The Ballad Of General Jupiter feels like Anton Roolaart clearing his throat before delivering a long, strange story—one that unfolds patiently, scene by scene, rather than chasing obvious climaxes. This is a record that trusts its materials. Themes are introduced obliquely, allowed to breathe, then quietly reshaped as the album progresses. There's a balladeer's sense of narrative here, but filtered through a contemporary, slightly askew compositional lens: folk-like gestures are stretched, harmonies hover rather than resolve, and time itself feels elastic. Musically, Roolaart works with restraint and intention. Motifs recur with small but telling variations—melodic fragments reappear altered in register or harmony, giving the sense of memory rather than repetition. Even when the music becomes more animated, the movement feels internal, as though the album is thinking rather than performing. This lends the record a quiet gravity, entirely appropriate for a work framed as a "ballad," albeit one narrated from a distance. While Anton Roolaart is very clearly the gravitational centre of the album—handling vocals, guitars, bass, keyboards and synths—The Ballad Of General Jupiter never feels like a solitary exercise. Instead, it unfolds as a carefully moderated collaboration, with each additional voice and instrument expanding the narrative rather than competing with it. Roolaart's multi-instrumental control gives the record its coherence, but it's the surrounding performances that add depth, colour and a sense of lived-in complexity. Rave Tesar (Renaissance) on piano and keyboards provides much of the album's harmonic shading reinforcing the record's modal drift and quiet tension. Bob Kirby's drums and percussion are similarly restrained: rhythms emerge as suggestion and contour rather than pulse-driven statements, giving the music a forward motion that feels organic and unforced. Wouter Schueler (New Cool Collective) on flute and saxophones introduces a distinctly human breath into the arrangements, often acting as secondary narrators that echo or gently refract Roolaart's melodic ideas. In terms of lineage, The Ballad Of General Jupiter sits somewhere between modern chamber folk, post-minimalist composition and the more reflective end of experimental songwriting. There are faint echoes of artists who value narrative ambiguity and slow revelation—early Penguin Cafe Orchestra in its more introspective moments, or contemporary folk-classical hybrids that prioritise texture over display. Amsterdam opens the album like a train pulling into a misty station—ethereal synths, solemn pacing, and a guitar solo that drips melancholy. It's cinematic, pastoral, and sets the stage for the album's narrative sweep. Musically it reminds me of Pink Floyd's Meddle period. The title track sets the storyline: orchestral swells, jazzy drifts, and vocals that flirt with Bowie's theatricality, an element which weaves it's way through most of the album. It's part elegy, part cosmic fable, and the arrangement feels like a lost Alan Parsons experiment. This is followed by The Cry Of Seven Doves a contemplative, Dantean ballad with hints of Lou Reed's vocal phrasing. Folk drift meets symphonic layering, creating a meditative pause in the album's arc. This is perhaps my favourite track. On Touch Your Desire Roolaart leans into art-pop sensibilities while with Star Child we find Ziggy Stardust meets Prog mysticism. The track balances cosmic imagery with melodic accessibility. Rain is a moody interlude, understated yet emotionally resonant. The textures here feel cinematic, like a soundtrack cue between larger movements while And The Sky Turned Yellow is a dramatic, almost apocalyptic piece which conjures a surreal landscape. Closing with Yesterday and Today (Jon Anderson cover) is a bold choice. Roolaart treats it reverently, but adds his own symphonic polish, tying the album's cosmic themes back to prog's spiritual roots. Ultimately, Roolaart isn't trying to dazzle. The Ballad Of General Jupiter accumulates meaning gradually, leaving a residue rather than a hook. It's a record that asks for patience and repays it with depth, unfolding less like a statement and more like a shared recollection—quietly assembled, carefully told, and lingering long after the final notes have faded. ***+ David Carswell Where to buy? |
