In the first few seconds of Here’s The Tender Coming you begin to feel transported across the Atlantic Ocean and several decades—if not centuries—into the past. Rachel and Becky Unthank harmonize an a cappella opening to the traditional Irish folk song “Because He Was A Bonny Lad” that sounds like some tremendous long-lost field recording before the rest of the Northumberland band chimes in with a more modern chamber-pop arrangement. It certainly sets the template for this album, one that is full of (mostly) traditional folk songs gussied up by an indie-leaning sensibility that occasionally enhances the work but too often mires some great songs in drippy sonics.
In some cases, the updated arrangements work, as in “Living By The Water,” which sounds appropriately flowing, with its lovely guitar line constantly moving like a rollicking little stream. In others, such as “At First She Starts,” the Unthanks indulge their maudlin side, turning a gorgeous Lal Waterson song into a nearly atonal dirge. Perhaps the biggest disappointment is “Annachie Gordon,” a sort of trad Scottish version of Romeo and Juliet that, in the right hands, can become truly sublime. The Unthanks start off the epic brilliantly; what could become a cloying reading of the narrative is instead performed with real restrained grace. Until the final moments, that is; right after the words “They have married your Jeannie, and now she is dead,” the arrangement and song stop, becoming a near-silent drone that creates an almost-comical, too overt underlining of the song’s tragedy. It only lasts a few seconds, but those few seconds are enough to capsize a song that theretofore had been full of elegant aplomb, before finishing instead as a treacle.
The best marriage of traditional and contemporary occurs on a version of Frank Higgins’ “The Testimony of Patience Kershaw.” The Unthanks’ arrangement of rhythmically propulsive fiddles wonderfully ups the drama of the lyric, based on the real words spoken by the title character—a young girl working as a 19th century coal hurrier detailing the physical toil the job has wreaked upon her body. The greatness of the arrangement is that it lends a delicious edge to a song that could be turned, like other songs here, into something unbearably heartbreaking and more than a little dour. The churning, sharp fiddle instead elevates lines like “Great big muscles on my legs/A balding patch upon my head/A lady, sir? Oh no, not me/I should have been a boy instead,” which, combined with the terrific vocal, makes the song tinged with bitterness. And when the final lines are sung, “God bless you, sir/At least you tried,” it sounds seething and sarcastic rather than contrite.
The record could have used more of this sensibility; what gives the Unthanks an advantage is that they are working with a collection of songs as strong as these. There is no shortage of beauty among the traditional folk songs of the British isles, but a little of this does go a long way. The mournful melodies tend to become lachrymose before too long, and unfortunately the Unthanks indulge this side more often than they should. There is some exceedingly pretty music to be had here (Ewan McColl’s “Nobody Knew She Was There,” the title track), sometimes excessively so (”Flowers of the Town”).
But what do I know? I’m an American! These folk songs are our folk songs too, though; you hear these melodies throughout Appalachian music, for one, so these songs do form the bedrock of our country’s early folk music, whose narrative and melodic sensibilities only increased when it mixed with blues to become American country. Though Here’s The Tender Coming is flawed, it does contain the thrill of hearing these old songs with new ears. It certainly takes some fortitude to tackle the great folk songbook (though considering the only original here, “Lucky Gilchrist,” is a drearily monotonous affair, despite lines like “Lucky G was full of glee/a bit like Freddie Mercury,” perhaps it’s for the best), and the Unthanks here prove themselves up to the task, if not always completely worthy.