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The dark rasp of Marcus Blacke will hit you from behind, and the way it sneaks up will make you want to follow it through the hauntingly beautiful intricacies of Blacke’s new self-titled record. Hailing from Australia, Blacke’s voice has the world-weary, lived-in feel of a rail-riding wanderer. The grimness of the record only serves to add to its dark-as-night intrigue and menacing vibe. Blacke has crafted an album of drinking music to be listened to alone, with the lights off.
Blacke carries some heavy shit with him, though none of his songs feel too weighed down. Even through his skulking tone, you can hear an airiness in his arrangements, accented by the gentle twinkle of piano keys or the soft, warm strum of an acoustic guitar. His voice has a unique texture that adds that Bob Dylan grit and depth. Songs like the more up-tempo “Umbrella Brain” and “Slimey Bob” are heady trips and probably the most fun Blacke has on his record. The guitar riffs sounds like a devilish, spiraling descent into madness, and Blacke is a master at creating eerie soundscapes that invite you into his brooding imagination. Blacke maintains his slow burn pace throughout, but these two more adrenaline-filled moments stand out.
He plays on his last name with the appropriately dark “Blacke Tea” and “Blacke Day”, both of which are gloomy, rainy day tunes much like their imagery suggests. He creates an atmosphere of foreboding skies and a bone-deep chill that you won’t be able to shake. “It’s raining in your heart like it’s never rained before,” he sings on “Temazipam”, a murky ode to the insomnia drug. Depression and trouble sleeping are popular themes in Blacke’s feels-heavy songwriting. But his somber, moody sound feels genuine, like it’s coming from deep down inside him.
A true rambling troubadour like Blacke should be treasured in the folk scene for his offbeat strangeness and authenticity. He plays with all the emotion of a worn down blues singer, but gets political like all the best folk singers do. And the way his notes tend to run off on their own gives his music a raw unselfconscious openness. You believe what he’s saying and you believe whatever he’s been through, and it makes listening to him all the more compelling.
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