Some records are dark, very dark indeed.
Not in some overtly obvious death metal way, or in the insanely angular and brooding way of Joy Division et al, but in the way that everything – from the production to the humour – is set to pitch black, even when the music isn’t always hideously bleak.
This is where ‘Dead Letterbox’ sits.
It must be said, this isn’t some slow, mournful, difficult trudge through the sounds of misery. It’s passionate, vibrant and even, at points, danceable.
Imaginary People have wonderfully captured the sound of their pain by never wallowing in it. They revel in moments of joy, looking for avenues of escape and seize the brighter things that life still has to offer the heartbroken. But it’s all refracted through the sadness of a heart that has known better times, and knows better times are to come even if right now it is broken, very beautifully broken.
Each track is wonderfully crafted, the production adding a wildly cinematic tone to everything. It constantly sounds like a soundtrack. To what? It’s impossible to say, but it would probably give the audience nightmares, and it’s this tonal familiarity that is so engaging. ‘Summerstock’ drips with urgency, it’s got somewhere to be and nothing will stop it getting there.
‘Agata’ is extraordinarily sad. Not just in tone, but in something more; any band can play minor chords, but real sadness isn’t simply minor chords, it sounds more like this. All of which is again contrasted by ‘Fever Nation’; brilliant because it is so unsettlingly funky. It’s a haunted disco, dark and frightening yet surprisingly upbeat.
It’s these frantic shifts in sound, style and tone that make this record so compelling. Watching a band at the height of their powers swap from the wonky, disorientating sounds of ‘All Star’ – a kaleidoscopic, completely unhinged western theme – to the assertive ‘Plain Purple’ is frankly brilliant.
At every turn this record surprises, and with each turn comes yet another revelation. As with the two stand-out moments ‘Miles’ and ‘Stella’ which see out the album. ‘Miles’ is powerful, sounding like some creepy amalgam of Clinic’s ‘Walking with Thee’ and Rocket Science’s ‘Being Followed’. It also, like the rest of record, oozes with Dylan Von Wagner’s wonderfully insane David Byrne/Brian Ferry vocal stylings, with Byrne’s squeal and Ferry’s wobble.
‘Miles’ then comes to its tumultuous conclusion, only to be followed by ‘Stella’. After the utter darkness that the preceding ten tracks have cast over everything, this represents the sunrise. Beautiful and truly moving, radiant with real emotion, it is a truly stunning dawn. Not some cheesy happy ending, mores like an inevitable realisation.
Imaginary People have defined the undefinable, by wallowing in darkness and misery to create something joyous.
Who knew that was possible.
