Whispering Sons

The first, last and always aspect of this arresting second album from Belgian quintet Whispering Sons is lead singer Fenne Kuppers’ distinctive vocals. Hers is a voice that barely moves yet it ‘moves’. A stentorian, steady form of sermonising that poetically ponders, pontificates and pronounces with nary a change in tempo, tone or texture. Its devout and rigorous adherence to getting the points across is a joy to behold. Each track bleeds and feeds into the next, a grand narrative that adds mystery and nec-romance to proceedings.

Add to this the fivesome’s (alongside Kuppers are Kobe Lijnen, Sander Hermans, Sander Pelsmaekers and Tuur Vandeborne) infallible ability to not be confined or defined to a specific ‘genre’ or sound. There’s a hyperreal mix of all manner of influences, inspirations and idiosyncrasies: sonically it takes in frenetically modified post-punk doom-gloom (‘Heat’) meets (fr)agile avant-garde arias (the bruised and blood-scattered (‘I leave you) wounded’) and/or gothic-cabaret (‘Screens’) entwined with noir-pop (‘Visions’; ‘Surface’). Potency is latency.

Thematically, there’s a very real feel of hopeful, wistful empowerment infused with hopelessly hapless abandonment, throughout the ten tracks the contradictions and conundrums of the everyday rain down. Yeah, it’s that good.

Ominous opener ‘Dead End’ is masterful quiet>loud dynamics: thumping bass, choppy guitars, stabbing synths all dressed in dissonance. As Kupper’s pleadingly admits (or is it submits?) in the face of an identity crisis: ‘I’m a bitter, bad person, a superficial version’ the look of revelation is unleashed. ‘Heat’ is precise propulsion, concise compulsion. Ever wondered what would be playing if (or when) the Devil asked you to go toe-to-toe? Wonder no more, it’s ‘Satantango’: a snaking, unforsaken hip-quaking quick-step to edge of the precipice.

The John Carpenterish (‘I leave you) wounded’ is filmic fear, all throbbing electro-pulse, full-bodied heart-racing, eye-wincing, ear-rinsing.

Standout is the eldritch ‘Visions’, like the Sisters of Mercy head honcho, it’s jaggedly tense, raggedly intense and packed with pretentious pretension. All the things that great music should ….no, MUST, embody.

The repetitive, plaintive piano and skittering drum machine of ‘Screens’ is like the Phantom of the Opera beating a retreat to the inner sanctum, the musings of the misunderstood. ‘Flood’ lacerates as it penetrates, a brooding moodboard with the refrain ‘Murders’ leaving the listener in no doubt about the splinter of discontent.

If you only listen to one Belgian group offering illuminated darkness this year. Make sure it’s this one.