Like a living, breathing, multi-legged, multi-elbowed mass of musicians and instruments, Dublin nine-piece The Jimmy Cake have always been the kind of band who take their time over things. Theirs is a sound imbued with a tangible sense of deliberation and painstaking poise; perhaps that goes some way to explaining why there's been a five-year gap since their last release (2003's Superlady EP) and six since their last album (the acclaimed Dublin Gone, Everybody Dead).
Just as well, then, that the elongated gestation period of the instrumentalists' third full-length record has been justified. An album of understated melancholy, beautiful pacing and simple-yet-forcible arrangements, Spectre and Crown is like the soundtrack to an eerie fairytale. With so many instruments in their canon, it'd be easy for The Jimmy Cake to overwhelm these songs with noise just for the sake of it; but this is the sound of a band working as a cohesive unit, listening to each other, understanding the nuances and limitations of both their colleagues and the songs.
The band's experience is best illustrated in their song structures, however. The Day the Arms Came Out of the Wall, for example, opens with a gentle growl, continues onto atmospheric gloom and ends in sweeping majesty; slow-moving The Art of Wrecking mumbles into life, using rain and violin to potent effect, while Hugs for Buddy's toe-tapping intro slowly moves into streamlined Polyphonic Spree-style optimism.
The majority of Spectre and Crown is led by piano - be it the solemn, wistful codas that bookend the album (Red Tony and Last Breath), or the capricious ruffles dropped into any number of tracks - but there's no real star instrument or musician on show here. Spectre and Crown, like its creators, works best as a seamless, flowing mass of focused ideas, and is subsequently one of the most coherent, beautiful albums of the year so far.
