The majority of our most beloved children's stories weren't written with kids' gloves. From Hans Christian Andersen to the Brothers Grimm, the fantastical has always intermingled in equal measure with the terrifying, in ways often more grisly and frank than we remember outside of Angela Carter adaptations. As the former mouthpiece for the now defunct Arab Strap, Aidan Moffat has never been stranger to this sort of balance of ugliness and beauty. As L. Pierre (formerly Lucky Pierre), the moniker used for his now decade-long running found-sound project, he's leaned much harder on the latter.
With The Island Come True, his fourth L. Pierre release and the first since 2007's Dip, Moffat has found a spiritual kinship with fellow Scot and author J.M. Barrie, most famous for his Peter Pan stories. The album takes it's name from a chapter from Peter & Wendy, and it too is grimmer than you probably remember: For all the adventure and wonder crammed into its few thousand words, the segment is littered with sorrow, longing and blood. Using crackling piano suites, field recordings, found loops and swelling bits of dusty classical pieces, Moffat has crafted something similarly antique and unexpectedly dark, a moving if not fractured album that feels congruent with Barrie's mix of the fantastic and the fearful.
On previous L. Pierre recordings, Moffat was keen to toy around with his collages, adding his own electronic flourishes to help round things out. But on The Island Come True (as hinted at on Dip), he's done away with any sort of tinkering, leaving his combinations of these existing pieces to speak for themselves. "There's something beautiful in hearing the grit and hiss of old recordings," Moffat has said of the album, and it's not hard to see the commonalities shared with James Kirby's work as The Caretaker. Though not as affecting but certainly more varied and melodramatic, Moffat has made his best album as L. Pierre with The Island Come True, a snapshot of his own little slice of Neverland.
Moffat is clearly still interested in telling stories, but it's not always so easy to follow his train of thought. Whereas something like An Empty Bliss Beyond This World is distinct and singular in its narrative, The Island Come True works like a collection of shorts, many of which manage to strike rich emotional chords. At one moment, you're floating a gondola down the Styx as a hair-raising concertina plays on in the background ("Harmonic Avenger"), and the very next you're being treated to a minute and a half of rusty, tumbling drums ("Drums"). Children mutter phonetic nonsense in lullaby ("Dumbum"), old recordings of relaxation techniques are layered hypnotically ("Tulpa"), seagulls shriek in the distance ("Kab 1340"). What's left is more of a jigsaw puzzle that is occasionally stunted due to a lack of fluidity, but the pervading mood is unmistakable: Like a forlorn soundtrack to a Quay Brothers film, the music paints strange, tiny pictures where you can see the vintage machinations at work.
Moffat is most consistent in his creations when the focus is centered around string and piano driven pieces. While something like "Sad Laugh" might be the best representation of his intent here (it's difficult to discern whether the sounds you're hearing are children laughing or crying), the most unhurried pieces are the ones that truly stick. With the piercing crescendos of "The Grief That Does Not Speak" or the lonely slow waltz of the album's finest piece "Exits", Moffat is able to excavate more sorrow and loveliness than his technique would suggest. Coupled with the creaking, popping physicality of the music-- a sensory experience akin to cracking a leathery old book-- The Island Come True reacts like a lost shadow being reunited with his owner.
