ROBERT'S PAGE OF MONTHLY REVIEWS 

The Quirky: Poetry Meets Mystery

Cockerham’s lyrics on this album are as enigmatic as ever, veering between poetic brilliance and outright obscurity. Lines like “the sky is full of broken glass” (from “Old Boot Wine”) invite interpretation but resist easy answers. It’s as if the band is challenging you to engage with their world on a deeper level, to decipher the coded messages hidden within their songs. Yet, for all it's mystery, there’s a raw emotional core to the album. Tracks like “Parallel Lines Never Separate” and “An Everyday Consumption Song” are steeped in a quiet despair that feels achingly human. They’re not just songs - they’re confessions, whispered in the dark.

The Odd: A Beautiful Fragmentation

If there’s one criticism to be made of Bells, Boots and Shambles, it’s that the album occasionally feels like it’s pulling in too many directions at once. The transitions within “In the Western World,” while ambitious, can feel jarring, as though the band is trying to cram an entire opera into a single track. Similarly, the minimalist arrangements of some songs might leave modern listeners craving a bit more sonic depth. But this fragmentation is also part of the album’s charm. It’s imperfect, yes, but those imperfections make it feel alive. There’s a sense that the band was reaching for something just out of their grasp, and that striving gives the music an emotional weight that polished perfection could never achieve.

My Verdict: A Hidden Treasure

Bells, Boots and Shambles is not an easy album, nor is it one that will appeal to everyone. But for those willing to embrace its quirks and delve into its depths, it offers a listening experience like no other. It’s an album that feels like it was made for rainy afternoons and quiet contemplation, a soundtrack for moments of introspection and melancholy.

Spirogyra may have faded into relative obscurity after this release, but Bells, Boots and Shambles stands as a testament to their artistry. It’s a swansong that refuses to go quietly, lingering in the mind long after the final notes have faded. If you’re a fan of folk-prog - or just curious about what happens when ambition meets vulnerability - this is an album worth discovering.

Spirogyra was a British progressive folk band formed in 1967 in Canterbury. Known for their distinctive blend of poetic lyrics, acoustic instrumentation, and classical influences, they carved a niche within the folk-prog scene. The core members included Martin Cockerham (vocals, guitar), Barbara Gaskin (vocals), Julian Cusack (violin), and Steve Borrill (bass).

Their music was characterised by its haunting melodies, intricate arrangements, and a balance of male and female vocals. Despite limited commercial success, albums like St. Radigunds (1971) and Bells, Boots and Shambles (1973) gained a cult following for their emotional depth and innovative approach. Spirogyra’s work remains a hidden gem for fans of progressive and folk music alike.

The title track, Diamond Day, is a standout, with its lilting melody and lyrics that make you want to quit your job, buy a wagon, and head for the hills. But it’s not all sunshine and frolics. Tracks like Glow Worms and Rose Hip November bring a wistful edge to the pastoral dream, reminding us that even the most picturesque landscapes have their shadows.

The instrumentation, featuring contributions from folk royalty like Dave Swarbrick, is understated yet exquisite. The arrangements are as light and airy as a summer breeze, with flutes, strings, and the occasional plucky banjo weaving together a sonic tapestry that feels timeless.

Now, let’s be honest: this album isn’t for everyone. If your idea of a good time involves headbanging or songs about heartbreak in a nightclub, Just Another Diamond Day might leave you scratching your head. But for those of us who occasionally fantasise about running away to a hobbit hole, it’s pure bliss.

Of course, the humour lies in its earnestness. Who among us hasn’t wanted to be as carefree as Vashti seems here, singing about the joys of milk churns and willow trees? And yet, there’s something deeply subversive about how unapologetically gentle this album is. In a world that prizes big, bold statements, Just Another Diamond Day whispers, “Let’s just be quiet for a while, shall we?”

In the end, the album’s charm lies in its ability to transport you. It’s not just music; it’s a holiday for your soul. So, pop it on, pour yourself a cup of something warm, and let Vashti Bunyan remind you that sometimes, the best adventures are the ones where you never leave the garden.

Vashti Bunyan (born 19 March 1945, Newcastle upon Tyne) is a British folk singer-songwriter celebrated for her ethereal voice and pastoral themes. Initially discovered by Rolling Stones manager Andrew Loog Oldham, she released the single Some Things Just Stick in Your Mind in 1965, but her early pop career failed to take off.

