Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
To sneak a peek at an artist’s interior, be it in a Freudian or Jungian manner, or just simply to take an interest in the way they present themselves between the notes of joy, despondency, truth, unconscious anarchy and ultimate rebellion that surround the lyrics, is one in which all art should be considered for at least a while.
Whether it is a painting by a yet somewhat obscure but supremely talented artist in a gallery in Glasgow, a poet playing with the sounds and rich texture of a single syllable in Surbiton or a multitude of musicians learning their chosen craft in Mexborough, to see amid the single brush stroke, the letters of a single word of a burgeoning poem or in the case of The White Widows’ latest self-titled album, the heartbeat sandwiched amongst the arrangement of the impressive and very cool notes on offer is the epitome of honest reflection.
The White Widows deserves that reflection, like so many bands before them and hopefully for the millions of musicians that come after them, for listening to the songs and revelling in the personal revolution on offer. It only serves notice that the artist isn’t muttering away to themselves, that somewhere, anywhere, someone digs the cry from the heart.
The White Widows is an album this sits comfortably on the park bench, its mindful repose and look at life on tracks such as Talkin’ To Yourself, I Don’t Care, the awesome English Sky and Nobody Likes Me offers the forthright and direct Wastin’ Our Time, That Girl, the gut wrenching heartache that follows Fightback like a musical connoisseur in a supermarket surrounded by the unfathomable shopping habits of those choosing their music from a selection of bargain bin wannabees and the very cool Circus.
The White Widows is a dichotomy of pleasure, the angry voice in the gathering that you know is right that just keeps being shushed by those without the capacity to argue reasonably, the conquering of a mountain and then being told with some disdain that you’re obviously not right in the head or doing something for somebody for no want of reward or thanks, some will get the universality of it, others will suggest that you can only be one thing and that pigeon hole is a tight, as uncomfortable as they make it for you. The White Widows take a large sledgehammer to that thought and allow whatever bird has found its way into the space a way out, the scent of gnawing freedom.
The White Widows is an album of abstract unconquerable fascination and it is a thrill to ride it with the band.
Ian D. Hall