TIM BOWNESS

Late Night Laments

Songs for uncertain times.

Since 2014’s Abandoned Dance Hall Dreams through to last year’s Flowers At The Scene, watching Tim Bowness’ solo career move out of No-Man’s shadow and into the spotlight has been heartening. What’s even better about this is that whatever successes he’s garnered in the way of increased exposure, plaudits and sales have all been done on his own terms. It’s not that he’s changed his approach so much as the rest of the world, or at least a growing section of the record-buying part of it that put his last album into the charts, has finally caught up with him.

With his languid vocals decorously stretched across exquisitely crafted, mostly reflective settings, the emotional undertow upon which Late Night Laments’ nine songs drift may be deceptively placid on the surface. Underneath, however, Bowness’ lyrics are pointed and sharp, whether they are chronicling the cooling ardour of a broken affair or his gimlet-eyed detailing of emptied rooms filled with the everyday detritus of human interactions scattered about like so many clues at a crime scene. Stark essays on dealing with emptiness, be it physical or psychological in nature, have never sounded so seductive.

One reason why his work is in the ascendant comes from his ability to move seamlessly from widescreen to a close-up whose intimacy borders on the uncomfortable in what it reveals about ourselves. Bowness’ scenarios resonate because they articulate so well our own experiences, failings, and the pain that comes with hope, soundtracking those dark hours where we find ourselves alone confronting the reproachful ghosts of doubt and regret.

Late Night Laments’ 39 minutes are bejewelled with gorgeous details that subtly evoke external musical references without falling victim to pastiche. The vibraphone oozing behind Bowness’ wordless vocal on The Hitman Who Missed, with its ravishing backing, conjures Scott Walker’s late-60s textural exoticism while Richard Barbieri’s beautifully raucous synth solo plays with a pop-prog hybrid during Darkline’s bobbing, mesmeric sway. Better Now, wreathed in the shivery folds of Kavus Torabi’s glissando guitar and a pointed solo with a distinctly Frippish angularity reminds us that Bowness has always worn his heart on his sleeve when it comes to paying tribute to his musical heroes and influences.

There is a tightrope that all artists describing the human condition have to navigate. Get it right and you can convert raw experience into valuable insight. Get it wrong and you plunge into lugubrious self-parody. Happily, Bowness acquits himself on this perilous journey with an accomplished grace.

STARK ESSAYS ON EMPTINESS HAVE NEVER SOUNDED SO SEDUCTIVE.