Glistening with grandeur, 80 minutes of tumbling, whirlwind emotions cascade from every second within, from the ephemeral ebony and ivory and accompanying harmoniously ecclesiastical background groans of Moss Giant to silver screen-shattering denouement trilogy The Union. A Blood Promise recalls the wistful despair of Hope Of The States (RIP), trapped under padlock and key as it shivers uneasily in the corner of a barred cell with a floor space of a metre squared, whilst Pour More Oil is meritorious of inclusion in any hymn book compiled from this day forth. Turn to track five for the ceaselessly expansive Condor And River, as it meanders through seventeen minutes that'd have Mogwai existentially contemplating the relevance of it all, life and death, as well as how far the parameters of post-rock can be forced. As all-encompassing as Dante's Divine Comedy, the track is a formidable firework reflecting a kinetic wonderment on the face of any beholder amidst a drab and dank hueless pit of a sky. The gracefully folkloric Long Grass segues, instilling a Sufjan Stevens-like sense of estranged genre cohesion, at times sounding like detuned and retuned orchestras, at others reminiscent of Venetian lute compilations lost and forgotten in the depths of practically antiquitous, musty, dusted record collections, before the spine-tingling Homecoming intervenes, sounding out from limbo as Jeff Buckley joins forces with Loudon Wainwright. Thief, wallowing and writhing in minor key convulsions is overpowering enough to induce breakdowns, as vocals whir around ascending violins, whilst Interval Two, powered by rattling, warbled tape samples and strings evocative of post-Soviet Russian desolation adds a skit-like realism to the oppressive orchestration that domineers the thriving emotions within The Quiet Lamb. Proceedings then draw to an overtly theatrical close with the aforementioned tripartition The Union, a collection of tracks beyond coherent explanation that dash and dart between Arcade Fire desperation and devastating distortion, making you thank the heavens above you're still capable of strolling this middle earth, yearning voraciously all the while for another bone-crunching moment of such raucous resplendence.
