manchester Henge man, Matthew C. Whitaker

QUIRKY WHIMSY

It is fair to say that knowledge of Whitaker’s day job, as front man for Henge, those oddball purveyors of cosmic electronica, is not a prerequisite for encountering this beguiling release. Indeed, so far is this removed from such stylings as to make it, possibly, even a disadvantage. Either which way, if you are a fan of the early 60’s schtick of Richard Hawley, there will be much of appeal here, as Whitaker croons an effortless path between lush string arrangements and electronic bossa nova beats. File under quirky whimsy. Or just dead good.

AWRY IN THE EAVES

Coming in at just under half an hour, it isn’t a difficult listen, with the 8 tracks ending swiftly enough to catch you completely out, just as you settle into wanting more. It’s tempting to fall into the trap of calling it easy listening, but that’s the thing, it is way more subversive than that, it also capable of stirring in unexpected frissons of unease. Melodies shouldn’t be this smooth, strings not this luxurious without there being something awry in the eaves, which, even if never quite materialising, is nonetheless indubitably there. This is David Lynch territory. Or Tim Burton.

SWOOPY SWOONY STRINGS

Overture starts with a slow and steady Latin dance rhythm, over which swoopy swoony strings glissando out extravagantly. A discordant clang of guitar threatens to change the mood, but instead turns into John Barry moody mode. It is magnificently out of time and expectation, slowly simmering into Mind How You Go. This has Whitaker gently intoning the lyrics into an echo, drums brushing under an eerie keyboard meander. Back come the strings and, possibly, a treated piano that ripples. It goes nowhere and everywhere, as it lulls you into introspection. Whitaker has issued instructions it be listened to somewhere comfortable: “a cosy chair, a beanbag, or perhaps in the bath“.

Chestnut Tree will rouse you with a start, perhaps just a little bit to close to Harry Lime for comfort, as a guitar trills thematically. The bass bobs and bounces, with accompanying staccato stick work and the sort of backing vocals that insist on always being under chestnut trees. I’m thinking of Doris Day. It is so deeply retro as to defy the nerve of its inclusion, yet manages to imprint, all the way down to the kitschiest of conclusions. Lucid Dreamer picks right up where that memory dangles, and is a mere cha-cha-cha away from too much, ahead some dramatic twanging that ushers in a celestial choir. WTF, but it’s too late, you are trapped in the guilty pleasure. A few sonic bleeps boost a concurrent sense otherworldliness, bleeding in from Henge-world.

Syd Mantovani

You might wish to examine what a logan stone actually is, ahead the track of that name, a languid shuffle somewhere between a bolero and choro, which finds Whitaker lilting the lyric, which taps into a flow contrary to the lush orchestration. It is all quite trippy. If Syd era Floyd had been turned on to Mantovani, would they have sounded like this? The mood then changes abruptly, with the soundscape now switching to spaghetti western, replete with whistling and slow picked guitar. A saxophone wheezes slowly alongside, weaving around the clip-clop percussion. I am told it is Alabaster De Plume plying the horn, and it is gloriously louche.

A Portrait Of The Artist As An Old Man is the longest track, a song sung to picked guitar, the tune Syd-ier than ever, a near nursery rhyme that drifts toward doggerel, it is both calming and pleasingly crumpled. A musical saw starts to sing from the half-way stage, disarmingly eldritch in delivery. Is this what a monochrome lava lamp would look like? Briskly clipped violins then bring in Stand Up To The Man, another alliance of tune and wordage at apparent odds, delightfully so, a real whiff of counterculture amidst the Palm Court score. and, with that, it’s all over. Yes, of course you have time to play it again.

Here’s a flavour to whet your mood, Lucid Dreamer:

Matthew C. Whitaker: Website

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