Evangeline by Loren Connors

Previously released in limited CD quantities in 1998, Evangeline is a superb example of guitar wizard Loren Connors working in a romantic mode, in a suite of pieces that follow a story adapted from an 1847 epic poem. The rich, gorgeous audio has been remastered for this reissue, which also comes with new artwork and a story by Suzanne Langille. Edition of 500 LPs.

Vinyl LP £19.99 R29

LP on Recital. Edition of 500 copies. Features restored audio & new artwork by Loren Connors. Includes an 8.5”x11” insert: a story written by Suzanne Langille based on the epic poem, Evangeline.

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Evangeline by Loren Connors
1 review. Write a review for us »
8/10 Robin 22 June 2017

Lovely Loren continues to stop time, because someone has to. His records of ambient blues aimlessness have been wowing experimental crowds with a fever-pitch of reissues, and I maintain that the most special of his works I’ve heard have come through Sean McCann’s Recital imprint. ‘Evangeline’ is the third in a series of his super-quiet meditations from that label, conjuring up the same images of a lonely guitar craftsman sitting at a stool in an empty room. Give me hell for romanticising, if you want, but Loren Connors’ music will do that to you -- his guitar twinkles as bright and brief as a constellation of stars. 

‘Evangeline’ opens with some of Connors’ most melodic mumbles, its self-titled opener inviting a hum-along from singer Suzanne Langille. She wordlessly sings about Connors’ guitar in a way that humanises his sound for the first time. “Dance Acadia” and “Ships” follow almost tangible guitar lines that sound like Connors’ is inviting listeners in, not just around. It does not, you can guess, all sound like this, as the record instead deviates into the ominously broken chords of “Two Paths” and the lengthy drone of “The Brideroom of Snow”, which is a largely guitarless recording of ghostly wind unlike much else Connors has put his name to.

Written in the name of an epic poem written back in the 1800s, ‘Evangeline’ proves there to be something delightfully out of sync with Connors’ work, as if he’s communicating with the ghosts of a time he’ll never understand. This record loops cyclically back on certain motifs, sifting through them like conversation, inviting nearly-complete melodies in before seeing them obscured. It’s the kind of deeply personal but totally unknowable record only he could make.


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