Inland
When honesty is used in a thoughtful way, it can be a beautiful thing. Leif Vollebekk’s Inland (Nevado Records) is a beautiful a thing. A beautiful, genuine, swooning thing. Violin, piano, guitar, banjo, harmonica and soft brushed percussion form a remarkably lovely body of songs around the spine of Vollebekk’s poetic lyrics. Inland is full of perfect moments where music and words come together seamlessly, as in “Michael Robartes & the Dancer” where Vollebekk’s warm, finger-picked acoustic guitar provides the instrumental support for his equally warm lyric waves: “Blue-eyed sister’s asleep downstairs / In a rocking chair by the old lamp’s glare.”
The overall mood of Inland is one of familiarity: “You Couldn’t Lie to Me in Paris” sounds like an unearthed Bob Dylan b-side; the percussive guitar, strings and piano on “In the Midst of Blue and Green” is something that wouldn’t be out of place on a Nick Drake record.
But at the heart (or spine) of the Vollebekkian sound are his trademark lyrics, his slice-of-life stories set to music. As someone who frequently glosses over lyrics in favour of the general melody, it’s refreshing to continually notice words again, and even better to notice them when not actively trying to. Vollebekk’s lyrics make themselves known by very nature of their honesty and attentive phrasing, and it’s nice to be reminded of the marvellous things language can do for a song.
Inland is a real album. According to Vollebekk himself, the album is meant to be heard on vinyl, an earthier, arguably more “real” music experience. The wavering harmonica solo on “Don’t Go Klaksvik” is real. The emotional range of “Quebec”, from defeat (“When a woman moves on it’s best you just move away / When she fancies your friend, now that’s twice the price to pay”) to audibly strained defiance (“Step on to that bridge / Swear I ain’t coming back”) is real.
In reality, all I’m really trying to say is that Inland is really real and it’s really fantastic because of it… For real.
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