The Little Unsaid

Words by Tristan Gatward, August 2022

Sometimes, light can enter in the darkest places. That’s not a butchered Leonard Cohen lyric from an anthem about our human imperfections, nor an unthinking platitude penned in syrupy typography above a stock image of twilight reds and purples for internet philosophers to languish on. It’s to say that, when The Little Unsaid’s music works best, it’s because some strange hope seems to have penetrated an endless black.

In the deep sea, for example, when danger lurks – one hundred metres down from where the water’s surface becomes indistinguishable from night – tiny, strangely see-through fish ignite in a firework display, masquerading as natural light to trick their predators. Illuminating the ocean floor where shadows should naturally fall, there’s a beautiful and heart-breaking irony to know that far beyond the depths our own human empathies will dive, their method of survival is to imitate the same life they’re at risk of losing.

Somewhere on land, The Little Unsaid has more than occasionally mustered a few firework displays of their own. The release of Fable, their third studio album as a four-piece, sees the ever-mutating songwriting project of Yorkshire-born and South London-based musician/ producer John Elliott enter its thirteenth year of incredible artistic consistency, still finding efficacy in the scraps of inspiration salvaged from personal and political turmoil. Lyrics cut like sunbeams through his own Mariana Trench, delivered with the glint of a small smile that drags the dregs of humour from depression, finds rhythm in a slow dance with paralysis and courts a genuine contentment from the talons of an overwhelming world. A gentle joy permeates Fable’s corners, found in just how good it feels to be playing as a band again.

“This album came out of a cancelled gig and a chance stop-off at a beautiful studio in the middle of nowhere,” explains Elliott. “The whole record was carved out of many hours of raw live improvisation. It came out of this explosive moment when we finally got to play together again after nearly two years of being in our own isolated corners whilst the world seemed to come apart. We finally got to tour again in late 2021, and like everybody, we experienced the lingering instability in the live music scene. We eventually had a show cancelled and found ourselves stuck in the wilderness of deepest Dorset with nowhere to go.”

The band comprising Mariya Brachkova (synths, keys, backing vocals), Alison D'Souza (strings) and Tim Heymerdinger (drums, backing vocals) has transformed since its earliest days of Elliott covering ‘Beeswing’ alone on the bed’s edge. Bringing his friends and trusted collaborators into the musical process has allowed for greater experimentation into the same dusty sonic pockets fumbled around in for his early works, from Someone Else’s Lullabies to Fisher King. These aren’t just the strums of a self-described ferret-like man anymore, albeit resolutely analogue; The Little Unsaid’s songs sound excavated, and their playing them is to chisel away at the earth around the artefact. Hooks linger like long lost folk standards; poetic monologues fly a few muddled lines away from scatting; the band’s transitions from quiet to loud carry the theatricality of art rock. It makes sense that you can read Elliott’s lyrics in a book, and makes sense too that you can hear his music in the West End. Cruise is playing now at the Apollo Theatre on Shaftsbury Avenue.

The Little Unsaid’s forays into electronic music have always championed melody above all; you’d wager that this is what Radiohead would sound like had Thom Yorke listened to Richard Thompson instead of Scott Walker. It's a sound that has gathered a fervent cult following over the years, too, from early records mixed by Ride’s Mark Gardener and Jonny Greenwood’s solo producer Graeme Stewart, to headline tours and festival performances across Europe,   eventually signing with Reveal Records in 2018 – the team behind Joan As Policewoman and Lau – to release a career-spanning Best Of.

There’s a trust between band and audience here unlike many unions you’ll find. It might be that the creation of these songs has been a steadily open process. Until now, they’ve readily shared the Bare Bones, the Electronic Sketches, the words and the music to Bandcamp communities and small rooms in rural towns (name one and they’ll have played there). At times their music’s presented like a mysterious sacrament, where a listener’s response is as vital to the meaning as the chords it’s written with. At other times their music’s like a finely weaved basket that can barely hold the weight of an orange; whisper your admiration and it’ll break.

Fable is fitting to the ideology of music they’ve nurtured through the years, toing and froing between a sublime romanticism and bruised tenderness that revels in the punch-up. “I think the songs unavoidably reflect the chaos and simmering collective anxiety that was (and still is) everywhere around us,” says Elliott, “but they’re also held together by this palpable sense of gratitude and joy. There’s a defiance in that, and a sense of hope, I think – it’s the simple act of making something with a group of people you love and trust, something that didn’t exist a few days ago, and that hopefully finds a few sparks of meaning in all the madness.”

Think of a “this morning is amazing and so are you”-like Nick Cave phenomenon, and with the invocations of Cave imagine that Elliott is reaching out to his audience, rather than beseeching the leader whose fans extend their arms towards his silhouette, to extract his wisdom like some mass artistic fracking. Besides, why would you look for this wisdom in a little Yorkshireman, scurrying between virtuosic strings and calmly assertive percussion? What does he know, when sweat streams down his head and, for the eighteenth show in a row, he’s forgotten to pack a towel? There’s only openness and shared experience here, deeply felt, intensely impressionistic and autobiographical. Elliott’s presence on stage feels more like a crazed scientist, a protégée nervous of the energy he’s still finding in his music.

The range is here. The lead single ‘Vibrant Life’ is a stream-of-consciousness foot-tapper, with a bassline throbbing through Elliott’s hurried self-assurances, pleading with himself to trample over lethargic ground and keep seeing the world’s magic. “I’m trying to make every move count.” ‘Went Out Too Far’ is barely whispered over a magnetic, tribal drumbeat, while album closer ‘Sleep Tight’ is an anti-lullaby, never sinking into an easy resolution. These songs are all improvised from sketches at Mill Farm Studios, where imperfections jettison from land like loose nails, and show as much weathered intrigue as neatly brushed coastlines and well-plastered walls. “Tiny fish swimming through me,” whistles Elliott on the final track, “Tiny fish pick your mind clean.” There’s only a little contemplative menace, lacing its way through the ocean depths; the fireworks are coming.