The Rheingans Sisters – Start Close In (Album Review)

There was a move towards a kind of sonic perfectionism in a lot of the folk music of the first two decades of the twenty-first century. Artists like Seth Lakeman and Jim Moray and producers like Andy Bell made highly accomplished and frequently excellent albums that pleased purists, courted newcomers, and often had a little something for those fans of a slightly more experimental bent as well.

The two previous Rheingans Sisters albums – 2018’s Bright Field and 2020’s Receiver – fit curiously into that trend – their perfectionism never seemed to come from a conscious need to polish their product; instead, it was something innate, something linked to the material and to the joy of playing music together. True, they have the academic chops (Anna Rheingans has a first-class diploma from the Conservatoire Occitan) and the technical ability, but listening to their music, you become aware that their immersion in folklore and traditional forms of entertainment comes from a place of genuine love and is backed up by a real willingness to push boundaries.

With that in mind, it’s not too far-fetched to suggest that they were at the forefront of the recent upsurge in experimental, drone-led folk music espoused by the likes of Lankum and Burd Ellen. And on their new album, Start Close In, they embrace those urges more readily than ever. That mood of joyous experimentation suits Rowan and Anna Rheingans down to the ground: their songs are steeped in the traditions of European folk dance but equally inspired by the avant-garde leanings of John Cale and twentieth-century minimalism. The album begins with Devils, an uproarious update of the old English ballad The Devil and the Farmer’s Wife, which in its original state is one of the more misogynist entries into the tradition (it tells of a wife so unbearable that even Satan and his poor imps can’t deal with her). The Rheingans’ take, inspired by Frankie Armstrong’s 1978 version, subverts the narrative, turning it into an anthem of independence. Featuring tambourin à cordes and distorted viola, it begins in dissonance (those John Cale influences are there for all to hear) and works its way up to a stormy, rocky frenzy; the performance has a rawness and a defiance all of its own, and the whole package is steeped in the drama of good storytelling.

They keep that energy alive on Brädmarsch, a Swedish tune Anna learned in Bollnäs. It is simultaneously playful and persistent, a winning example of the importance of folk dance and communal music in rural Scandinavian communities. It is also the first example of the pan-European influence that Anna and Rowan both embrace and is immediately followed by Un Voltigeur, a beautiful and tender song about the dangers of love from the Pyrenees (where it is sung polyphonically), updated by Anna and featuring a quite beautiful, subtly breathtaking passage of saxophone from Daniel Thorne. Livet Behöver Inga Droger, which translates as Life Needs No Drugs, was composed as a tribute to the Tobaksspinnarstämman folk festival in Sweden and is a stunningly played fiddle tune. Tobaksspinnarstämman is also represented by the field recording that begins the flighty instrumental Shade Chaser. Inspired by Quebecois fiddle tunes, it wanders and dances and flits, feeling almost improvised in its apparent spontaneity. In actual fact, it took years to complete, with Rowan applying the finishing touches to a composition that Anna had first attempted at a much earlier date.

The Great Devil/Mr. Turner’s Hornpipe comprises an old, languid slip jig and a new dance tune composed by accordionist Steve Turner. The two are spliced together with the sisters’ usual flair for timing. It makes for an impressive pairing and shows how effortlessly the old and the new can sit together (and also that dance music is a living, growing medium, a part of culture that, though rooted in the past, needs to evolve). This is followed by Drink Up, an energetic, angry song by Rowan about the flipside of culture, and, in particular, the excesses and endings implicit in late-stage capitalism. The pair are impressive multi-instrumentalists, and here the flabuta – a traditional French flute – gets an outing.

Si Sabiatz Drolletas sees the pair apply a darker, more dissonant sound (similar to the opening track) to a traditionally sung bourrée. The insistent drone, studio manipulation and nagging percussion that ends the song feels like a vital, necessary update rather than an impingement on tradition and is perfectly in line with the song’s message (which, when translated, advises against the entrapments of marriage). Marche à la Cabrette is another propulsive but nuanced march. It is sinuous and slippery and gives Rowan’s fiddle playing the chance to stretch itself before a surprisingly abrupt ending. Anna’s songwriting skills are given space on Old Neptune. It begins with an old-time dustiness, courtesy of an adroitly-picked gourd-banjo, and features some low-key but moving vocals, with lyrics that deal with grand and mysterious themes: the passing of time, the nature of change. It resembles something from the American freak folk boom as much as anything from the recent history of British folk music and is a highlight of the album.

Old Neptune provides a perfect contrast with Rowan’s song Over and Over Again, perhaps the album’s most wildly expressive and musically abstract piece. Inspired by the terrible repetitions of international conflict, it grows from a minimalist fiddle pattern and morphs into a raw electric guitar section, born out of improvisation, while Rowan’s repetition of the title phrase encapsulates fear, despondency, frustration, resignation and also, perhaps, a small amount of hope. It is a simple idea, done with such passion and clarity of thought that it becomes incredibly powerful.

Start Close In is a political album, both in terms of the direct messages of its songs and in the fact that its traditional tunes are inclusive and global by nature. The music is excellent in its own right, of course, but it also seems to suggest that we should look to the future without forgetting the lessons of the past. It is fitting, then, that the final track is in itself a lesson from the past. Purcell’s comes from Henry Purcell and from a manuscript published in 1699. It is a sedate piece, ushering the album out in its own unhurried time. It almost seems to want to invite you back in for another listen, and it’s an invitation that you will find yourself accepting again and again because this is an endlessly fascinating, multi-faceted album. The Rheingans Sisters are approaching perfection from unusual angles, and they’re getting closer with every attempt.

Start Close In (27th September 2024) Self Released.