Music can do many things, it can blend subtly into the background, it can act as a rallying call, it can inspire, alter moods and it can make you think, make you forget, incite joy or provoke reflection. It also affects what happens when you put pen to paper on its behalf. Whilst some music will demand information, solid facts and tangible reasoning, the most interesting will cause you to be drawn into its world and approach the task at hand accordingly. That is why as I listen to The Nightjar I get the urge to eschew the normal approach and write like an opium addled 18th century romanticist.
They may be a post-folk, close harmony group, built of minimalism and empathy, entwined vocals and gentle moods, but those are just facts, the way that the head would try to describe them. The heart has other ideas. Get beyond information and you find a timeless grace, a vulnerable beauty and soundscape built of gossamer thin elements, bucolic pastel washes, emotions made into sound.
But that is just the heart doing its usual reactionary thing. Beyond that the soul will tell you that there is something else at work underneath these sounds, something primal, ancient, shamanic; the drifting voices of ghosts and the elemental language of the earth itself. And so on back through sub-conscious levels of understanding and a resonance that can only be felt in our ancient DNA.
Too much? Maybe, but it is sometimes hard to do justice to the most wonderfully elemental and timeless of music and without hearing it yourself I’m sure that all seems like pretentious nonsense. So here is the challenge. Play Objects to yourself, in a dimly lit room, a sonic isolation booth if you like, immerse yourself in its simple majesty and then tell me any of the above is too much.