Until recently, Irish folk singer and songwriter James Vincent McMorrow only existed in wisps. His delicate falsetto would vanish quickly back into the silence of his sparse arrangements and his ideas were veiled and occasionally incomprehensible, blurred as lyric fragments and extended metaphors. His sophomore album, Post Tropical, was atmospheric in theme and tenor, relying primarily on mood and melody to produce sensations. The beauty was in his exquisite style and sound that buoyed arcane stanzas like, “Someone is ringing a bell/It chimes through this shimmering shell/That once was my vision of birth/But now it’s my vessel and curse.” But McMorrow has hinted at a desire to be bolder and to fully realize his love of hip-hop and electronic music in song. Post Tropical implied these connections existed, but it couldn’t fashion them into a working framework that made meaningful use of the components.
The first single from his new album We Move, called “Rising Water,” signaled a complete transformation was in store. The song reimagined McMorrow’s standard indie folk as a pop R&B jam. He kicked up the tempo with heavier drums, creating layers of sound out of electro synths and pulsating bass. It distanced McMorrow from his previously cryptic writing style—which he has charitably called “esoteric”—presenting text that’s easier to follow. His voice was even reintroduced on the track as a powerful and vibrant instrument. But more than anything else, the song seemed to find his perfect balance.
“Rising Water” was produced by OVO hitmaker Nineteen85 (the mastermind behind three of Drake’s biggest successes—“Hold On, We’re Going Home,” “Hotline Bling,” and “One Dance”—and one-half of the R&B duo dvsn), who McMorrow met on tour in 2015 and worked closely with for We Move. Nineteen85 brings clarity and sharpness to McMorrow’s work, just as he does Drake’s, by only using the bits that are functional and necessary. Operating alongside OVO’s secret weapon, Frank Dukes (another Toronto beat-maker who has worked with Drake, Travis Scott, Kanye West, Rihanna, and Kendrick Lamar), and Two Inch Punch (who has written and produced songs for Jessie Ware, Sam Smith, and Tory Lanez), have also added more depth and resonance. McMorrow’s music was once picturesque but idle, a prisoner of its own tranquility. His songs were to be admired, but never fully understood, and they didn’t do enough with melody to overcome a static nature and convey more than just “vibes.”
The songs on We Move subvert this established pattern. The ideas are articulated much more distinctly than on past recordings, bringing added significance to the gorgeous compositions. McMorrow still communicates most of his feelings through high-pitched coos, but the notes carry more weight and they linger into richer backdrops, like on “Killer Whales” and “Surreal.” The verses are stated plainly and the syllables are more than just conductors for sound. He still leaves some of the mystery, divorcing many narratives from any context, but the writing is much more striking now. “Last Story” is the best song he’s ever written, an epic drama about revisiting old romance that melds the strengths of his two writing styles, remaining ambiguous without feigning intimacy.
There are songs about heartbreak and loss; about trying to make it work and moving on; about the many ways lovers can destroy each other, and about personal growth. It isn’t just about conveying a feeling anymore; it’s about examining them. Some songs ruminate on relationships, past and present. Others compile shared experience. He asks rhetorical questions of anyone in earshot: “Are you hopeless like me?” and “Have you come here to save me?” and “Who battled here for you to live?” People saving each other is an ongoing theme, and We Move is fascinated by the impact we make. Every now and then, he’ll say something truly devastating like “I’m afraid to die without leaving a mark.” This album, perhaps, is the greatest reflection of that.
We Move is the album McMorrow has always dreamed of making—the one he tried to make with Post Tropical: an elegant, hip hop-indebted record with a folk nucleus that still hangs on every utterance, that advances on his tasteful croons. (McMorrow, a noted fan of rap, has always wanted to transmit that spirit in his tunes but lacked the direction; earlier this year, he said the original version of Early in the Morning had all electronic drums that were created on a Korg Triton—a favorite tool of rap producers like the Neptunes—before he panicked and changed it.) The songs on We Move marry his acoustic ideas with hip-hop/R&B sentiment and programming, blending the two into something new and fluid. On “Get Low,” the deep guitar licks settle into a thumping bass line. The chorus of “Ohs” on “Evil” slips into a skipping rhythm of hi-hats and washed-out synths. At every turn, the music is fuller, less caught in suspension. “Is it better to live your life in shallow water or is failure drowning in the deep end?” McMorrow asks on “Lost Angles.” In his case, leaving the safe alternative proved to be the right choice.
