I’ve read that the Irish have a melancholy in what we might call our souls that can be only be assuaged by sad songs, good whiskey, tall tales, and shenanigans. We hold our emotions in locked boxes and never wear our hearts on our sleeves, but we might let them bleed all over a piece of parchment or paper. We love love and sadness in all of their forms. Of course neither will be publicly acknowledged but will be universally understood by those whose heritage traces back to Erin and I guess that’s why I love Birthdays and Romantic Works so much. Or maybe I’m just a bit manic and I work my demons out through sad music and that’s why I find two albums full of brutally depressing songs so cathartic.
This isn’t that “Oh I’m so sad that you have a new boyfriend boo hoo” I’m-a-victim-of-your-love garbage like Death Cab For Cutie, or any of that “I’m so sad I’ll slit my wrists without you” trash emo bands love to wallow in like a vat of black hair dye. This is some seriously deep-seated, manic-depressive, something-ain’t-right-with-that-boy level stuff, and I love every minute of it. This is music that actually hurts to listen to.
Birthdays is 13 tales of a man who tries so hard and wants absolutely nothing more than for something, anything, just one fucking thing, to work out and it never does. The ballads of a man who knows the true loneliness of 2 am and so the only thing he can do is blame himself and push his pain through the strings of his guitar. He does this because he knows, he doesn’t think, he KNOWS, he’s the only common thread that laces together the series of tragedies that he calls a life, but he never does it when looking in a mirror because it would be too much. This album is the aural embodiment of sitting alone by the fire with a glass of whiskey while the rain pounds the world around you and the ghosts of a 1,000 heartbreaks visit you in dark succession… and I love it.
Keaton Henson weaves Birthdays‘ grotesquely beautiful imagery together through deep and dark sounds and mutterings that feel so intensely personal that they can only come from someone who has completely lost their ability to care. The songs he’s recorded cannot be unrecorded, and by the end of the album I find myself worrying for Mr. Henson and wondering how he’ll ever find love because after one listen to this Birthdays, any woman with even 1/2 an ounce of sanity would slink away for fear of becoming the object of one of his songs. This album is a emotionally punishing journey… and I love it.
Just writing about it I’m feeling drained, but we still have Romantic Works to hit and all I can say is thank <insert your favorite deity here> there are no lyrics on this album. Otherwise I might find myself in the bathtub with the radio plugged in and ready to fall. While Birthdays is the absolute definition of gut-wrenching emotional turmoil, Romantic Works is the very definition of being haunted… and I love it.
Haunted by what you ask? Well what have you got? Romantic Works would be Freud’s favorite new tool if he and his couch were around here today because it’s different for everyone. An auditory Rorschach test that dredges up the feelings, thoughts and memories you locked away and buried so deep you’d forgotten they were there. It’s one gorgeous, dark, and longing filled requiem after another that acts as the scaffolding for your own personal haunted house… and I love it.
Give Keaton Henson’s albums Birthdays and Romantic Works a spin and you might be sorry you did, but you also might be glad you did. There is something deeply soothing about listening to someone else’s trials and tribulations and using that as a vessel for confronting your own. Maybe I’m projecting, maybe deep down I’m a big sap or maybe you’ll give it a listen one night when you’re all alone and you’ll get it. You’ll see the dark beauty Henson has put into these albums and you’ll come out on the other side feeling different than when you went in… and love them.
Keaton Henson’s Website