Côr y Moelwyn A Seindorf Yr Oakeley – A Raw, Unfiltered Dive into Folk and Beyond
Let’s cut the crap: this album isn’t just another forgettable entry in the UK's folk scene. Released in 1995 on Sain Records, Côr y Moelwyn A Seindorf Yr Oakeley slams you with its raw energy and unapologetic mix of choral mastery and bold instrumentation. This ain't your grandma's easy-listening record—nope. It's got teeth, guts, and a vibe that sticks to your ribs like last night’s greasy takeaway.
Now, let’s talk tracks because not every song here is gonna blow your socks off. But when they hit? Holy hell, do they hit hard. Take "Where Shall I Be?", for example. The choir (Côr) brings it home so fiercely you can almost feel their voices echoing through some medieval stone church. You don’t need to understand Welsh (and honestly, who does?) to get chills from the way those harmonies rise and crash like waves against a cliff. It’s haunting as f but beautiful at the same time. Like staring at a storm while wrapped up in a blanket—you know it could kill ya, but damn if it ain’t mesmerizing.
Then there’s "The Lion King" by the band. Yeah, yeah, I see you rolling your eyes already. What, did they run outta ideas and just slap Disney on the tracklist? Nah, man. This one rips. It’s less about Simba finding himself and more about showing off what these musicians are made of. Horns blaring, drums pounding—it’s chaotic as all get-out, but somehow it works. Feels like being caught in the middle of a carnival parade where everyone forgot how to follow the script. Love it or hate it, it’s impossible to ignore.
This album straddles genres like a drunk cowboy trying to ride two horses at once. One moment you’re knee-deep in solemn hymns like "Salm 23," the next you’re vibing to something completely bonkers like "O Sole Mio." And yeah, sure, throwing an Italian classic into a Welsh folk album sounds nuts—but hey, why the hell not? That unpredictability keeps things fresh.
But here’s the kicker: listening to this feels like stepping into a time machine that broke halfway through. Half the songs scream tradition, rooted deep in centuries-old melodies and stories. The other half? They're reaching forward, experimenting without giving a toss whether it fits perfectly. And maybe that’s why it works. Maybe that tension—that push-and-pull between old-school grit and modern flair—is exactly what makes this album stick in your head long after the needle lifts.
So, would I recommend this? Hell yes—but only if you’ve got the stomach for something wild, untamed, and occasionally messy. If you want polished perfection, go listen to pop radio. But if you wanna hear music that fights back, that grabs you by the collar and demands attention… well, this might just be your jam.
Final thought: Whoever decided to pair "When The Saints Go Marching In" with a Welsh choir deserves either a medal or a lifetime ban from music production. Honestly, both sound right.
