Meles Lutra’s sophomore album, Meles Meles, is a rich, sprawling tapestry of folk, jazz, and classical influences—one of those rare records that manages to feel both timeless and boundary-pushing. The Cornish duo, Chris and Annabelle South weave entire ecosystems, teeming with badgers, bees, and the ghosts of ancient woodlands. It’s nature worship in musical form, but never in a twee, hand-holding, druid-robe sort of way. There’s a rawness here, a sense of awe and urgency that lifts Meles Meles beyond the usual pastoral folk fare.
From the opening notes of Oak Tree, it’s clear that this album isn’t content to sit quietly in the background. Annabelle’s voice is haunting yet warm, the kind that could just as easily soothe you to sleep as it could send shivers down your spine. The woodwind arrangements, layered with intricate fingerpicked guitar, set an immediate tone—this is music that breathes, expanding and contracting like the landscapes it conjures.
Where Meles Meles shines is in its ability to balance delicate beauty with moments of genuine strangeness. Take Beelines—what starts as a gently lilting folk number gradually unravels into something more unpredictable, with jittery, jazz-inflected rhythms mirroring the frenetic energy of the insect world it celebrates. It’s a technique Meles Lutra use throughout the album, slipping effortlessly between traditional folk melodies and unexpected harmonic shifts that keep things from ever feeling too comfortable.
There’s a cinematic quality to much of the record, with Carn Du standing out as a slow-burning highlight. Here, It’s melancholic but never maudlin, the kind of song that makes you want to stare out to sea and brood over things you probably don’t need to be brooding about.
If there’s a criticism to be made, it’s that Meles Meles occasionally leans so heavily into atmosphere that it risks losing some of its punch. Tracks like Porpoise Autopsy (easily one of the best song titles of the year) and Now The Green Blade Riseth unfold at a glacial pace, their meandering structures feeling more like soundscapes than fully fleshed-out songs. That’s not necessarily a bad thing—there’s an almost hypnotic quality to these moments—but a sharper dynamic shift here and there wouldn’t go amiss.
Then there’s Change Is Possible, the closer, and arguably the album’s mission statement. It’s a plea, a protest, and a glimmer of hope all rolled into one, tying together the recurring themes of environmental urgency that hum beneath the surface of the entire record.
Ultimately, Meles Meles isn’t background music—it demands your attention, and rewards it. It’s ambitious, immersive, and just the right amount of strange.
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