The only thing better than not having to go to work, is the rare feeling of leaving it having got the better of it. Those days when you gained command of it rather than the other way around.
Few songs conjure up the satisfaction of the ordinariness of a good day’s work and the retreat home to the hearth. It’s a feeling that doesn’t register on the scale of giddy relief, nor merits notification to anyone other than yourself. More like the release of a pent up exhale rippling through your fringe on clocking out than a celebratory air-punch.
The Trials of Van Occupanther sounds like the album equivalent of a fire log, chopped earlier that morning in a day full of small jobs that together produce the chemical symbol for near domestic contentment. It’s the similarly small details in the sound that produce the album’s timelessness that had reviewers clamouring to assign it an era. Pianos compete with flutes that rub up against guitars that abseil down wistful lyrics. It’s ’60s English folk. No, it’s ’70s Laurel Canyon. Hang on, it’s the best album Fleetwood Mac never made.
It’s probably a little of all these things, which makes it unique in its own way. The possible metaphors in Head Home are plentiful; unlike the “harvest time” that sounds like it’s not. Taken literally, it’s an apt one to travel home to on a damp Tuesday night that doesn’t leave me dreading Wednesday morning.