The sequel to A Lazarus Soul’s highly-praised album, The D They Put Between the R & L, released in 2019, is a fascinating piece of work. The album sees the band members Brian Brannigan, Anton Hegarty, Julie Bienvenu and Joe Chester collaborate once again to create a reflective and contemplative record. Much of the album, inspired by Brannigan’s extensive walks through the Bog of Allen and the Royal Canal, carries a strong sense of rejuvenation and a yearning for the soothing tranquillity offered by nature.
Taking its title, No Flowers Grow in Cement Gardens, from a verse in The Fall’s Psykick Dancehall, “my garden is made of stone”, the album echos a sense of wrath reminiscent of Mark E Smith and Cathal Coughlan. It is particularly notable in songs like Black Maria which taps into the issue of police brutality and features an energetic rhythm of dynamic drums and rhythmic bass underpinned by a self-assured style somewhat reminiscent of Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds.
The clarity and strength of Brannigan’s voice are enhanced by the diverse sea of sounds throughout the album. There’s The Flower I Flung into Her Grave, punctuated by a grungy guitar-dominated wildness, bearing the imprint of Marina Carr’s brutally wild 1998 play The Bog of Cats. The song embodies a macabre, eccentric tone, complimented by Wildflowers, a song evoking the feeling of a collision between The Smiths and The Pogues at a Dubliners’ gig. The song emits a vintage warmth, using a radiant harmonium and luring guitar strums to tell a story that firmly belongs among great literary drinking anthems.
The album contains an unexpected level of warmth, depicted through the framing of strings and acoustic guitar on songs like The Dealers. The soft rhythm of G.I.M. and Diver Walsh’s dulled haze evoke memories of Sonic Youth while offering an impressive level of originality. Factory Fada stands out with its delightful arrangement drawing us into a tale of a “west Clare champion handball player”, and the ugliness of physical discipline, harking back to a dreamlike reflection of a potentially better Ireland, persistently disillusioned by violent acts – the “pebble-dash fury” Brannigan articulates in the poignant almost-lullaby, New Jewels. The sparkly texture of Glass Swans revives the vibrations of Orange Juice, and the title track reminiscently points towards The Smiths and their 1986 record, The Queen Is Dead.
Interestingly, the album is full of ambient touches providing a more profound experience; displayed at the beginning of Black Maria, once more in Diver Walsh with its dreamlike resemblance to Sigur Rós, and reappearing at the end of the record guiding us to the finale. These instances enrich the album’s whole experience and hint at another element that A Lazarus Soul might think of amplifying, as these points, as straightforward as they may appear initially, imply an intricate gracefulness and greater still – an enduring love for the world, in spite of its constant turmoil.