By Octopi Mills

There are a lot of things going on here that hurt me right off the get go with this one. I cannot rightfully explain all of these things outright, nor do I think it would be of any merit to try. There's a folk music apparent here, but it is in a European pop way; as if I am in a ski resort campsite with heavily wrought sweater and a beard manicured by modern aesthetics and devices. Their moonlight is not my moonlight, their tree is not my tree and I sense more something akin to the old movie “Westworld” than a forest or real woodsman. There's a weekend hiking feel that is too safe and  clean here; a teddy bear's picnic and I am wondering how in the hells this got into my hands or into my chambers but through the portal of happenstance that is the great wide internet. 

Of all the things I have heard in a long time, this here seems more out of place than close to anything. I cannot even list song titles or referrals as I am quite stunned by this. Sure there's acoustic guitars and vocals that resemble the worst of the times the fellow from Opeth has had; that feel, that smell. The image of hot cocoa and neat beards is overwhelming; high fiving men in wooly sweaters and reindeer socks involved in some bad lounge scenario which is lightly described as "indie-folk" in the promo. Even more surprising is the fact that this is being released by Season of Mist. The aspen glow of the strings and arrangements  are silvery and such, but the overall theme and composition that it becomes is as a sauce that is as seasonal to certain folk enthusiasts as their ideas of being held and the body heat they mention in the damned thing here.

 A murder ballad could not turn this cringing, man child of an album into anything less of what it truly is, though, it seems, measures were taken. Candied and cradled, the thing winds on and on, hamming and egging with the appropriate sauces that define only the most jellied camping rations- like the idiot brother in law who brings the expensive rifle and fruity wine  and who brings in not the bear but the chance of blowing off one's own foot. And so the music brings the solar powered can opener to the campfire tale. I can say no more, but to wear orange when in such mixed company as these fellows.