Two Man Travelling Medicine Show

Contemporary folk rock in the UK tends to come in three formats which never the twain shall meet, usually. Firstly you’ve got your acoustic goodness with melancholic tales of woe and thoughtful romantic prose. It’s more often than not gentle, quirky and despite being either optimistic or pessimistic themed, it’s generally sprinkled with daisy chains and barefoot bearded bumpkins.

The second sort is the all-out frenzied banjo plucking, fiddler frolicking, footstompin’ no bars held scrumpy and western or Celtic fashion, which drags you on to a dusty dancefloor kicking and screaming, but rarely offers intelligent content or narrative. And third, Americana, the idea someone from Chipping Norton can get away with yodelling songs about boxcars and dustbowls while donning a Stetson hat in Waitrose.

If you’ve ever desired something in the middle, something which resets the balance, or cherrypicks the best elements of all and fuses them with a flow so neat it’s like they never parted company at all, you’ve come to the right place. Recorded and mixed entirely in a dark Dorset barn, Folkadelica is the irresistible new eleven strong tuned album from those rootsy alchemists the Two Man Travelling Medicine Show, and it’s released tomorrow (Friday 10th November) on Hangover Hill Records; hold on to my bowler hat, there’s a good fellow…

This is a lukewarm tea in a chipped floral mug, resting on a log near a campfire kinda album, it’s probably got an earthy taste but it’ll sure bring you round. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, never attempts to patronise, but in this it offers intelligent and crafted wordplay, against a backdrop of wonderfully entwined banjo string snapping folk, and twisted with a dash of psychedelia. Largely upbeat even when the chips are down in its narrative, it’s carefree danceable but should you cross examine the subjects, there’s plenty of colourful and intriguing characters played out here.

If it kicks off decidedly punky folk with a banger called the Second Law of Thermodynamics, the in-your-face element doesn’t linger quite so abruptly, musically, yet the album contains a punkish ethos, least its fury, in the narrative throughout. This one is to check you’re awake.

Second tune in is the single which attracted me to it, a self-confessed “apathetic middle England rubbish protest song,” called I’m so Angry I Could Vote. The tongue-in-cheek singalong lambasting the bizarre notion recent government inactions might cause even abstenters to vote relies on the reactionless middle classes creating an anthem, and for the sheer ludicrousy that might happen is its amusing charm. You realise from the off your satirical preferences are in reliable hands, and Folkadelica will take no prisoners.

There’s a glass-half-empty suspiciously biographical tale of a failed musician’s flopped feelings of grandeur called A Lot of People Hate Me, it amuses more than enough. You will find at least one observation you identify with here if not this one. Talk is Cheap is a downtempo gem of Pink Floyd-esque sound with a Positively 4th Street sentiment, amidst uptempo tracks besides the nature of their themes. Beguilingly melancholic and dejectedly romantic in subject are few tunes here, but the middle trio, Stand by the Road, King with No Throne and Starting Again, particularly stand out for broody prose.

Fatalistic raver inspired Smokescreen borders bluegrass and we’re back to footstomping. Repeat is perhaps the most engaging and reflective, if we all have a betraying friend who hit the bottle. Then it’s a vaudeville fashioned poverty commentary, a masterpiece of catchiness on shoplifting. It’s at this conjunction close to the finale, you consider just how idiosyncratically beautiful this trip has been, like returning home from an offbeat holiday.

Well, you have been trekking with a Two Man Travelling Medicine Show, what did you expect?! The conclusion to this makes you feel like you’ve been sitting on that log by the campfire, with your chipped mug, taking heed of this kooky duo’s words, their tales of grief, betrayal, and their slants on the state of politics, or the worth of shoplifting, all warped neatly in sublimely delivered carny DIY ether. Do check it out or continue to live your life influenced by the idiots this album lambasts so eloquently, passionately and satirically; either way, this doesn’t persuade you, merely angles your cuppa in a certain direction, and for that alone, I love it.

Folkadelica: Available digitally everywhere on Friday. Pre-save Spotify.

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