Aldous Harding: Train on the Island

"Aldous Harding 's music is warm and inviting, but it's never quite clear who's mailed you the invitation. The New Zealand singer-songwriter wanders around inside her psychedelic folk arrangements, singing in private riddles and changing the tone of her voice from one song (or even one verse) to the next, seemingly oblivious or indifferent to your presence. Despite the many distinct people she embodies, she never struggles to contain her multitudes. She's like a veteran character actor: You forget, very quickly, to recognize her."

"On her career-best album, Train on the Island, Harding steps closer than ever to the camera lens without coming into focus. The lyrics to the sparkling first song, "I Ate the Most," mimic a harrowing confession: "Sometimes I eat till I vomit/There's heavy and there's heavier/I'm nine and I love my mommy/Silver hair and Ritalin/If I'm safe and love is a spectrum." Harding sings in the hooded, lower end of her range, and the music is filled with nighttime sounds-chittering percussion, organ. The atmosphere is charged, intimate."

"But somehow, despite having her voice pressed against your ear, you never suspect that this "I" Harding sings about could be, well, Harding. Or perhaps you grasp that Harding understands better than most that the first-person "I" is a temporary garb, liable to assume unrecognizable shapes right in front of the mirror. Harding's work blends instinct with intent-she will surprise herself with an odd lyrical gesture, an unaccountable vocal choice, and then deliberately choose to keep it."

""He's got a new bag/He's not a new boy," she sings, repeatedly, on "If Lady Does It." Is this a riddle assayed by a fairy-tale creature? A suggestion of transformation, possibly gender-related? You are the only interpreter, and the melting signifiers of Harding's lyrics grin at you without offering assistance. "You laugh at me for keeping feathers/But you don't see me helping"

A New Zealand singer-songwriter creates warm, inviting psychedelic folk arrangements that feel intimate yet unclear in perspective. Vocals shift tone from song to verse, and lyrics are delivered as private riddles, making it difficult to determine who is speaking. The work embodies many distinct personas without losing coherence, resembling a character actor who quickly becomes unrecognizable. On the album Train on the Island, the music moves closer to the listener while remaining out of focus, pairing charged nighttime atmospheres with confessional lyrics. First-person “I” functions as temporary clothing, capable of taking unrecognizable shapes. The songwriting blends instinct with intent, keeping surprising lyrical and vocal choices that invite interpretation without guidance.

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