Angelo De Augustine is in conversation; with nature, death, himself. On Pet Cemetery – the second track of fifth non-collaborative album Angel in Plainclothes – Angelo details his relationship with death, spiritual iconography et al. He speaks with an undertaker who responds with “a language of subtle fire”, waves to a departing friend, and surveys the existence of ghosts in the real world. The ghosts are formed by pizzicato strings.
The album follows a brush with death; a serious undiagnosed illness that caused Angelo to have to relearn how to do pretty much everything; walk, talk, see, hear, play music. Nature is the Heaven he is living. He is the angel(o); an ordinary guy repurposed in the aftermath of near-tragedy, exhibited by the vocalised howls and flower petal harps of The Universe Was Our Mother.
It’s as though he’s questioning what is and isn’t real, unsure of which timeline he is in. Angelo is, simultaneously, melancholically reflective, prosperous with many new futures in mind, and dreamlike. Cosmic Ride visits dream folk formed from bliss; the moment one’s time spent with a lover feels singular, and the rest of the universe is stored within, between, and in close proximity to, two bodies. Angelo is beckoned by religious figures on Pictures On My Wall, spurring melodies of sought escape and real bliss.
Self-produced by Angelo, the album’s sound is deathly hopeful, spiritualised by the dreamlike harmonies he emits with his voice, strings, and organically woodsy guitar arrangements like that of Empty Shell, picturing a grassland for narrator to run toward, to hide within – “relax into meadows ‘neath stars dead and gone”.
To take a break from my vanity of opening up Angelo’s world on his behalf, I need to assert the incredible run of songs from tracks three to five, akin to the incredible run of albums Angelo is on, despite their being blockaded by illness.
Spirit of the Unknown: his ultimate conversation with himself; a deep, difficult search of the soul with insurgences of battles between closure and doubt. Its verses, that sort of modernise Nick Drake’s knack for ‘is this uncertainty or resolve?’, are darling, combining classic folk writing and melodising – “veil of night upon my mystic rose / so the story goes / now her petals close / I loved her, I supposed”.
The Cure: named after his pursuit of alleviation, though the rapport his melodies form with lyrics are appropriately reminiscent of The Cure’s Friday I’m In Love – “tomorrow you may recall yesterday wasn’t there at all”. The song contains an attentively-dreamy chorus full of gasps and chords that surprise.
Mirror Mirror: he fears slipping away despite the overwhelming sense of life that surrounds, springing on an uplifting chorus that sprouts like tree branches, and the puff of a warped harmonica. At the risk of insulting Angelo, he is somewhat of a protégé of Sufjan Stevens; his similarities are glowing if not impressive, but the song – alongside finale Goodbye Baby Blue – offers a never-before-seen Vampire Weekend-like quality to Angelo’s music.
But there is vast originality in Angelo’s amalgamations of heroism, and even more in his commitment to crafting his own, unique scenery through the unlimitedness of modern folk production and thoughtful lyrics.
And, of course, the importance of making Angel in Plainclothes was owed not to Angelo’s heroes and contemporaries, but his own recovery from illness. The album is a reflection on fragility and perseverance; a shared dream state emerges from this reflection, welcoming the listener. And if I’m stupid and there is no philosophy, Angelo has simply realised life is a gift, and this is his to us.
Best tracks – Spirit of the Unknown – The Cure – Mirror Mirror.
Rating – 8.5 out of 10
