Patrick Wolf - Metamorphosis of a werewolf

Looking back at the musical trends that developed around the turn of the millennium, one can pick up on elements that are extremely useful for deciphering the traits of many up-and-coming artists now reaching the ears of a wide audience. The rediscovery of new wave sounds, the laptop rising to the status of an instrument with dignity equal to traditional ones, neo-folk stepping outside its own sphere to suggest new canons: these are the ingredients behind many recent alchemies. This isn't the place to delve into that whole history, but suffice it to say that in 2002, while Notwist were putting out that dazzling example of neo-pop centrifuge known as "Neon Golden", eighteen-year-old Patrick Wolf was testing his still-unripe talent on an EP that, in its own way, expressed the very same impulses.

Certainly too little to draw any firm conclusions, but enough to lay the groundwork for a long-term body of work that would carve out a notable space for itself amid the swarm of releases born as illegitimate children of digital technology. And it couldn't have been otherwise, since this brief debut contains two cornerstones of the future debut album, which would come out the following year: "Bloodbeat" and "A Boy Like Me". Both take shape around twisted beats in tight syncopation, grimy keyboards and glitchy filigree swirling beneath vocal lines of epic yet accessible texture, laying bare his innate gift for crafting original tunes that are nonetheless never hard to grasp.

But on Lycanthropy (2003) Patrick also brings something else to the table, letting more than one glimpse of that classic singer-songwriter soul shine through — the very soul that would fully reveal itself on Wind In The Wires. He scatters it here and there, along a path that blends, with healthy and unselfconscious shamelessness, a spartan production and a pronounced attention to detail. All of it delivered with an out-of-the-ordinary personality and singing ability.

Alongside lo-fi songs with a Morrissey-esque flavour, like "To The Lighthouse" or "Don't Say No", and games of contrast between raw, ultra-technological percussion and modulated acoustic openings, we find pure-folk gems such as "Pigeon Song", a cradle built on voice, accordion and strings, with electronics left, for once, out in the cold. And then there are flights of fancy that, starting from medieval frescoes, turn into thoroughly modern laptop explosions ("Paris"), as well as wonky, fairy-tale-tinged guitar ballads ("Peter Pan"), and melodramatic twilights in which the vocals — and what vocals — take centre stage ("Demolition").

In every case, we find ourselves describing fitting oxymorons that serve a formula destined to grow and take shape very quickly.

Lycanthropy is the shifting glimmer of a thousand ideas held laboriously in check, a whirlwind of immature but joyful impulses, of flashes of inspiration now submerged beneath Fennesz-esque walls of sound, now the expression of an innocent sentimentality, a latent fury, a childlike love. Everything le nécessaire, in short, to win over indietronic hearts, but also something more. And indeed, the real surprises are yet to come.

A prototype of the enfant prodige of the next generation's pop tensions, Wolf wastes no more time with Wind In The Wires (2005), tackling an incredibly ambitious project, the kind so risky it could throw even established rock stars from the saddle. Yet Patrick stays firmly in his seat, delivering thirteen songs so dense that remaining neutral — for or against — will be hard for anyone who approaches them.

If Lycanthropy had been an admirable collection of scattered impulses, a schizophrenic babel of disparate sounds destined to strike the imagination through its thousand fluorescent colours, all perfectly on target and breezily cool, the new project sheds its irony to don austere neo-romantic robes: a pervasive theatrical tension now occupies the spaces once reserved for the amused exploration — now microtechno, now folk — of his own crystalline talent.

Let's be clear: it's not as though Wind In The Wires comes out of nowhere — to anyone familiar with Wolf, we'd say the mood picks up right where, on Lycanthropy, it had been hinted at in "Demolition", one of the rare truly dramatic moments, while on the other hand you won't find proper heirs to "A Boy Like Me" or "Paris", to name a couple of tracks that defined the debut album. No trace, in other words, of restless, saturated electric nerves.

