What’s the new folk music these days then? Hip hop? Blogging? Whatever it is and however enduring it will be, old(e) folk still very much endures in its original state, having remained largely unchanged for centuries. In fact right now we’re midway through a bit of a resurgence, a few tweaks here, a shuffle there, a cheeky cross-pollination over that way, festivals springing up to cope with the growth, but still relying largely on the standard of singular men with assorted facial hair and an acoustic guitar. Drawing conclusions from all of that it seems we might have just received a peep at the future of folk music, and it just might sound a bit like Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. And if ever there was a genre otherwise holding tightly onto a perpetual state rather than having a plan or asking for direction, folk is it.
Sam Duckworth is probably most notable for being the epitome of what folk could be in the modern age, without getting so excited that you upset the cider-cart or threaten anything as drastic as innovation. Guitar and voice are present and predominant, but the news is that Sam makes up for any subsequent perceived shortfalls by filling in the gaps with beats and synthetic backing courtesy of his laptop. It would be surprising if this obvious resource wasn’t absorbed into the genre wholesale, and we’re not just talking folkronica. Most solo folkies would surely love to be in a band if it didn’t involve being with other people – and here you have a handy halfway house. The bedroom suddenly got a lot bigger. The problem with this scenario on record though is that you just can’t tell, the situation is not pronounced as it is live, and he just ends up sounding like he’s fronting a stunted band unresponsive to potential nuances of the music.
There are a few decent tunes here. He weaves his way pleasingly through tales on the back of a plucked refrain or slightly exotic rhythm. But his songwriting is really at best reliable, of stock quality. His range is bold, but narrow, his voice sat glaringly on top of what could have been a launch pad for exploration. The music sashays electronically this way, organically that way and is then held in place by his voice like a clamp. We’re left thinking of Mull Historical Society at their least grand, or worse, of a folk Orson. But for his good moments, namely the airy Simple Kid-esque ‘Call Me Ishmael’, the James Yorkston plucking of ‘Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part 1)’ and the similar ‘War Of the Worlds’, he works himself into dainty anthemic lathers. But he lacks the depth or exploratory willingness to truly matter in this continuing story.