Take a look at the cover art of any of Gwenifer Raymond’s albums and there is a common sight: there she is in all of them, holding her guitar, cautiously but considered. Unassuming as her pose may be, she wields her guitar like a weapon, a volatile instrument that could draw blood. Like Woody Guthrie’s famous “This machine kills fascists” sticker, Raymond knows the power her guitar has, and while her aim is an instrumental one, it’s no less powerful. Her notes are pointed and sharp, like teeth on a serrated blade – both for her and her listener; that she has a track called “Bleeding Finger Blues” tells you everything about the skill her music requires.
Raymond’s new album, Last Night I Heard the Dog Star Bark, continues the streak of her showcasing her mastery of the guitar. Holding her guitar up like a bayonet poised to be used on the cover, the Welsh-born, Brighton-located musician takes inspiration from sci-fi and scientific readings across the ten tracks here. These range from the Californian rocket scientist Jack Parsons, to a homeless mystic called Tom O’Bedlam from Grant Morrison’s comic book series The Invisibles, to American mathematician and computer scientist Rudy Rucker’s novel White Light. A doctor of astrophysics herself, Raymond’s range of interest is wide and curious, but it speaks to the detail that feeds itself into her music. While it may not be apparent without some additional reading of the album’s inspiration, it adds to the density of her work and helps the tone of the music ring deeper.
And sometimes the music can be very dense, an onslaught of playing that is much a display of jaw-dropping dexterity as it is a wall of sound that envelops you. “Bonfire of the Billionaires” fittingly picks up like embers catching the wind and sparks igniting nearby brush. The titular blaze increases in size, becoming equally mesmerizing and like a warding off signal. Similarly “Bleak Night in Rabbit’s Wood” (inspired by Raymond’s childhood woodland discovery of grisly animal remains) picks up traction, wrapping up everything in its gait. It’s like hurrying through jagged, barren woods with the sweat of fear falling from your brow; as you get deeper into the woods, the music gets denser and denser. It’s captivating and magical, storytelling coming to life from sounds alone.
There is space for calm too. Over six minutes “Bliws Afon Tâf” has Raymond leaning into the folkier side, offering what feels like a breath of fresh air after a series of intense tracks before it, while “Dreams of Rhiannon’s Birds” evokes the bluesy twang of Jack Rose as an electric humming drone seeps in and out of the mix. Raymond’s compositions are busy and detailed, and her fingers are always at work, but there’s room for pensive silences and tension in the absence of sound. The haunted blues of the album’s title track boasts a lurching one-two bass melody that keeps the track chugging along, only for sliding guitar notes to take over and add a suspense that hangs in the air.
If there is a want for anything from Last Night I Heard the Dog Star Bark then it might be more drone work, namely because it adds such a fascinating texture and layer to Raymond’s music. The album’s opening and closing tracks boast them most clearly, and they offer an enchanting entry and exit from the album: “Banjo Players of Aleph One” with its earthy groan as banjo flecks bounce about, while final track “One Day You’ll Lie Here But Everything Will Have Changed” plays out like a film’s end credits song; sweet, sunlight-like droning pedal steel notes eliciting images of birds soaring in the sky. When the aforementioned hum appears on “Dreams of Rhiannon’s Birds”, it arouses a moment of excitement, because it feels like some other presence has leaked into the mix. It would be great to have more moments like this.
Still, the album is not without excitement on its own merit. As the thrum of the building bass notes on “Jack Parsons Blues” develops, fusing in folk, blues, and country, it rings out like a call to arms. “Champion Ivy” has a playful spring in its melody, but still sounds like it could usher in the dark clouds of a storm as it sprawls and grows in every direction like the titular plant. “Cattywomp” leans into a ragtime feel, offering up a lighthearted and impish tone despite how busy the whole thing is. They, like everything else here, are fascinating exercises and excursions from Raymond. Her guitar in hand, she explores, enchants, and plays her instrument like it’s both a dark spell and the remedy for the aftermath.