The pop of this new work frees itself from a contingent and partly fashionable perspective to rise up into a blatantly classical, timeless kind of songwriting, one in which what matters most is the troubled delivery, but above all the song itself as the focus of the creative process – the same approach that belonged to Scott Walker in the Sixties, as well as to the decadent minstrel David Bowie and the theatrical Marc Almond in the two decades that followed. Patrick has these very touchstones, Marc Almond above all, and from them he sets off to pursue that race brimming with brazen ambition we mentioned earlier. It's not so much the genre that has changed, since both the folk and electronic elements remain intact, but the perspective and attitude, born of that same creative matrix, produce a completely new and unexpected result: young Patrick no longer feels like laughing, and you can tell, loud and clear.

The archetype of the modern dandy, drunk on classical reading, looms from the very start on "The Libertine", whose opening piano-and-strings pairing is soon swallowed up by an urgent, catchy vocal delivery, which only lets up its intensity by melting into the quiet swaying viola of "Teignmouth", a daydream of irresistible pathos. There's a strong contrast between acoustic melodies and electronic rhythm section, a meeting of opposites that balances out the aching lyricism of a voice whose command today has few equals: with a more restrained interpretation it would be impossible to make decisive passages like the title track so convincing, or the folk lullaby "The Railwayhouse" so touching, or the formidable ballad "The Gipsy King" so nostalgic; "Ghost Song" is a heartfelt homage to languid dusks, so wonderfully foreshadowed by the dark, classical-leaning strings of "Apparition", a genuine silent film from the Twenties transcribed into notes in just a minute and twenty seconds!

Genuine troubled feelings, in short, which also crop up in the measured, aching midtempo of "This Weather" and in the dark, sinister mood of "Jacobs Ladder", whose closing distortion seems to pay tribute to the unforgotten Neu!. "Tristan" reveals unexpected industrial urges, while the expression of all this album's melodic contortions is contained in the watercolor of "Eulogy", which in under two minutes gives us the exact measure of Wolf's thoroughbred songwriting talent.

The farewell is reserved for "Landsend", which through the composite movements of its seven minutes serves as the ideal epitaph to a beautiful album. The kind you shouldn't miss for any reason in the world.

The romantic storm of Wind In The Wires is a genuine earthquake, the thunderous aftershock of a quality already on display at the debut, one that marks him out as the true winning outsider of 2005.

Two years later, freed from the element of surprise, Wolf picks the theme back up as if nothing had happened: in one hand the same pen aimed at our hearts, and in the other a Pandora's box brimming with notes, perhaps a touch more self-satisfied, certainly sunnier, but without sacrificing a single drop of quality on the crowded, treacherous altar of neo-romantic songwriting.

Where its predecessor lingered over measured tempos and melodic slowdowns, The Magic Position (2007), despite drawing on a similar arsenal of strings and electronics, transforms into something livelier and more buoyant, giving us attitudes and leanings that are far more overtly pop. "Overture" wastes no time injecting that brisker march that Patrick had previously only hinted at (listen to "Tristan" and "The Libertine", from two years earlier), with its urgent bursts in the mold of early Tears For Fears ("Mad World"?), which in the following title track align even more decisively with Marc Almond's songwriting. Don't believe it? Strip away the percussion and strings, swap in drum machines and synths, and the Soft Cell effect is guaranteed. The elective affinity becomes even more tangible on "Accident & Emergency", thanks to a rhythm section that's sharper and more danceable this time, immortalizing the classic winning single, the kind that's hard to let go of. And the harmonic crescendo of "The Bluebell" is utterly captivating too, a two-tempo melodic summa whose chorus worms its way in with devices worthy of the finest British pop-wave tradition, one of whose standard-bearers is Ian Mc Culloch.

As if wanting to break free from such tight, and in his view cumbersome, correspondences, Wolf withdraws back into moods closer to folk. So "Magpie" marks a return to a more intimate, familiar mood, with a heartfelt tapestry of piano and viola supporting a delicate vocal duet with a star guest, a Marianne Faithfull whose performance is as touching and inspired as ever.

