While the build-up to a new release tends to be where the focus is in the world of press, and also in terms of sales and ‘breaking’ an artist, in the real world, many releases have a slow diffusion, reaching many more listeners in the long months which follow. As a fan first and foremost, but also as a critic who receives quite literally dozens of records (or at least downloads) ahead of release, I often find myself feeling embarrassed that I haven’t heard of, let alone heard, an artist or their record that’s making waves. I think, ‘shit, have I been living in a cultural vacuum?’ The answer is invariably no, of course not: no-one can listen to everything.
This is all a prelude to the fact that Robert Storey has been knocking around since the 70s, with a career-spanning compilation, ‘Come Up And Hear My Etchings’ coming out in 2018. His latest effort, ‘The Eventual Window’ EP was in released as a download and CD in November of last year, and yet it’s only now that he, or this EP, has registered on my radar. Better late than never, though.
Among the remarkable roll-call of musical contributors to the EP#s six tracks is Matt Armstrong, whose ‘Organ Greats’ collaboration with Jude Montague I recently covered here.
This is a nice set, that combines easy listening accessibility with oddball weirdness, lilting tunes with quirky narratives. The gentle mellowness of ‘Handcart’, with its soft piano, strolling bass and smooth sax, belies the darker lyrical undercurrents, while ‘Sleet’ is delicately evocative, and comes on quite early Psychedelic Furs near the end. Maya Yianni’s vocals provide a nice contrast to Storey’s croon.
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Although not a vinyl release, ‘The Eventual Window’ is distinctly a work of two halves that would lend itself to the 12” format, with the second half, starting with ‘El Desierto Pintado’ being entirely in Spanish. This not only gives it a very different feel in itself, but there’s a distinct stylistic switch to a spartan Latin style, culminating with the Leonard Cohen-like duet ‘Los Paganos’.
It feels like a late-night wind-down in a dimly-lit bar, like the end of the night when you’ve had one too many, but not two too many so as to feel ill in the morning. It’s a weary, but almost content sensation, and as a whole, it’s a pleasant experience.
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