Big Big Train – Folklore – 2016 – High-Resolution Audio Version
Tracks: Folklore, Along the Ridgeway, Salisbury Giant, London Plane, Mudlarks, Lost Rivers of London, The Transit of Venus Across the Sun, Wassail, Winkie, Brooklands, Telling the Bees
I wasn’t going to review this album. In all honesty, the others at Progarchy who reviewed it have done a much better job than I will. That, and I really didn’t like this album at first. I chalked my initial misgivings as simply, “you can’t win them all.” I figured I would have to accept that nothing else from 2016 would come close to Haken’s Affinity, which I’m still convinced that not much else will.
Admittedly, my first impression upon hearing the CD setlist of the album was, meh. I didn’t like the opening track, as parts of it were too poppy, and I don’t think Big Big Train writes compelling poppy songs. When I saw that “Wassail” was on this album, I was slightly disappointed, since that song grew to grate on me from 2015’s EP. Too much repetition in the chorus. Both “Folklore” and “Wassail” reminded me of “Make Some Noise,” another song that I find tolerable, but wish hadn’t ever been produced by this band. It just doesn’t fit with the rest of their songs. Overall, the track listing didn’t really work. The album didn’t flow, which seemed strange for this band.
My journey as a passenger on the Folklore train did not end there, however. I discovered that the band had another track listing, a definitive one, released as a vinyl record. I saw that it included “Lost Rivers of London” (one of my favorite BBT songs) and “Mudlarks,” another fantastic track. The band also chose to release this track listing as a high-resolution audio download. After annoying Brad for the lossless FLAC files of said hi-res download, I gave the album another shot. I’m glad I did.
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If in May 1972 the 
album, Falling Satellites (Progarchy review 
“Unlikely” is probably the right word, that the hairiest, grittiest, straight-uppenest American rock record of the 1970s, maybe ever, would be made by an English band in tax exile in the south of France lolling in sheer European decadence. That the Rolling Stones attained such a state of grace is only partly surprising, though, given the sheer will of their progress to the point of Exile on Main Street: with Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, and Sticky Fingers the writing was on the wall, but it was this double album that sealed their legend, where the channeling was complete, where without seams the Deep South blackness poured through their pasty, pale, drug-addled limey fingers in drums and basses and guitars and voxes and keys and horns. They hadn’t just gone to the crossroads, they’d set up the tent years before and waited it out, for the spirit to finally visit them. “Satisfaction”? “Get Off My Cloud”? Even “Honky Tonk Women,” with its perfect guitar? Those were killing time, chop builders, and the work they’ve done since has had high points too but has never been more than the downhill coast. Exile’s the big meet up, a meticulously made album with no contrivance, a blues turned over with a rock shovel, originals mixing with covers with barely a hint of borderline, as if this is their music as much as it is yours or mine or 
Progarchy 