A classical, ambitious brand of songwriting that very few today know how to express with such完整 - that is, such completeness, and which acts as a liaison with that of "Augustine", evoking yearnings close to a Bowie caught between "Hunky Dory" and "Ziggy Stardust", as well as the retro flavor of the swinging, minimalist piano-bar sound of "Enchanted".

"Secret Garden" is a digital-saturation divertissement that serves as an intro to "Get Lost", which reveals the unsuspected moods of The Cure tackling the unplugged version of their "Boys Don't Cry". The return to the album's opening themes is only apparent, since the already-mentioned, quiet "Enchanted" sets up the chiaroscuro for the majestic, fable-like lullaby "The Stars", a true gem of innocent, childlike, dreamlike melancholy. "Finale" is the brief instrumental that closes an album dense with references yet never merely derivative, further sharpening the outlines of a deeply personal style, for an artist who confirms himself as one of the leading songwriters of the new generation.

Just as musical stardom was within arm's reach, Wolf, wrong-footing everyone, chose to rewrite everything from scratch. With a return to independent shores and with Alec Empire as co-producer, alongside Wolf himself, on The Bachelor (2009).

How do you combine the romanticism of England's enfant prodige with the obsessive pulse of the former Atari Teenage Riot bomb-thrower? The electronic single "Vulture" gives us a taste, slamming Patrick's perverse crooning between slowed-down vocals and spacey synths that seem to come straight out of VNV Nation's EBM.

An industrial electronic album? No, or rather, not only! The siren at the start of "Kriegsspiel" makes you think some kind of sonic bombardment is looming in the wake of the single, but instead violin and acoustic guitar resurface on "Hard Times", a folk ballad as baroque as they come, swayed along by an irresistible chorus. The album in fact reconnects with the melodramatic folk of Wind In The Wires, enriching it with lavish arrangements (choirs, strings, flutes, piano, electronics…), reaching staggering levels of grandiosity and compositional complexity, aided too by Patrick's growth as a singer.

Variety is the album's cornerstone, sliding with astonishing ease from the sinister electronics of "Oblivion" to the meticulous puzzles of acoustic instrumentation and cold electro beats that make "Count Of Casualty" so magnificent. But then comes a triad of tracks – "The Bachelor"-"Damaris"-"The Thickets" – that leaves no doubt it's a miracle. A Celtic violin ideally opens the dance on the first, accompanying a splendid duet between Patrick's young, powerful voice and Eliza Carthy's raspy one, together conjuring the deep melancholy of a medieval fairy tale about weddings and solitude. "Damaris" is another example of contemporary epic, a flawless fusion of electronic pulse and lush layering of heavenly choirs and strings in constant rise and fall; more subdued and fairy-tale-like is "Thickets", gently stirred by the swell of violin, flute and a sweet, sweet arpeggio.

But just as the flow of notes seems to slow down and take on liturgical overtones ("Who Will?"), the vulture's wings threateningly spread across the sky ("Vulture"), reminding us of the album's dual nature: on one side, romantic, epic, idealized antiquity; on the other, a future that's raw, cold, bordering on cyberpunk aesthetics. And like the calm after the storm, "Blackdown" paints a nostalgic, romantic fresco over a piano progression that gently supports a pure vocal line coiling in on itself, before bursting into a Celtic finale with a distinct whiff of Ireland. While "The Sun Is Often Out" and "Theseus" write two textbook chapters of orchestral folk thanks to spine-tingling arrangements, "Battle" dampens the romantic tone with an industrial-metal roar that recalls bands like Skinny Puppy and KMFMD.

To close things off, there's the ending of “The Messenger”, a lush folk sketch broken up by electronic beats, which turns splendidly solemn in its final seconds, as if there were still any need to be convinced of the monumental grandeur of the whole operation.

