Oliver Wilde
Red Tide Opal in The Loose End Womb (Howling Owl)
17/20
Seriously, the backstory is almost too perfect.
Unassuming record store clerk self-records lo-fi classics from the solidarity of his bedroom at a prodigious pace, keeping them mostly to himself. At one point he’s consigned to a hospital bed for a week, and proceeds to record an entire album on his phone. And as these songs begin to unfurl in the light of day, the reception is utterly glowing.
Oliver Wilde’s debut full-length A Brief Introduction to Un-natural Light Years was one of the most unanimously praised records of last year, critics beguiled by these massive little songs, and the unlikely individual responsible for them.
Inevitable, mumbled rumours of Wilde moving on to any number of large-scale British labels started to spread, but for his sophomore effort, Red Tide Opal in The Loose End Womb, Wilde has opted to stick with his friends at Bristol DIY institution Howling Owl. And it’s paid off.
The opulent crimson of the cover and the elaborate title hints at it, and within the opening two minutes of opener On This Morning it’s clear: Wilde has taken the kitchen sink approach to confronting second album expectation. For music which seems so subtle – music thought then realised – there’s a huge amount going on. Pining strings bleed into signature tin-pot percussion and forgotten guitars with a touch of subaqueous gargle, then Wilde’s compressed vocal hum, with even a suggestion of softly plucked banjo. There’s a definite full-band feel to the smothering riff at the song’s core, but still; it’s as if the entire effect is emanating from the man himself, as if he opens his mouth and this sound emerges, fully formed. The spectre of lo-fi lingers, but it’s in an approach to sound, rather than a sonic effect.
And so it goes. There’s no doubt the process has opened up compared to Wilde’s previous release; that there is a sense of a group of musicians here. But there’s still an understated cult of personality at play. Oliver Wilde is the key, the music is him. From St Elmo’s Fire’s addictive, melting progression through the claustrophobic poetry of Plume; the skywards-clambering scuzz of Play & Be Saved, the oddball squelch of Night In Time Lapse and the absurdly gorgeous, crepuscular churn of closer Vessel, he remains the central pivot, the point of solidity, the creative zenith.
While there may not be a standout, instant downer-classic here to place alongside miraculous debut album cut Perrett’s Brook (the closest is probably the gleefully crackling Stomach Full Of Cats), the glacial timbral shifts, prominent lust for experimentation, and paradoxically intimate/ultimate humanity of these songs mark a considerable step forward for the artist at its helm.
If A Brief Introduction… unveiled it, then Red Tide Opal… serves to confirm it. Oliver Wilde is the kind of talent that comes along very rarely; the kind which should be cherished and encouraged at every muffled step.
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Words: Geraint Davies
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