Meg Mulhearn - Let It Burn Through the Night

A Closer Listen

Ceremony of Seasons returns this week with its seventh pairing, a celebration of the winter solstice that expands to encompass the entire season.  Again the winter wine was released on the solstice, and the album early in the new year.  The delay seems fitting, due to the frigid theme; while the higher elevations of Asheville, North Carolina have already seen snow, the main story has been the cold ~ at the time of writing, the temperature is 7F/-17C, the same as Montreal.  In New York, a 701-day snow drought was finally broken last week, to the delight of children and dogs.

This music wants to accompany cold weather, while the wine begs to be sipped while staring at vistas of white.  An immediate plum aroma greets the sipper, conjuring an image of purple that matches the tint of the bottle label and matching album cover, as well as the vinyl within.  The music is frosty: violin and synth.  Meg Mulhearn plays patiently, playfully, looping and layering, mimicking the layers necessary to venture out in such cold.  The sun is gone, yet already nudging nearer, emerging from the longest night.  By release day ~ February 2 ~ there is already an hour more of light.  Such things are undetectable around the solstice, when the light returns in smaller increments, but this album reflects its cumulative powers, gathering clarity as it progresses.

The wine is subtler and more acidic than expected, given the aroma, and the first sip brings a corresponding chill.  It’s also the most grape of all the wines we’ve tried to date, a strange thing to say about a wine, but fitting here.  I’ve paired this particular Nebbiolo with beef; although deer might be more appropriate given the season, I’m partial to a good burger.  Here is the irony of the wine: meant to be served only slightly chilled, its instant breath of coldness eventually settles into warmth.  The same might be said of the season, and the appeal of good company and a warm fire.  Mulhearn is also settling in.  Her violin grows more apparent as the album progresses, sounding more like an orchestra than the work of a solo artist.  The album begins as ambient drone, but by “Shortest Day” has shifted to modern composition, just as day shifts to night, fall shifts to winter and bustle turns to rest.  And like those incremental increases in daylight, the shift goes unnoticed until fully formed. At the beginning of “Darkest Night,” the violin sounds like an aching guitar, harsh and dramatic, settling into a final whirl of synths, like snowflakes in a tornadic gust.

As the wine settles back to room temperature, it grows softer, fruitier, more relaxed, like the contrast between “Snowdrop” and “Internal.”  By “Calm and Bright,” Mulheran is sharing more than a reference to a famous carol; she is reminding listeners of the beauty of contrasts.  As cold shoveling leads to hot cocoa, the outer darkness proposes a fire, a blanket, a hearth.  Let It Burn Through the Night refers not to an unsafe fireplace practice but an internal resistance, a spiritual fire that cuts through the dark and makes even the coldest season seem warm.  (Richard Allen)