But the English songwriter likes to surprise, and he certainly has no shortage of courage when it comes to expressing himself and reinventing his image with each new release. So, in returning to the scene, he decides to run the risk that always lurks whenever an artist chooses to devote their work to the ecstasy of love and the joy that follows, rather than to life's torments and heartaches: the risk of coming across as a little silly, vacuous and saccharine. And so the album, initially conceived as a companion piece to the previous, darker The Bachelor (and originally titled The Conqueror), gradually and increasingly became its luminous counterpart and antithesis instead.

To bring Lupercalia, named after the ancient purification rites invoking fertility and wellbeing, to life, Wolf bares himself, (relatively) shedding excessive ornamentation, avant-garde temptations and the more claustrophobic atmospheres, setting aside his erudite folktronic hybrids in favour of a crystalline, polished pop purity — a far cry too from the stylistic kaleidoscope that was The Magic Position, with classicism, both melodic and instrumental, now its most distinctive trait.

It's an album that almost unfolds like one of the most archetypal love stories, opening as a joyous, sensual celebration of life — a thunderbolt that stirs thanks to the almost brass-band-like horns of the old-fashioned “The City” and the more pastoral “Bermondsey Street”, the shimmering ABBA-esque piano of the airy “House” (whose flawless melodic opening would have been coveted by plenty of British bands of the previous decade), and the optimism of “The Future”.

It's instead a vibrant, nostalgic swirl of strings that characterises the record's more romantic side, evoking the birth of deeper feelings: the invitation to accept love without reservation (the beguiling whisper of the evocative “Armistice” and the very brief “William”), happily leaving behind relationships gone wrong (an euphoric “Time Of My Life”), the everyday tenderness of the delicate, tiptoeing waltz of the cinematic “The Days” and, finally, no longer being able to live without the other in the engrossing crescendo of “Slow Motion” (⟦Q1⟧ invokes the smitten Wolf amid curious electronic snoring and muezzin-like chants).

We thus arrive at the zenith of the idyll, with the awareness of being stronger together — “Together”, precisely, the album's most modern and propulsive track (its pathos recalls the early solo work of Morrissey) — and with finally feeling completely fulfilled (the placid “The Falcons”, which closes the album as a mirror image of how it began).

What you hear throughout this album is a Patrick Wolf so in love that he wants to share his joy with his audience directly and with disarming honesty.

Almost as if to offer some relief to fans left a touch unsettled by such romanticism, Wolf soon after puts out a compact seven-track EP, Brumalia, recorded during months spent on tour and released to accompany the single “Together”, which on the previous album had been the most dynamic moment, with its almost danceable swagger. With the exception of the track “Time Of Year”, which revisits the jovial, vintage mood of “The City” but wrapped in a less sunny aura, the new work — starting with its austere cover art (courtesy of Patti Smith) — seems to have been conceived as a darker, wintrier counterpart to the brightness of Lupercalia.

The Latin celebrations evoked by the title this time refer to those dedicated to the god Bacchus, held in the month of December, close to the winter solstice, when the days grow shorter; and, just like a transition from one season to another, we watch the romanticism that had permeated his previous records gradually take on darker tones, thanks to the syncopated, aching arrangements of the opening “Bitten”. “Nemoralia”, on the other hand, sacrifices any accessible melodiousness to showcase chaotic electronic textures and assorted cacophonies, eased by an unrestrained saxophone that, almost like a leitmotif, also carries us into the equally nervy “Pelicans” that follows, though buoyed by greater airiness and flashes of acoustic sound.

A feeling that is certainly present when listening to the brief but intense piano ballad “Jerusalem” (which sets William Blake's words to music), solemn and misty like certain traditionals that echo across the green British hills. The delicate closing track, “Trust”, instead moves in a semi-Renaissance direction, not too far, sound-wise, from the folkier moments of Björk's latest work.

Transitions, as mentioned, that mark the passing of time and the changing of seasons, but also Patrick Wolf's ever-shifting, never-satisfied inspiration. This “Brumalia” is not an essential piece of his discography, but rather a small and thoroughly enjoyable reminder of the unpredictability that the English artist has by now accustomed us to with every release.

