Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *

You can walk the entirety of this land’s coast line and occasionally you come across those pockets of space that seem to exist only in the imagination or in the realms of fantasy, the quiet places, the only sound is that of the crashing sea as it argues over the point of sovereignty, of where the water meets the might of cliffs and the unguarded beaches. No human to be found to hear the constant declaration of war, no person to feel the calm when the mutual shaking of the elements has reached its peace; you can walk these coast lines and relish the thought that someday you will visit Silent Shores.

It is this opportunity to sit down and take in a view with no human sound surrounding you that perhaps we like to imagine ourselves being able to offer our souls, the notion of being marooned on a desert island, that is driven by the romantic in us, but we soon understand that an island is nothing more than an open prison, it is nothing but serving a solitary sentence without the aid of others to brighten our day.

The Folk Doctors, John Armstrong and Ultan Mulhern, seem to instinctively understand this, the coast is but a sample of what you can expect when the world becomes too much, too noisy, and yet those Silent Shores are still attached to the land, an hour out of sync with the rest of humanity, the chance to breathe and reflect, and still find a way to be part of a society that is so much larger than we realise.

It is in the cast iron assurance supplied by the patient thought and performance of The Folk Doctors that make songs such as Birkenhead, Hardest Working Man, the uncomfortable foreknowledge of We Were Soldiers, the brilliance of The Nobility of Rain, Storyteller and Reflections unseen, such a delight to listen to.

To breathe in the air of the Silent Shores, to know that for a time the only company you have, and need, is your own thoughts and a great Folk album playing in your ears, that makes it all the more worthwhile when you step back among the crowded rooms and embrace the sorrow of the frantic promenade.

Ian D. Hall