GREET, the songwriting project of Matthew Broadley, seems to have a direct line to the weird and the uncanny. Broadley is based in Leeds, a city of half a million people that has developed a reputation for producing musicians with an affinity for desolate and wild landscapes (see also Phil and Layla Legard’s projects, Hawthonn and Xenis Emputae Travelling Band). I Know How To Die is GREET’s debut, and as its title suggests, it is primarily concerned with the darker, doomier corners of traditional music. The album cover’s typeface hints at some kind of pagan darkwave or celtic black metal, and the photography carries the tang of Gallows Pole-style folk horror, and there are elements of all of these things contained within, but the most prominent feature of GREET’s music is the eerie, wind-blasted drone that runs through – and unsettles – much of the album.
That drone is provided by Broadley’s harmonium, which takes up residence from the first few seconds of album opener Keening, featuring spoken words from Steve Von Till. It is soon joined by a semi-whispered growl, with Broadley reciting the album’s title like a quiet challenge to mortality itself. The tracks run into each other, often with just a change of pitch or mood to delineate one from the other. Keening flows into No More, which sounds almost like some kind of haunted highland lament, full of staunch pride and melancholic melodicism. Broadley’s vocals, buried deep in the mix, become one with the drones, flutes, synths and guitars. Revelry provides a change of pace, a boozy instrumental fling, like something you might hear in the pub in The Wicker Man.
This is a tough album to pigeonhole. Too heavy for folk, too organic for any of the various synth-led genres, too much strange subtlety to be metal. This is all part of its appeal. A song like The Leather Knight sounds ancient, like it was harvested from some alternative past where arcane lore holds sway over science and technology. On May, Broadley shows himself to be in tune with rural landscapes and practices, but what landscapes and practices exactly? The insistent drone and the layered, chanting vocals, conjure up shadow-worlds, dream-worlds. The Mire, at only a minute long, draws on some of the same power that Led Zeppelin channelled in The Battle of Evermore or the folkier parts of their third record.
I Know How To Die reaches its heavy zenith on The Seer, with pounding, trance-inducing drums breaking through the underlying drone, while Broadley’s words call up images of struggle and darkness. Though the lyrics are apparently mystical, and located in a realm of fantasy, there is something very real and very human about them. The album’s poetry is not of the wishy-washy, overly fey kind. Broadley provides a link between the uncanny and the everyday, a bridge between two worlds. This is most evident in the stunning, understated closer, Eulogy, with its swelling and almost ecstatic violin coda, courtesy of Simon Barr. Though clearly set in the fictional world of the album, it delves into the emotions surrounding love and loss in a way that is very real and highly personal. Like much of this hugely impressive debut, it doesn’t shy away from difficult musical and lyrical subjects.
I Know How To Die (October 17th, 2025)