2012 brings the (self-)celebratory collection Sundark And Riverlight, with which Patrick feels the need to reinterpret the key moments of his repertoire in acoustic form. The record feels like a gift the songwriter gives more to his own ego than to the listener's pleasure, resembling more an exercise for old glories at the twilight of a brilliant career than an artistic milestone for a thirty-something still riding high.

It's therefore impossible to predict what the young songwriter still has in store for the future; the fact remains that Wolf confirms himself as a genius of contemporary pop music, always capable of outdoing himself as a composer, lyricist and instrumentalist. There's a strong sense of being in the presence of a unique figure in pop history, a 21st-century Todd Rundgren who writes, plays and arranges every melody of his music himself, and who has rewritten the rules of contemporary songwriting.

After a long hiatus of more than ten years — interrupted only by an EP, “Night Safari”, in 2023 — Wolf returns with Crying The Neck (2025), the first of four planned works (each representing a different season of the pagan “Wheel of the Year”), which from its striking cover alone evokes the subject of its title: scything wheat, a physical toil that will be repaid by the long-awaited harvest (understood in an artistic sense too). A striking image that inevitably invites comparison with the iconic cover of Depeche Mode's “A Broken Frame”, shot by celebrated British photographer Brian Griffin. The album revisits the eclecticism and genre-blending that marked his early work, even if the reference genre still revolves around folk. The sonic textures are fairly layered, with electronics weaving fluidly together with acoustic instruments such as violin, piano and harp, all arranged with greater cohesion and maturity than in the past. You can still sense his gift for crafting sweeping melodies and lavish arrangements, with his voice, ever at the centre, having gained in control and emotional depth. Wolf seems to have found a new balance between his tendency toward “sonic maximalism” and a certain emotional directness, creating an atmosphere that is both intimate and cathartic.

The album was written and recorded entirely at his home in Kent, and this has strongly shaped the final result. You can feel a deep rootedness in the local landscape and folklore. The title itself refers to an ancient Kentish harvest ritual, evoking an intense bond with the land and its traditions. Many of the songs are steeped in natural imagery (the sea, the earth, the woods) and references to pagan and British folklore, which become metaphors for inner states of mind and for the cyclical nature of life. One of the dominant themes is grief, particularly over the loss of his mother, as in “On Your Side”, a gentle Morrissey-esque ballad with a successful pairing of guitar and voice. Another deeply felt theme is recovery from addiction — almost the entire album is an expression of his difficult journey back to the light and to stability.

As he's done before, Wolf doesn't shy away from tackling bigger themes, like a veiled but pointed critique of a certain "end of England" or a disillusionment with modernity - witness the evocative "The Last Of England", where his vibrant vocals stand out intensely against an orchestral backdrop. What follows is one of the album's best tracks, in a style vaguely reminiscent of Arcade Fire, "Jupiter", in which electric guitars weave captivating patterns through a driving melody that pulses with an almost primordial energy.

The lyrics are steeped in a disarming vulnerability, yet from this fragility also emerges a surprising strength, as in "Dies Irae", a solemn-toned track that nonetheless isn't above winking at the wider public with choruses tailor-made for fans to belt out at his upcoming shows. Another evocative track, which in parts recalls the sound of John Grant, is "The Curfew Bell", melancholic and contemplative, marked by a genuine triumph of strings. Also worth mentioning are the guest appearances of Nika Roza Danilova, aka Zola Jesus, on "Limbo", and of Serafina Steer, English harpist and singer-songwriter best known for her collaborations with Jarvis Cocker, on "Lughnasa".

Crying The Neck is an exploration of how the deepest pain can be transformed into art and into a path toward healing, drawing on the ancient wisdom of folklore and the resilience of nature. "Crying The Neck" is a substantial return for Patrick Wolf, one that not only confirms his status as a visionary artist, but cements him as a voice still capable of moving us, through narratives that touch the soul with disarming sincerity.

Contributions by Alberto Asquini and Alessandro Nalon ("The Bachelor"), Stefano Fiori ("Lupercalia" and "Brumalia"), Marco Santilli ("Crying The Neck")

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