Death in the Business of Whaling

Searows’ voice has a very particular sense of distance. He sings softly, yet he isn’t far away, as if he has already come to stand in front of you and just doesn’t want to say the words loudly. Death in the Business of Whaling enlarges the instruments around him, and this trait becomes even more obvious. The drums and guitars can get very heavy, and his voice still keeps its fragile edge.

Belly of the Whale draws a dark space for the album right from the start. The melody slowly builds pressure through repetition, the parts pile up gradually, and the singing doesn’t become more certain along with them. The whaling in the album’s title easily makes people think of a human struggling against something huge, but these songs don’t need to be explained one by one as stories at sea. Being trapped, being swallowed, being unable to decide where you are going: that is already close enough to what they feel like.

The name Kill What You Eat is direct, but the song doesn’t release its aggression entirely outward. It sounds more like a person constantly checking his own desires, where even wanting to live, or wanting to get something, can bring self-blame. The repeated phrases make this checking endless. Alec Duckart rarely sings a line with particular force, so the stresses stand out more, and a slight added weight is enough to make you stop and listen.

Photograph of a Cyclone is one of the easier songs to get close to in the first half. The rhythm has a forward momentum, and the melody leaves an impression more quickly. It reminds me of the contradiction of fitting something huge and chaotic into one photograph. A photograph can be held in your hand, and what happened still goes far beyond that frame. The title offers this way in, and the music keeps an unsettled flow.

Hunter makes this unease heavier. The drums and the low end press down, the guitar keeps making friction behind them, and the relationships between the sounds carry clear tension. Searows doesn’t suddenly become a singer who always has to burst out just because a full band has been added. He often lets the accompaniment say the heavy things for him, while he stays with that thinner line of voice.

Dirt is a pause I like a lot. The grain of the plucked strings is clear and the melody is not complicated, so the thought of death and of the body returning to the earth lands very close. It is in no hurry to discuss how much meaning a person leaves behind, and is more about admitting that people really do have a day when they disappear. Singing reaches this point, and the sounds on the album about chasing, consuming and controlling seem to get a little quieter for a while.

Dearly Missed slowly stretches this space out again. The low sound of the drums keeps building, and the singing gradually leaves its original soft position. The change here is very effective, because he hasn’t used up all his strength before, and only when he finally sings rougher and tighter does the voice have the feeling of being pushed into a corner. I like that he doesn’t always protect his tone, and allows some lines to be less pretty.

Junie and In Violet follow, still circling around closeness and helplessness. Wanting to take on something for another person and really being able to help them are two things that are hard to match. The album seems more mature in these places, where care may be mixed with possessiveness, and companionship may hide a reliance on being needed. It doesn’t treat tenderness as a certificate that automatically excuses responsibility.

Still, after listening to the whole album, I also feel that the shadows of several songs are somewhat alike. The reverb, the slowly growing volume, and the way the breathy voice comes in, once used repeatedly, sometimes blur the borders between songs. Its most convincing parts often happen when the sound really changes, such as the vocals in the latter part of Dearly Missed, and not just when the accompaniment gets one more layer thicker.

Geese is a fitting final song. The music leaves more places to breathe, and after all the pressure before it, coming back to a relatively plain way of expressing things makes it feel like the voice has finally found somewhere to stand. The album doesn’t give a very definite conclusion, but at least it puts attention back from those huge things that cannot be conquered into a range a person can feel.

This is also why I like Searows. However dark he writes, there is still a very specific kind of consideration, as if he knows that some words can’t be rushed out of someone. The addition of the full band broadened this album, but what really makes me willing to stay inside it is still the person who never becomes very loud.