A band’s name is paramount to its message and aesthetic. For English speakers, a non-English group conjures up a whole host of images before hearing a note; it becomes a code to crack, a word to learn, an irresistible signifier. That brings us to the psych-folk group òrain (Scottish Gaelic), the plural of òran, which means “song” or “poem”. Fittingly, their music is analogous to a well-written poem: impenetrable and hypnotic.
Starting as a solo endeavor by the Edinburgh-based songwriter Fraser Johnston, òrain has morphed into a full band, which includes flautist Kathryn Reed, vocalist Molly Ingleby, guitarist Reuben Toy, and drummer Magnus Kramers. Recently, they have released their debut four-track EP, Hanging Fruit.
The quintet òrain has many cultural touchstones. On the one hand, the Incredible String Band (especially due to their Scottish roots); on the other, it is like being in the mid-2000s in Vermont, when free folk was in full bloom. Their references are abundant; their form expansive. Furthermore, there are traces of freak-folk on Hanging Fruit—Vashti Bunyan and Devendra Banhart spring to mind. Indeed, òrain honor and defy them. Yes, they are the kind of band that wear their influences on their sleeves, yet discard them if you peer too close.
Recorded in two days, Hanging Fruit is a collection of folk ballads with jazz-inflected instrumentation, creating a sound similar to Van Morrison‘s Veedon Fleece (1974), particularly “Fair Play”. The lullaby-like “So I Sing” is the opening track and establishes what makes them an intriguing unit: an insubstantial and mellow composition where existence feels closer to a dream. Laden with opaque images, some imagined, some real, the narrator feels enfeebled by the weight of a life lived, not quite understanding what it has been for.
Consisting of a shimmering flute, a languid piano, a chugging acoustic guitar, and hushed drumming, “So I Sing” is like a balm until the bridge, when the flute reaches an apex of distorted beauty. Then the track reverts to its original guise, complete with indolent piano notes, trickling like a babbling brook. The next song, “Tangerine”, is about a character who, despite not getting what they deserve, carries on in a dignified manner, having a strong sense of self.
What will likely draw you into òrain is an illusion, that is to say, their tranquillity is misleading: yearning pervades the meditative compositions. Like Morrison’s Astral Weeks (1968), there is a search for transcendence on Hanging Fruit. This uneasiness is best exemplified in “Little Flea”, where a narrator tries to ascertain information from the subject.
Written during a summer spent at the Scottish archipelago, Hebrides, “Little Flea”—sung by Molly Ingleby—was inspired by the alluring, weird location names on the island. Like a cool summer breeze, the music is bereft of weight and encircling, with laidback drums and a tremolo-soaked, jazzy guitar, not to mention a brief pause, followed by the recording of seagulls squawking, during the song’s bridge.
The last track on Hanging Fruit, “Eva & The Candlelight”, is unquestionably intense, rendered through Fraser Johnston’s Scottish diction, which echoes Bert Jansch sans the coarseness. “Eva & the Candlelight” has the leaden atmosphere of those early stark Leonard Cohen records; an existential weight is palpable from the words to the voices to the strumming of the acoustic guitar. Returning home, the subject is questioned by the narrator, who asks why she stopped communicating with him when she went away. Nevertheless, he is beyond reproach, beyond blame, beyond indignation, understanding that separation is a part of life.
Hanging Fruit is a cornucopia of pastoral delight, offering dream-like vignettes, where the unknowing is the point. The effect of the songs is similar to slipping into a reverie, where, in your mind’s eye, nebulous, fleeting images pass by. Fortunately, we can revisit the images evoked in these rough-hewn folk tunes anytime we want.