For almost a decade and a half now, Richard Hawley has been perfecting and refining his own self-contained musical world. It’s one that recalls that twilight period of the late ’50s and early ’60s—just after the initial Technicolor explosion of rock ‘n’ roll and just before the onslaught of the Beatles and the Stones. It’s a world where Santo & Johnny’s “Sleepwalk” plays on a permanent loop, the Everly Brothers rule supreme, and Roy Orbison gives hope to the lonely and lovelorn. It’s music that’s unashamedly bruised and romantic. Introspective, poignant and frequently gorgeous; abetted, to great e ffect, by the erstwhile Pulp guitarist’s burnished, smoldering croon. There’s no wayward excursions into dubstep or industrial metal here—indeed, after 2012’s comparatively raucous Standing At The Sky’s Edge, it’s pretty much business as usual with Hollow Meadows. And that’s a good thing. These are brooding songs of love and loss and life, music for grown-ups in the best possible way, music for people who’ve lived. It might not win any new converts, but Hawley loyalists will love it, and rightly so.
—Neil Ferguson
