The words ‘genius’ and long-awaited’ seem something of a platitude thesedays whenever uttered in deference of Kate Bush. Still there’s no getting away from the fact that the enigmatic singer-songwriter who reared us suckling babes on a mixed-diet of leotards and bleak literary references is something of a rarity in English music: a fresh and imaginative icon unafraid to scale the dizzying heights of invention or retire into the bosom of English heritage both; as happy to trade steps with bodhrán and fiddles as she is dallying with technology. And, after a 12-year interval, her spirit is back with us; in visitation at least, as she’s just as likely to wane in a cloud of mist before 2006 along with the entire population of Brigadoon and our beating hearts t’boot. So while we’ve got her attention; let’s indulge her at least.
Aerial, a double album, and Kate’s first since 1993’s The Red Shoes is a beguiling but not wholly surprising spiders web of ebbing seasons, small epiphanies and erotic latin beats – decorated generously by Bush’s characteristically elfin vocal, a smattering of fine-art and a sweet-smelling basket of flowers. Although tracing the flow of the seasons, Bush’s world is still predominantly autumn. Sombre, muted pianos press idly forward at leisurely intervals, strings rise and swell, fires gently crackle, shadows are long and low, folks are stepping out of wet clothes, leaves are falling and comets and stars are clearly visible. Even Bush’s crimson ‘Sunset’ is framed by the frosty stabs of the ivories and the remote coquetry of the salsa rhythms. Even now, she’s still wuthering over nothing. Remote yet craved as much as the honey-coloured summer skies she laments so beautifully in the pearly amber of ‘Sunset’, Bush understands perfectly well the value of understatement. These songs could have been illustrated with all the meticulous bells and whistle of previous productions numbers like ‘Hounds Of Love’ or ‘The Dreaming’ but instead she plays it soft. The less she gives, the more we crave. And whilst it may be difficult to truly engage with the mawkishly private, lyrical tenure of tracks like ‘Bertie’ and ‘Mrs Bartololozi’ their simple, yet surprising, flights of pure silliness illuminate.
Yes, she’s still whimsical, yes she’s still tirelessly surreal, yes she’s still bringing on the likes of Rolf Harris and Michael Wood to add a touch of historical depth and bookish charm to the usual gamut of styles, and yes she’s not for the first time drawing on unlikely subject matter to pique our interests (washing machines, an infatuation with Pi, how to be invisible, an architect’s dream) – but one thing is new at least; Bush seems happy with her lot at last.