Four years separate Solstice from its predecessor, the marvellous As the Moon Rests and its twilight melancholy. Over those four years, A.A. Williams has criss-crossed the roads of the Old Continent, playing in ever-larger venues and at ever-later slots at festivals. Hidden behind her raven hair and in the smoke, the British artist and her fellow musicians have plunged an ever-growing audience into the shadows of heavy music, brimming with emotion, yet also possessing a rare and subtle elegance. Judging by the title and the artwork (have you ever seen the musician’s face so clearly?), could A.A. Williams leave the shadows behind her and plunge into the sun? Would it be the perfect companion for the summer months ahead? Well, no, of course not (surprise!)… but also a little bit, yes!
It really only takes a few seconds to realise the obvious: Solstice is indeed the follow-up to As the Moon Rests. It features all the ingredients that proved so successful on that album: a post-rock foundation rich in contrasts, to which A.A. Williams adds an overwhelming doom-like heaviness and restrained vocals that are haunting and expressive without ever veering into the theatrical. Her music remains that cosy cocoon of darkness into which one happily curls up, that blend of dramatic scale and intimacy, that perpetual personal apocalypse, that cataclysmic collapse that remains within, like a hidden, silent explosion which would be too polite to trouble others with its destructive blast.
Yet, we have hoped, Solstice is not merely an extension; it is also a statement. This statement is, first and foremost, musical: each track is a model of formidable efficiency, where the apparent simplicity of the arrangements serves to evoke emotion at every turn. We recognise this ever-balanced blend of ascending and descending movement: from Poison onwards, the guitars bury us, yet the vocals accompany our soul as it writhes free from our rotting carcass to wander here and there. Solstice quickly emerges as an album of mourning… Yes, but not in a funereal sense, more in the sense of the mourning we undergo to move forward, to carry on.
And this is where the concept behind this new album becomes clear to us, along with the meaning of that cover art: A.A. Williams remains firmly hidden in the darkness but turns towards a form of light, a subtle glimmer of hope which, whilst not making the whole thing any happier, highlights all its dramatic tension and tragedy, elevating this art of chiaroscuro. Take Little by Little or the striking Outlines, that talent for dizzying crescendos, for storms of emotion: there lies a cinematic power reminiscent of a bittersweet end credits sequence.
A piano and a cello, both ghostly, creep through the mist, sometimes on the very edge of our perception, only to burst forth at regular intervals. As the album progresses, the landscape seems to clear: Just a Shadow, which explores the idea of learning to live with our darker side, appears to mark a turning point. It Won’t Rain Forever, Breathe… the titles are evocative. The pop influences are there, too, helping these vocal lines find a comfortable place in the shadows of our minds. When The Gentle Harm arrives, we are ultimately faced with both the epic conclusion of the journey and its synthesis: a mournful piano gradually gives way to the other instruments, the music exploding into a finale that is both combative and introspective. The shadows are still there; they will never leave, so we might as well move forward in their company.
With its solace in sorrow, Solstice is not quite what one might call a sunny album. But A.A. Williams displays a genuine confidence and a unique artistry, turning our insides out and inviting us into her little world, where it seems the ruins are now caressed by a few rays of light, as if to better cast the shadows. So, is Solstice the perfect companion for summer? Well, it’s a resounding yes: you’ll find all the shade you need to shelter from the sun!