Disillusioned with the music industry, Vashti embraced a nomadic lifestyle, travelling across Britain by horse-drawn wagon, a journey that inspired her 1970 debut album, Just Another Diamond Day. Produced by Joe Boyd and featuring contributions from folk luminaries, the album was a commercial failure at the time but later gained cult status as a lost classic of British folk.

After retiring from music for over three decades, Vashti was rediscovered in the early 2000s and released two acclaimed albums, Lookaftering (2005) and Heartleap (2014). Her work has influenced a new generation of artists, cementing her legacy as a unique and enduring voice in folk music.

From the very first track, An Droighneán Donn, I braced myself for the worst - and Lullahush, bless him, did not disappoint. What was once a plaintive, centuries-old lament is here reimagined as a sort of ethereal mess, drenched in so much ambient noise that the original melody can only be glimpsed in brief, ghostly gasps - like a drowning man bobbing up for air. The electronic production looms over the song like a thundercloud, oppressive and gratuitous, as if the delicate cadences of Irish folk are too fragile to be left standing without the crutch of a synthesiser.

And then there’s Maggie na bhFlaitheas. Ah, yes - this charming little assault on the senses, masquerading as a tribute to the traditional reel Over The Moore To Maggie. In its original form, the tune is a lively, foot-tapping delight; here, it’s been dismembered and stitched back together with all the grace of Frankenstein’s monster. Lullahush, in his infinite wisdom, has stretched and warped the melody, draping it in such an ocean of reverb that it sounds as though poor Maggie has wandered not ‘over the moor’ but straight into a malfunctioning dishwasher. What was once a spirited jig is now a sonic dirge - an electronic fogbank where the pulse of the original is barely detectable.

By the time I reached Jimmy an Chladaigh, I half-expected Lullahush to leap out of my speakers and personally apologise for this musical vandalism. The track begins with a tantalising hint of something authentic - a few mournful strains of traditional instrumentation - but, like everything else on this album, it’s soon drowned in a sea of glitchy, meaningless noises. It’s the aural equivalent of ordering a fine Irish stew and being served a lukewarm bowl of quinoa.

The whole album is an exercise in what I like to call sonic gentrification - taking something earthy, raw, and brimming with cultural memory, then sanding it down and slathering it with sleek, soulless effects to make it palatable for the artisanal-latte crowd. 

Nowhere is this more offensively clear than in Raglan Road. Patrick Kavanagh’s poem - already set to music in one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful ways imaginable - is here reduced to a wispy, saccharine shadow of itself. The emotional heft of the lyrics is entirely lost beneath a wash of dreamy electronica, as though Lullahush fears the words might be too moving if left to speak for themselves. I suppose we mustn’t have the listener feeling too much, must we?

To hear Lullahush tell it, this album is a ‘conversation between past and present.’ If that’s the case, the conversation is a one-sided shouting match where the past is rudely interrupted at every turn. Instead of engaging with the raw emotional honesty of Irish folk, Ithaca buries it under layers of production so vapid you could skate on it. 

It’s as if Lullahush took these beautiful, weathered songs - songs that have endured centuries, I might add - and decided they needed a good hosing-down with an Instagram-friendly aesthetic.

Now, I suppose some might call this sort of thing ‘pushing boundaries.’ How terribly daring, they’ll say, to mix the organic with the artificial. 

Personally, I call it musical vandalism. It’s like spray-painting a Renaissance masterpiece and patting yourself on the back for being edgy. There’s an arrogance here - a sense that Irish folk, in all its plain-spoken power, is somehow insufficient without the intervention of a laptop-wielding auteur.

And yet, for all its pretensions, Ithaca ultimately feels as hollow as a drum. It’s an album that takes the deep, aching soul of Irish music and dilutes it until it resembles nothing more than sonic wallpaper - pleasant enough if you’re sipping oat milk under exposed lightbulbs but utterly devoid of the raw humanity that makes these songs matter.

Lullahush may think he’s weaving a grand tapestry of past and future, but in truth, he’s done little more than slap a filter over tradition and call it art.

In the end, I can only offer my condolences to the poor, disrespected folk tunes buried beneath this mess. They deserved better.

Folk music, like fine whiskey, needs no synthetic sweetener - drown it in electronic fizz, and all you’ve got is dishwater with delusions of grandeur.