In 2016, James Blackshaw announced a hiatus from music, citing the difficulty of covering his bills with record sales and the “stressful and problematic” nature of taking his show on the road. The British guitarist craved “more freedom to make the kind of music I want, without the pressure of needing to release records at certain intervals in order to tour.” Despite a career of glowing reviews for his 12-string reveries, Blackshaw was already feeling constricted by a system that would become the norm for artists in the subsequent years of streaming’s dominance over music consumption and production. The fact that he’s returned when that situation has never exerted a crueler grip on underground musicians speaks to the purpose of this music.
Having been hailed as a Takoma-school revivalist who branched out into Eastern-influenced styles, drone, chamber work, and even lyrical songwriting that earned him comparisons to Jim O’Rourke, Blackshaw quit music to work in the food industry, another unstable existence. In 2022, just as the ground was finally firming beneath his feet, he broke his shoulder and found himself out of work; soon after, his dog, Dexter, died of terminal liver disease. “For months I wondered when—and if—I’d be able to play guitar again,” he wrote on Tumblr when he announced his intention to return to music in summer 2023. “I wanted so desperately to throw myself back into music, to communicate something or anything at all about this overwhelming sense of loss I was feeling.” He publicly set himself several deadlines then apologized profusely for missing them, citing ill mental and financial health. Then, quietly, in November, Unraveling in Your Hands arrived. “It doesn’t really feel enough in the scheme of things, but I hope it might be some sort of small consolation to anyone who’s ever gotten something from my music,” he wrote.
What is “enough”? Enough music to satisfy the anticipation of a small but fervent following? Enough hope to stay sane in a burning world? Enough resistance to push back against an extractive streaming economy? Blackshaw’s hope not only bears out—Unraveling is the most straightforwardly beautiful and affecting record he has made since 2010’s All Is Falling—but just in case, he throws his entire body into it: The eponymous 27-minute opener was recorded in a single unedited take, Blackshaw wishing to “push myself to my limits” after his shoulder injury left him wondering if he would ever be able to play again. Whatever “flubs and hesitations” he noticed are imperceptible, or at least part of the deeply human mood of this incredible piece. “Meditative” music is often thought of as something you can zone out to, but the essence of meditation is being alert to the changing weather of an internal landscape. This song is an invitation to that sort of attentiveness. It alternates between a few primary arpeggios, one deep and inquisitive, another faster, skittish and glimmering. Every revision refines and nudges the phrases somewhere new: lyrical, fearful, pirouetting then crouched; adrenalized tangles beget feathery anticipation. Occasional patches of pin-sharp fretboard harmonics feel like the clouds breaking, an injection of breath into all this intense furrowing, only to be replaced by dense, eddying strings that create an absorbing sea of overtones. It would be remarkable even if it wasn’t a single-take recording; that it is, and also played through injury, makes the level of focus and expression feel nothing short of aspirational.
The remaining two songs are stark contrasts in mood. “Dexter,” named for Blackshaw’s late dog, forgoes guitar for territory closer to Kali Malone or William Basinski. A deep, three-note woodwind motif played by Charlotte Glasson repeats, as heavy as the earth sighing. The resonance bleeds as the sound of scratchy ephemera comes to the fore, a spine-tingling study in degradation and clarity. If “Dexter” plumbs the depths, then “Why Keep Still?” (originally released as an Adult Swim single in 2019) reaches for the heavens: Blackshaw’s guitar maintains an amiable country amble, chasing a piano’s high notes until they reach a tremulous, glittering chime, straining for transcendence.
None of the songs here feature Blackshaw’s singing, as 2015’s Summoning Suns did, but his voice cuts through nonetheless: weary, determined, hopeful. Nine years after his hiatus, the viability of existing as a musician is murkier than ever. The lucidity and beauty of this music feels hard-won, something to revere and cherish.
