More Hebridean folk? Well, actually, not quite, even if the instrumentation might begin to suggest that sort of flow. No, this is the first of a whole subgenre, unless anyone knows better. We already have Delta Blues and Chicago Blues, and, more recently, Desert Blues has been cresting quite a wave. But Gaelic Blues? Are you ready for that? Macintyre certainly is, and On These Islands We Sing, his, I think, 5th full length release, draws that idea firmly in the sand.
An erstwhile member of Edinburgh’s Southern Tenant Folk Union, the celtgrass fusion collective/band, currently seeming in hiatus, he is also a puppeteer of some renown. Home has alternated between Scotland’s Gàelhealtachd; he is fluent in that tongue, with a later 7 years in Quebec. Now, he tends to alternate between Skye and Edinburgh. Although he takes parallel billing to his band, Herding Cats, the truth is that they are very much a tight ship of equivalent talent. Macintyre sings and plays guitars, banjo, mandolin and harmonica, Bado Rèti plays upright bass and Tamlin Wiltshire drums, with the quartet rounded out by the fiddle of Dirk Ronnenburg.
The album opens with ‘An Saighdear Nach Till’, originally a powerful anti-war poem by Dòmhnall MacAiodh, the Bard of Aird, at Point, on Lewis’s Eye Peninsula. Here the still prescient verses get a stark musical arrangement, but, whilst the words are printed in the album’s inset, sadly they are not in English translation. A drumbeat ushers in a revolving banjo motif, the rhythm all of a lope. As Macintyre starts to sing, it is free-spirited holler, with yelps aplenty. The bass is a sturdy supporting presence, and, were it not you know differently, this could be Saharan Africa. The fiddle adds some subtle textures sufficient to, irrespective any language gap, make it clear this is an angry song of despair.
The album’s title track follows, in the English, and begins with the sound of waves and calling gulls. A picked guitar heralds an acoustic lament, with echoes both of Paolo Nutini and Ross Wilson (Blue Rose Code) in Macintyre’s vocal, and it is a statement song of no small intent. The fiddle sweeps in a soaring big sky solo, and the stage is well set. The feel, and lure, of the Outer Hebrides continues seamlessly into the more soulful ‘Gabh Do Thàmbh,’ with the additional backing vocals of Emily Domhnallallach, Sally Jacqet and Lucie Yavruturk giving a sirenesque hue to the melody. Ronnenburg’s fiddle even sneaks in a brief Hot Club de Stornoway vibe.
‘Oramorph’ is a lively, nay, funky instrumental that could, ahead the fiddle and guitar interplay, come from Prince’s Paisley Park. That soon switches into a searing sonic of electric guitar, with Rèti and Wiltshire nailing down the groove. As Ronnenburg channels some bluesy Sugarcane Harris calisthenics, it is then up to Rèti to go the full Village Vanguard, with a bebopalicious upright solo. Still the influences come congregating, before a return to the repeating guitar and fiddle restrained riffage. It’s a grand old racket, that sustains itself at mid to low volume, but that, at full pelt, is terrific, with none of the sporific ability of the opiate.
Some escaped studio chat bridges into the next track for the more straightahead boogie of ‘Beir Air.’ And, further to the mention of Sugarcane Harris earlier, here again he gets invoked, as Macintyre and Reti give a strong flavour of Hot Rats, the track, to the brew, also with a tang of something that might have been cooked up by those Zeppelin boys at Headley Grange. It leads into ‘Brother Stephen’, another foxy swagger, which seems a call for the return of a much missed chum to the Islands. The trio of backing singers are now giving it the full LaBelle. More wondrous fiddle/bass interplay are similarly keeping the retro alliances afloat.
Èigh Ri Èiginn’ ramps up the acoustic soul. OK, I’m trying to avoid the obvious cliche, but if this isn’t Celtic soul, I don’t know what is. I do know, however that owls are important in Gaelic folkloore, as liminal boundary markers between life, death, wisdom and the supernatural. Which likely explains the creak of an opening door and the hoot of the nocturnal bird of prey, that opens ‘Comhachagen’’, and indeed closes it, all of 26 seconds. Comhachagen means owls.
The closing song is a slow burn that again raises the spectre of Nutini, if a Nutini more attuned to the elements. Called ‘Light A Candle of Love’, it bookends the set perfectly, another seasoned blast of folky Led Zeppelin 3 balladry, if with added fiddle. Glorious. Bring on the Gaelic blues!
Seuras Og
Artist’s website: www.ewan-macintyre.com
‘Muckle Mooth’ – an early iteration of Herding Cats/The Ewan Macintyre Band live:
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