The Twilight Sad | Forget the Night Ahead (Fat Cat)

twilightsadthumb.jpgThe Twilight Sad have an unparalleled aptitude for freezing small, specific moments in time.

The Twilight Sad have an unparalleled aptitude for freezing small, specific moments in time. Their tunes are musical representations of Edward 
Hopper paintings, intensely personal moments given dramatic presentations that allow their harrowing beauty to shine through. They’re 
character sketches stretched drum head tight over skeletons of personal truth, vignettes soaked in the atmosphere of the first cold rain and 
harsh gray day of autumn, the sound of red wine and worried contemplation.
The arrangements on Forget the Night Ahead are slightly more direct and accessible than on the Twilight Sad’s debut album, yet in many ways 
far less forgiving, and no less arresting. You hear it straight off the bat in album opener “Reflection of the Television” – there’s a 
creeping bass line, clear, deep vocals, and compelling melody, yet the song is prefaced by a minute and a half of harsh screeching and 
menacing, martial drums. This uneasy peace between melody and noise is one of the disc’s focal points; even lead single “I Became A 
Prostitute” buzzes with aggressive shoegaze style guitars and lyrics that paint a tale of abandonment and desperation.
Every song here is steeped in James Graham’s deep brogue. On such intense cuts as “Interrupted” or “The Neighbours Can’t Breathe,” his voice 
is alternately tossed to the forefront and dragged beneath winter waves of feedback and booming drums. “Made to Disappear” overflows with 
howling, wrenching reverberation, and determined rhythm. It’s noisy but not gauzy; guitarist Andy MacFarlane expertly fuses shoegaze layers 
with a grunge edge and a base layer of indie tunefulness.
This is Serious Music, for sure, but it’s also 100% pretension free, which makes Forget the Night Ahead fearless and awesome, an album that 
embodies the drama of slowly falling gothic shadows. A- | Mike Rengel
RIYL: a more propulsive Catherine Wheel, Glasvegas, Scottish accents, the glorious cacophony of Idlewild’s debut

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