The Maccabees were a rarity among indie bands; defined by their honesty, the group announced their split and a series of farewell gigs three years ago when they were at (or near) the top of their game.
Two successful but relatively run-of-the-mill albums provided a confidence to push their own boundaries on their masterpiece, the Mercury-nominated Given To The Wild. Serious muscle and scope was added to the usual sound whilst broadening the soundscape to be more ethereal and fragile.
After 2015’s Marks To Prove It, an inferior (but no less successful) sibling, the quintet were surely next in line for the headline slots. To their immense credit, instead the bandmates felt they had run their course and went their separate ways.
You’ll likely be familiar with these details, but this truncated biography is not without reason, as A Quickening, the debut album from frontman Orlando Weeks, acts as a quasi-spin off to Given To The Wild.
It sounds trite, but it’s very easy to imagine The Maccabees following this path, specifically its pensive, tender moments. This is likely down to Weeks’ distinctive voice (always better suited to gentle rather than frantic) and the subject matter, based around his recent fatherhood. There’s no doubt about it, this is a concept album, and is signposted as such.
The three lead tracks (‘singles’ in old money) made this clear: all are atmospheric, with brittle chord sequences and loops, sprinkled with pensive trumpets and overwhelming fears of anxiety. Milk Breath (‘My son/so young, I’m a beginner’) is Weeks gamely attempting to vocalise the first, tentative steps into fatherhood. It lifts and swoons before relaxing again like, well, a strong intake of breath. Blood Sugar and the wonderfully titled Safe In Sound are equally as contemplative, with added gently-rattling drums on the latter.
Takes A Village features background brass and tumbling piano, representing sleepless nights and the anticipation of having to provide service to a small human at any given point. All The Things is, like much of the album, hypnotic in its simplicity and use of repetitive hooks, while Blame Or Love Or Nothing is ghostly and ethereal, containing a melody that intriguingly opts to operate in a separate sphere from the rest of the song, never resting on its laurels or participating where logic dictates it should.
None Too Tough is shimmering and cinematic, while Summer Clothes Weeks utilises a familiar trick; The Maccabees were fond of quickening the tempo of tracks to culminate in an orgasmic release, this trick could become wearing if utilised too readily and is therefore most effective when it’s infrequent. Paradoxically, on an album with such space to spare, it’s reassuring.
The style Weeks has chosen, along with his distinctive vocal style, does pay a price in the form of repetition, albeit with little fat. With minimal pace or urgency, it’s an album designed for contemplative melancholia whilst staring out of the window (indeed, St Thomas’ and Moon’s Opera both have samples of rainfall).
In that regard, it couldn’t be better timed.