It starts with a Centipede. Tamsin Wilson’s voice scurries along a skin of beats and directly under yours. It’s an understated start to a brilliantly underplayed album by her band Wilsen, and a haunting number in both sound and words. “Oh I envy how you move those hundred little legs / I’ve never been as fine without a name,” sings Wilson while enthralled by the ‘ataraxia’. As album openers go, it’s near unforgettable.
Strangely enough, I Go Missing In My Sleep is a somnambulist record in the best way. It doesn’t upset the serenity of the world around it, behaving in ways that seem so organic that you daren’t wake it. Even the orchestral crashes are part of the landscape on Garden, the expect creaking of a record that’s at peace with existence and its vagaries.
For a debut record, it makes bold but natural moves. The lithe guitar of Heavy Steps deceives as the chorus rolls around, adding layers of hope in all the lurching. There’ll be reductive comparisons to Daughter, but Wilsen exchange their density for something that lives more in pastoral twilight. The small brushstrokes of A Parting, the quietly regal Emperor, all of it adds up to one thing: a tremendous alt-folk debut.