the innocence mission
Midwinter Swimmers
Therese Records
Under its breath, Midwinter Swimmers whispers “wish you were here,” as a fog of sweet and delicate indie-folk pop rolls in. Missing friends and lovers greatly, The Innocence Mission — the group’s usual lowercase stylization seemingly inadequate on this occasion, where such rare and nuanced richness and beauty are exhibited — breaks its four-year vow of silence with an insular, slightly lo-fi album of vaporous quiet-core musings on absence and memory as evocative and meaningful as its title.
Pull at “This Thread Is a Green Street” and Midwinter Swimmers gently unravels like a pretty bow, the shimmering opener on the first Innocence Mission LP since 2020’s See You Tomorrow, covered in a halo of soft reverb and uplifted by The Sundays’ fair-haired strum. In its warm embrace, searching lyricist and singer Karen Peris casually asks, “Do you know, where did it go, the other land in the heart?” She’s only just beginning to realize how far away it is.
Her lovely, lithe poetry, wistfully seeking to bridge immeasurable distance and walk in light, anxiously anticipating long-awaited reunions and disoriented by loss, is released like doves into the record’s frosty air to commune with nature and marvel at its colors. She plays almost everything from mellotron to piano, pump organ, and other keyboards, plus the occasional bass and various guitars, with her nylon string guitar exercises giving Midwinter Swimmers its essence. Husband Don, wandering from guitars to drums and vocal harmonies and back again, and their longtime partner Mike Bitts on bass add structure, bright clarity, and fluid, melodic movement.
Setting aside the discussion of roles, what sends Midwinter Swimmers to the big leagues — where The Innocence Mission has always belonged — is not only the sublime, timeless songwriting and the moving universality and maturity of its themes, but also its close, inviting atmosphere and retro sophistication. Effortless in its winsome revival of classic ‘60s pop tropes, it throws a Vashti Bunyan-like shroud over “The Camera Divides the Coast of Maine,” “Sisters and Brothers,” and “Orange of the Westering Sun,” the latter revisiting the heyday and lazy heat of Laurel Canyon and the other two strolling misty London streets arm in arm with The Clientele.
Imported from Brazil by way of snowy Vermont, “Your Saturday Picture” slips into a gossamer bossa nova swing, whereas the lushness and tender, turning gears of “A Hundred Flowers” and “Cloud to Cloud” sit with a pleasurable melancholy that could last all day. Like walking in on a small book club of introverts in a closed library, experiencing Midwinter Swimmers feels intrusive and yet, it’s also welcoming, even if it’s hesitant to expand its circle of friends.
