ALASDAIR ROBERTS - No Earthly Man

Before putting this album on, it would help to: be a fan of traditional British folk ballads; love acoustic music that isn't averse to detours into off-kilter/psychedelic territory à la Incredible String Band and Syd Barrett; not be impatient and not break with the “gift of synthesis” that's often missing here, given that this is material that “decants” like a good wine; harbour an unhealthy obsession with the fantasy world, from Tolkien to the knights of the round table; dry out narcotics inside an old 17th-century book of sailors' songs; and have a soft spot for that mysterious joker Will Oldham, who plays, sings and produces this record. If you think you meet at least some of these requirements, go right ahead and hit “play” without hesitation, and enjoy the tales of this new-millennium bard, come knocking at your door with the ancient grace of his dulcimer. Alasdair Roberts is a thirty-year-old singer-songwriter of German origin but with a Scottish father: he grew up in the unspoiled, mythology-steeped countryside near the village of Callander. There he learned to play guitar, sing and write songs. From the mid-Nineties he took on the moniker Appendix Out, under which he put out a homemade seven-inch, recorded with the usual lo-fi four-track logic that was in vogue then as much as it is now.

With his move to Glasgow came a deal with Drag City and the chance to follow up his debut with two more albums, played with musicians he met in the Scottish capital, steeped little by little in sounds rooted in British folk tradition. The uniqueness of his approach earned Alasdair the admiration of some great outsiders of song, such as Jason Molina (aka Songs:Ohia, who plays with him on a handful of singles) and the duo of Rian Murphy and Sean O'Hagan, who produced his third album for Secretly Canadian. In 2001 came his debut under his own name, “The Crook Of My Harm”, on which he fully embraces the revivalist project with twelve ballads for voice and guitar alone. The following year brought the follow-up, “Farewell Sorrow”, played by a band half English and half American, but this time filled out with original songs, paying due respect to obscure, ancient origins never fully forgotten. For “No Earthly Man”, Roberts decided to return to the scene of the crime. And that's putting it mildly, given that the eight lengthy ballads on offer here tell of poisonings, infanticides, sunken ships, lost loves, funeral laments. At this point Will Oldham must have pricked up his ears and rushed, astride his Superwolf, across the sea to meet the kindred spirit behind so much spleen.

The record, arranged with a sizeable supporting cast (among whom Isobel Campbell's angelic cello stands out), turns out to be the most radical, in roots terms, that the singer-songwriter has ever produced. Acoustic guitars, violins, harps, percussion: “No Earthly Man” could have been a Fairport Convention or Pentangle record that slipped through the cracks of an era (the late Sixties, early Seventies) generally more inclined to reassess and rediscover material left gathering dust on library shelves. The theme of death and tragedy, though present, is never handled in a mournful or self-pitying way; quite the opposite: there's a celebratory joy waiting to be discovered in these grooves, the same joy that once filled remote island inns long ago. Don't expect rock or electricity here (for that, there are the Pogues reissues, or maybe Moving Hearts) - instead, melodies that grow slowly, building up layer by layer around Roberts' dark, nasal voice, proud of those rolled "r"s so defiantly un-American.

A perfect example of this is the opening track “Lord Ronald”, but so are shorter pieces like the cheerful (?!) “Admiral Cole”, the violin of “On The Banks Of Red Roses”, or the chant-like “Sweet William”, which sounds like it could have come off a John Renbourn solo record. Alasdair presents it all with a philologist's expertise and a desire to blend Irish, English and, naturally, Scottish sources. The only drawback is the yawn that might strike anyone not well accustomed to this kind of sonic alchemy.

The Oldham name is, in any case, a guarantee of quality, if not exactly an indie beacon for hipsters and fifty-year-old folk lifers alike. One last piece of advice: invite a few friends who are as into “Dungeons & Dragons” as you are and organise a good game night in the attic. Half a dozen candles, cold beer, fishing nets on the walls. Sit yourself next to the girl you've been trying to woo for ages and give her a wink between rolls of the dice. The soundtrack, courtesy of “No Earthly Man”, will do the rest. It'll be a hit, you'll see. And if she stands you up, you can always blame Alasdair. Or, failing that, Bonnie 'Prince' Billy.

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30/04/2026