The language we use always has weight to it, but especially when discussing places of contention. Take, for example, the stretch of land on the northern end of the isle of Ireland. While officially it’s known as Northern Ireland, simply using that term is a political statement in and of itself, tacitly accepting British rule over the six counties ceded by the Republic of Ireland just over a century ago in exchange for its independence. Some people call it the North, implying that the region is still a part of the nation of Ireland, only temporarily under the control of colonizers. In press materials for their new album Days of Heaven, Belfast band Junk Drawer refer to their home as Ulster—a province that not only includes the six counties of Northern Ireland, but also Cavan, Donegal, and Monaghan. It’s a conscious decision, one that honors the specific experience of growing up in an area consumed by ethno-nationalist violence for much of the late 20th century and that has been largely neglected by the state—mostly the United Kingdom, but also the Republic of Ireland (see: the lack of trains to Donegal)—in the aftermath of the Troubles.
Forgive me for the truncated geopolitical lesson, but it’s a relevant one, since Days of Heaven plumbs the depths of Ulster’s psyche, both in terms of the lasting pain leftover from decades of bloodshed and the province’s potentially bright futures that never came to pass. At times these explorations are cryptic—Junk Drawer aren’t ones for spoon feeding their listeners—but the lyrics’ obscurity only makes the listener want to come back for more. Their first album, 2020’s unexpectedly prophetic Ready for the House, focused more on the personal lives of the band members themselves—siblings Stevie (vocals/guitar) and Jake Lennox (vocals/guitar/drums), Brian Coney (bass/keys) and Rory Dee (drums/guitar/vocals). Junk Drawer’s debut channeled a loose ‘90s sound akin to Pavement and occasionally devolved into a punk dance party; Day of Heaven, however, maintains that playful freshness while broadening their thematic scope and injecting their music with a healthy dose of ‘60s psychedelia.
“Pell Mell,” which opens with a jangly set of guitars conversing amiably with each other, alludes to the difficulties of living in a place where only temporary stopgaps are put in place, never permanent solutions: “We built a novelty sign for living / It was a placeholding sign.” It’s like those crappy portable classrooms that so many schools use without ever actually replacing them in the end—but on a national scale. Even when there are promises made, Ulster people know they’re false, or will just end up benefiting those who are already on top; as vocalist/guitarist Stevie Lennox sings, “The construction of the new things will replace it all / Watch the light bounce off their faces as all won’t be renewed.”
“Brown Sunshine” is lovely and lackadaisical, ending on a sweetly whistled tune that sits on the right side of twee. However, under its slacker rock ease, Junk Drawer decry the empty words of would-be saviors (“‘It’s time’ you will declare, but don’t know the hows and wheres / All that for a new world”). The upbeat “Nids Niteca”—named for a mysterious, defunct shopfront in Belfast—pulls no punches, particularly when it comes to people who are ready to offload blame: “Bodies piled high / It was like that when we got here.” Again, the precise use of language is vital; the line “Albionic in its charms” subtly refers to the British (“Albion” being another name Great Britain) without invoking the name of the oppressor.
Stevie’s voice is just sublime on “The Prisoner” as he laments those who are trapped in the past, Brian’s buzzing keys evoking the sounds of yesteryear: “It doesn’t exist anymore, but all you wanna do is get back there.” “Loughgall Circus” teeters with carnivalesque menace and contains some of the most direct references to the Troubles on the record. “It is easier to pass through a needle’s eye than under the orange arch / The laughter of our children is the silence of our men / Have you ever noticed your uncle’s hundred yard stare?” Stevie and Jake sing over chunky guitar, acknowledging that years of memories, decades even, have been buried by many in order to keep the peace. “Black Ball ‘85” follows in a similarly unsettling sonic vein, carried along by Brian’s sinister organ. The title is a reference to Ulsterman Dennis Taylor’s historic victory in the 1985 World Snooker Championship final over defending world champ Steve Dennis, though the lyrics themselves are beautifully enigmatic (“Watered in your arms, kept my gills from drought”).
What binds these Days of Heaven together aren’t just dreams of a better future for Ulster, but Junk Drawer’s stunning vocals and hypnotic jams. Stevie and Jake both get their time to shine on the mic—the latter in particular on “Where Goes The Time,” when he does a scarily good Neil Young impression—and their vocal ranges, from deeply rich, sonorous moments to exquisite falsetto, beggars belief. And then there’s the jam of it all; this is a band who know their instruments and each other so very well, and it’s obvious during every hypnotic groove they lock into. It’s easy to get lost in Junk Drawer’s mesmerizing aural push and pull—so much so that you hope the Day of Heaven will never end.
Clare Martin is a writer and cemetery enthusiast. She works in a library in Dublin, which involves less shushing than you’d think.
