This one’s taken a while to reach me, but then, I quite like that. I’ve questioned before the logic of press and promo campaigns expiring within few weeks of an album’s release date after an epic run-up with singles and streams and videos being pushed for months beforehand, only for everything to drop off after the launch gig. In some respects, the older model, with a lead single, or perhaps two, ahead of an album, followed by a couple of singles after its release to sustain awareness gave a more sustained curve. I suppose it’s the age of the Internet, whereby once an album’s been released, all the tracks are out there and everyone can hear them, whereas before you had to buy it or blag a tape off a mate if the singles piqued your interest.
Crake – essentially the musical vehicle for Rowan Sandle, but fleshed out to be a full four-piece band – had a pretty rapid ascent prior to lockdown, grabbing the attention of Buck Meek when supporting him at the Brudenell in Leeds, and scoring a UK and EU tour with Big Thief in 2019.
May saw the release of their debut album, a collection of songs dominated by the theme of grief, inspired by the death of Rowan’s friend Anna, ‘who died in Syria after being hit by a Turkish air strike, and who was ‘working for a woman’s liberation group in the war-stricken country when the tragedy took place.’
‘Humans’ Worst Habits’ is a lot less bleak-sounding than it could have been, and than one would justifiably expect from the preview write-up. Rowan’s vocal style is unusual and compelling, at once intimate, shy, and tremulous, a river of introspection and somehow muffled, at times impenetrable , and often indecipherable, yet capable of carrying so much emotion.
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That isn’t to say that ‘Humans’ Worst Habits’ isn’t a sad album, but it’s a sadness dappled with hope and optimism born out of reflection. ‘Bobbie’ is a magnificent example of dreamy, shimmering indie, and there are some soft, easy melodies to be found drifting through this understated set of songs.
There’s a sense of order as opener ‘Amy & Ty’ is mirrored at the close by ‘Ty & Amy’, and the melancholy washes over and hangs, mist-like before it slowly lifts.
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