With “re-thrash” pronounced DOA, deathcore left mouldering sadly in an Earache warehouse, and murky, Incantation-style old-school death metal still clinging tenaciously to the edges of a few major indie labels’ rosters, the world was clearly crying out for a new trend from which to suck all semblance of meaning. The largely accessible, inoffensive hard rock sensibilities of so-called “occult rock” slotted nicely into that yawning void, and judging by the glittering near-mainstream success of Ghost B.C. and cult following surrounding the now-defunct Devil’s Blood, it’s got some staying power. Black Widow and Coven singer Jinx Dawson could’ve told you that decades ago, but delving into their dusty catalogs would require a few moments’ effort. If we’re left with anything after the dust clears and a shiny new bandwagon has left the dealership, though, please, let it be Blood Ceremony, Jex Thoth, and English newcomers Purson.
Rosalie Cunningham’s warm, expressive voice entreats the listener to rise and shine on the dreamy album opener, “Wake Up Sleepyhead”, a slip of a song whose eerie organ runs and backwards vocal effects hint at what lies ahead. The muted, moody “The Contract” offers an immediate contrast; here, Cunningham sounds world-weary, far older than her 21 years. Her voice dips and trills, starting off smoky and burning bright; it's a formidable talent, and one that will undoubtedly improve with age. As it stands, her pipes are the driving force behind Purson’s 70s psychedelia-laced, 60s pop-inflected prog rock tunes, and her whimsical, eldritch lyrics add an otherwordly je ne sais quoi that other bands of their ilk fail to summon.
There’s no Satanic gobbledegook or limp spellcraft scrawled across the pages of Purson’s songbook. Their interests lie closer to home-- over the river and through the woods, on haunted moors and buried deep within English folklore and cautionary tales. “Spiderwood Farm” is a trippy ghost story told in sympathetic tones, theatrical and strangely appealing, while “Leaning on a Bear” is a up-beat and unapologetic, a vaudevillian romp delivered with a wink and a curled lip. It’s not all fairytales and funhouse mirrors, though; the album has its laments, too. “Sailor’s Wife’s Lament” is awash in blues and grey, and “Tempest and the Tide” coos forbidding murmurs of the devil and the deep blue sea. Carnivalesque chunks of Wurlitzer and mellotron feature prominently in the majority of the 11 tracks that make up The Circle and the Blue Door, forming an integral part of Purson’s unique sound.
“Sapphire Ward” is tricky, coming off as the album’s most straightforward 70s rock song despite its mid-song guitar freakout and Cunningham’s wicked, throaty croon, and closer “Tragic Catastrophe” is a gorgeously realized blues-pop confection, livened up by those ever-present proggy tendencies and a spare, trembling riff. Each song boasts its own character, though some have more to offer than others.
In the spirit of 70s excess, one or two of these could stand a trip to the chopping block, but their inclusion doesn’t hurt The Circle and the Blue Door. The album may sag a bit in the middle, but there’s always some new trick or folly around the corner to perk up a weary pair of ears. Purson openly revel in their eccentricity and quirky image, which might be a bit much for the more somber or prog-shy listener. But, contrived or not, whatever this band of witchy wild children is doing feels far more authentic than anything a certain bunch of dildo-wielding Swedes in Halloween costumes could ever hope to achieve.
