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Greg Weeks' latest almost disappears in front of your eyes (ears?) - 8 songs and 22 minutes of quiet despair, with just a solitary outburst of squealing electric guitar to break the spell cast by his acoustic and his remarkable voice. Tired though the Nick Drake comparisons may be, they are inescapable - he has the same airy magnetism to his voice, the same pity-free gaze. But Weeks never risks sounding removed from his own life. There's a material, grounded darkness in his intent that meshes perfectly with the tenor of the music - subtly shadowed, and just quirky enough to leave you feeling you've entered someone's private world. It's coherent and moving, if at times unbearably bleak. So if Pink Moon's your idea of perfect mood music, you'll love this. If there's a flaw, it's the occasional whiff of first draft - the odd easy rhyme, the tune that doesn't quite stick in the memory (One In Ten could almost be Dylan in that regard.) And that stylistic coherence does mean some musical themes reappearing - Distance for example recalls rather closely the monumental The Angel Of Death from his brilliant Fire In The Arms Of The Sun album. Nonetheless there's plenty of impressive stuff here (Front To Back and Heart Murmur left lingering bruises), and anyone with an ear for reserved melancholy should definitely check Weeks out. But those who like every last note and word to move them should perhaps give 'Fire...' a whirl first.

Amanda Stone
CWAS #7 - Spring 2001

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