Widowspeak

In the organizer's words:

An album entitled "Roses" would deal with romantic gestures. In the ten tracks that make up the seventh and latest Widowspeak album, intimate spaces and phases of love are captured through a nostalgic, Vaseline-covered lens. Candles burn in red glass as lovers approach each other on a leather bench. Celebrity portraits gaze down like angels in a restaurant. Elsewhere, carnations are pressed into a black book and dancers pull each other towards them.

Widowspeak is a band that plays with big emotions without taking itself too seriously. The sweetness, even the silliness, of an extended infatuation phase that becomes as all-consuming as a cheesy paperback novel. Cars and their drivers serve as a means of talking about interdependence. And old love is registered, soft as an old T-shirt. If music can be simultaneously naturalistic and noir, saturated and lush, then that's Widowspeak.

They are a band that knows how to set a scene.
These songs use intimate moments to talk about deeper heartaches: the inherent restlessness of modern existence, the waiting around for something to happen. Or the feeling of being at odds with playing a role in one's own life.

"Roses" is perhaps Widowspeak's most romantic album, but it is also the most realistic: the backdrop is not formed by dramatic overtures, but by the little things and repetitions of everyday life. Small observations before, during and after work: the ritual of pouring water for guests, catching a cold on your day off. Dreams of winning the lottery - or perhaps the realization that you have already won. Here, love is a means of talking about what drives us, and Widowspeak suggest that it can be the real meaning. The light that illuminates the dark corners of a day, of a life. A reason to keep going, despite the pain it can cause. As the title song says: "Not all thorns will prick you, but you can still feel the first one. And now you don't grow any more roses, because the one still hurts... I want to be the one.

Widowspeak are one of the scene's most prolific and industrious bands bubbling under the surface right now. Molly Hamilton and Robert Earl Thomas form the core of the group and are its songwriters; over sixteen years and with an impressively consistent body of work, they have honed their sound. A lot has happened in that time: for them, for everyone. One of many bands to emerge from New York's fertile music scene, they began by hauling their gear back and forth between now-closed venues (Glasslands, Cake Shop, 285 Kent, Death By Audio, to name a few) and their rehearsal space in the Monster Island Basement (now a Trader Joe's).

The ups and downs of a long career mean chaotic tours as "road dogs" criss-crossing North America, flying gigs in São Paulo or Guadalajara, seven-week European tours ... And then the years-long breaks in between, when you realize the power of slowly building a body of work. Widowspeak is now a married couple who work day jobs in their own "off-season". Robert is a carpenter, Molly a waitress.
Perhaps time has given Widowspeak the ability to grow slowly; "Roses" is uncut and all the more beautiful for that; left a little wild as it expands its new growth in all directions.

From the very first chords of "The Hook", you can hear how far they've come: The way is clear, the sky is clearing. The band seem relaxed and are taking their time. They recorded the album last January in the Old Carpet Factory on the Greek island of Hydra: a studio in an old house nestled into the steep hills of the village. It's quiet there in winter, when the tourists have all gone home. Long-time tour members Willy Muse, John Andrews and Noah Bond are at work here as musicians. "Roses" was then taken home and slowly, carefully reworked before being skillfully mixed by Alex Farrar at Drop of Sun Studios and mastered by Greg Obis at Chicago Mastering.

"Roses" is Widowspeak at their best, inspired by timeless influences. There's dream and power pop, a bit of Stones, maybe some Petty, open and languid ballads with the twang of a Lynchian roadhouse band... Maybe you can hear REM, Yo La Tengo or Cat Power. A bit of Neil Young in Hamilton's allusions to working in the diner. The magic of the band still lies in the interplay between Molly and Robert in their two main roles: her languid, multi-faceted voice and his instinctive guitar playing. And as producer, Robert captures the fleeting magic of a band finding a song in the studio: something that still bears traces of the immediacy of Molly's voice memos and the dense guitar weave of the demos. The rough traces of the tools are still clearly visible, the noise remains.
"I can't hold on too tight or I'll have nothing left, like candy melting in your hand."

While the album-closer "Hourglass" muses on the transience of everything, it illustrates what is most truthful about Widowspeak. At its core, their music is special because it's real: especially to the people who make it. Fragile and ephemeral, yet precious ... like love itself.