Since the late '80s, the Birmingham, UK quartet Pram has released a steady stream of albums and EPs marked with a cinematic and childlike character. Their obsession with dolls, toys and all things antiquated and ephemeral (as evidenced in titles like "Penny Arcade" and "Paper Hats", not to mention the band's name and their album artwork) give me the impression that they should be scoring films for the Brothers Quay.
After their brilliant 1995 album, Sargasso Sea, the band seemed to start losing focus, and the quality of their records took a downturn. The resulting output was often mediocre and meandering. On Dark Island, however, they have once again come into their own, recapturing the cohesion and clarity of their early work. Pram's overall sound is generally the same: it's as if the band were locked in a toy store after it closed for the day, and recorded an album with anything they encountered that could produce noise. Add to that the light, endearingly imperfect vocals of Rosie and her lyrics that read like pages torn from someone's diary of dreams. What makes Dark Island not only different, but more successful than previous works is that it manages to be diverse while maintaining a sense of wholeness. Opening the album is "Track of the Cat," a playfully exotic instrumental piece layered with echoing, slithery rhythms which parallels a later track, "Sirocco," which would have been perfectly at home in one of Jess Franco's late '60s psycho-sleaze movies. The film noir styling of "Penny Arcade" and "The Pawnbroker" precede the gleeful "Paper Hats" and the moody yet warm "Peepshow." Chimes, whistles, xylophones, and lilting keyboards can be found in every nook and cranny. "Goodbye," the eighth track, starts to wind Dark Island down with a lullaby which stands out as one of the best songs the band has ever done, and the delicate cosmic twang of "Leeward" sounds as if it could have come directly from Brian Eno's Apollo. Pram have truly outdone themselves on this delightful record.
Read More
