The reason that so few of the hundreds of songs he’s recorded as Holy Sons has been shared with the outside world is given as “laziness, self-righteousness, depression, anarchism and megalomania”. Such an angsty combination is not so unusual, especially as Emil had spent his formative years as a dedicated hardcore punk/skater, a noble scene that bred optimism for social change only to be subsumed by an industry it rallied against.

Matured and established, Emil’s sound on Criminal’s Return (his second solo album in a prolific year that also saw albums by both Grails and Om) is much more downer than upper, drawing on influences that wholly precede his punk roots spanning the East Coast folk and West Coast acid rock scenes of the sixties and European prog rock of the seventies. While these influences are crucial to all of Emil’s projects, this album surprises initially in its brazen adoption of conventional song forms that eschew the abandon of freaked out intervals.

Apparently the songs tell a tale of bitter rehabilitation following a criminal newly-released from prison. While certainly melancholy, some tracks do seem anecdotal in their brevity, meaning the album feels more like a compilation of songs and sketches recorded over the last few years than a linear concept. Rooted by a traditional ensemble of electric and acoustic guitar, bass, organ and drums, they confidently charm with remarkable restraint as no single timbre is allowed to dominate. This blend of meticulously recorded, rich instrumentation is what ultimately grabs the attention this understated album deserves.

And once seduced, the apparent simplicity unravels to reveal subtle undercurrents of experimentation that are there to complement as opposed to confound. The expected, impeccable live percussion is replaced by chaste drum machines on two pieces (the broody pop rock of Fermenting Mind and the drifting thematic Criminal’s Return Pt. 1), while drums are not featured at all on Criminal’s Return Pt 2, whose pacey xylophone, tightly distorted guitar and sinister organ fills would not be out of place on the soundtrack for a cult Italian horror film. Field recordings are often planted with care, where shore lines, bird song, running water and even a horse neighing add a convincing atmosphere of the great outdoors. So when the odd speech sample from an old film or advertisement crops up it can feel a little clumsy, breaking an otherwise potent potion of unsynthesised Americana.  Overall, this organic feel re-enacts recorded life before the tyrannical grid of digital recording and forges a forgotten glow that gets stronger with each repeated listen.