Peter Brod­er­ick’s Home

The Irish Times - Friday - The Ticket - - TICKET STUBS -

Peter Brod­er­ick is a long way from home. Cur­rently liv­ing in ru­ral Gal­way, his folks hail from Searsmont, Maine, in the US, but most of his child­hood was spent in Carl­ton, Ore­gon.

His mastery of many in­stru­ments is no sur­prise con­sid­er­ing his fam­ily are mostly mu­si­cians. His own jour­ney be­gan by tak­ing up the vi­olin aged seven.

Prior to this record his out­put was pri­mar­ily in­stru­men­tal, ei­ther solo pi­ano mu­sic or pi­ano and string-based com­po­si­tions. In do­ing so he dis­played com­mend­able re­straint, a fac­tor that also gives this far more am­bi­tious record­ing a qui­etly se­duc­tive al­lure.

Brod­er­ick has the chops to do what­ever he wants, but he chooses to tip-toe into the arena, unan­nounced, with­out fan­fare. Lis­ten­ing back to those records they’re brim­ful of char­ac­ter and in­ven­tive­ness. He stretches sounds in un­char­ac­ter­is­tic and highly af­fect­ing ways. It feels like there are songs in­side, itch­ing to break out.

His col­lab­o­ra­tions with Efterk­lang in 2007 and 2008 was the spur to com­mit to set­ting the words free and switch­ing from com­po­si­tion to song­writ­ing. His way with words is matched by his abil­ity with pi­ano and strings.

Although he played vi­olin on the tour, the songs on Home are writ­ten and played on acous­tic gui­tar. The ex­tent to which the record sounds dif­fer­ent from ev­ery con­ven­tion al­bum is a mea­sure of his knowl­edge of lesser known nav­i­ga­tional routes around the mix­ing desk. With sub­tlety and an ex­quis­ite touch, he makes the songs shim­mer and shine.

The theme is the per­fect sub­ject mat­ter for a man alone on the road: the search for a home. He couches these 10 singer-song­writer com­po­si­tions in lay­ers of softly spun melodies and echo­ing gui­tar. At the heart of them all is a yearn­ing we all share and feel. The se­date lone­li­ness at its core is beau­ti­fully off­set by the in­tri­cate way the ghostly vo­cals are ar­ranged.

The melan­choly never jars or grates. In­stead it is fu­elled by a ro­man­tic hope­ful­ness that puts us at ease. We are not alone. Home soon.

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