Disasternoon, the third album from Crayola Lectern, finds Chris Anderson – producer, recorder, and mixer – alongside Damo Waters and Alistair Strachan crafting music with a scope that far exceeds the trio line-up. Acoustic and electronic elements jostle and blend, enriched by theremin, mellotron, cornets, and more, building a vivid, shifting soundscape. Each piece unfolds with a measured mix of familiarity and surprise, guided by harmonic turns and shifts in texture, all underpinned by Anderson’s echo-laden, sermon-like vocals. At times cinematic and existential, at others stripped-back and warmly human, Disasternoon is as rich in colour as it is in character. Recorded at Ghosty Mill Studio in Worthing and mastered at Golden HIVE in Prague, it’s released August 15th via Onomatopoeia Records, followed by a run of UK live dates.
Anderson’s musical path has been anything but ordinary, and his contributions have been immense. Raised in Bedford, he enjoyed a brief stint playing bass for Spiritualized, collaborated with R.E.M.’s Peter Buck in his other band Departure Lounge, and has shared stages and studios with members of The Go-Betweens, The Sundays, The Lotus Eaters, Cardiacs, and countless more. Disasternoon has been some seven years in the making, its progress slowed by the pandemic, and marks the first of over 20 albums Anderson has written that he’s produced himself. “My songs are about feelings of loss and isolation,” Anderson recalls, “and all of a sudden, it wasn’t just me – everyone was feeling that!” The record carries echoes of The Flaming Lips and Robert Wyatt, blending existential reflection with moments of warmth and reminiscence. “I kind of feel the music speaks for itself,” he admits, “but for it to be interesting to other people I need to put things into words.”
Anderson takes on vocals, piano, mellotron, synths, organs, sax, guitars, and bass; Strachan adds trumpet, glockenspiel, and cornet; Waters anchors the arrangements on drums and percussion. The result is a sound that shifts between cinematic scope, minimalist restraint, bold crescendos, and quiet moments of solemnity – coloured by psychedelia and what some have described as “melanchodelia.” Its songs dwell in themes of isolation, catastrophising, and human fragility, yet manage to cast their shadows in a strangely beautiful light.
“They’re inspired by anger,” Anderson says. “But then I ask myself, how can I make that anger beautiful?”
The album opens with ‘Sad Cornetto’, a lengthy and colourful track that defies expectations for how its textures will progress. The blend of acoustic and electronic instruments is wonderful, with sweet glockenspiel rousings that are gentle and unhurried, until growing dissonance bubbles away into a stripped-back verse grounded simply in piano. Anderson’s vocals arrive with a resonant, chamber-like presence – almost as an omnipotent voice – and a captivating start to the record. What follows is ‘Aparty Days’, a piece about Anderson’s daughter moving to the US during childhood. It begins with an old-timey, muffled piano and synth, as if filtered through a gramophone, before opening into a warm, rounded blend of rippling piano arpeggios and a cornet melody that dances delicately above. The refrain, “calling out to be with him,” anchors the song in tenderness, while a trembling electronic shimmer slips in to change the texture’s character. By the end, it feels as though you’ve been led by the hand through shifting skies and sudden downpours – yet never once wished to turn back.
The album’s lead single, ‘Disasternoon’, is a twisting journey into escapism. It opens with a militaristic drum pattern, straight chord stabs, and haunting background vocals, before a high, slightly sinister melody threads its way in. The momentum eases into a ballad – one that sounds phenomenal blasted out of my record player speakers (the vinyl pressing is a lovely addition to my collection). It’s catchy, upheld by a thick, harmonious synth backing, with a sweet and endearing trumpet verse. Everything then builds – adding texture, instruments and expansive chords – until it feels ready to take off, and it does. Its narrative is concise, cinematic, and final, making it the standout track of the album.
Some of the vast, erupting waves of texture and colour calm down with ‘Stars Over Louth’, a shorter, much-needed interlude. Minimalist piano drifts among muted brass, creating an understated instrumental that is picked back up into ‘The Sky Over The Sea’. What feels settled quickly turns eerie as dissonance creeps in and synths remain stagnant, poised to shift, while new melodic lines introduce unexpected characters. There’s a sense of anticipation – uncensored, improvisational, as if things are slowly being stirred. The piano nudges the tempo forward, but never fully escapes the restrained tension, crafting a mood that could easily serve as a theme in a Tim Burton film.
‘Dissolve’ follows, depicting a character named Angelito wrestling with his mental health, though it’s more contemplative than stormy or harrowing like the earlier tracks. Anderson repeats the word “dissolve” as the harmonies thicken and a subtle sense of hope emerges – there’s an acknowledgment of mental turmoil, faced directly and honestly: it is what it is for now, and there is light within it. The album then moves into ‘Oblivion’, a solemn exploration of mental surrender.
“Hold me close, oblivion / fold me in your heart / down and down we go.”
Here, Anderson’s vocals are quietly beautiful – existential but calm. The narrator isn’t giving up; rather, they embrace the inevitable, and the track concludes with that serene, reflective acceptance, leaving the listener suspended in its contemplative glow.
The album closes with ‘Coscoroba’, featuring Maria Marzaioli (of YOU&TH and Slum of Legs) on violin, portraying the titular swan gliding and dancing across the water. Marzaioli’s emotive playing grows with harmonies, creating a dramatic, virtuosic moment before the texture fractures and new purpose emerges through tempo, renewed textures, and movement toward a proper finale. It’s as if you ascend to the heavens – alongside clean electronic guitar riffs, a contrast to the album’s warmer, more muffly moment. Then there’s distortion and droning synths – the Krautrock elements are a delight – and you can take a breath at the top (but you’ll think you’re there, and then things will evolve and ascend even further). It’s final and hints at an exploration into new sonic realms for Crayola Lectern.
Disasternoon is an album of remarkable ambition, blending cinematic expanses, minimalism, and bold experimentation with moments of solemness, isolation, and existential reflection. Its narrative unfolds with precision, each track varying in length to provide space whilst sustaining immersion. Themes of mortality, mental illness, and human connection are explored lyrically, yet it’s the album’s instrumental imagination – its textures, timbres, and vibrant characters – that truly elevate it. For anyone with as much enjoyment of instrumental music as myself, it’s definitely worth a listen; the scope and ambition on display make it a standout work. Anderson’s haunting vocals serve as an emotional anchor, but it’s the sonic landscapes he conjures that will have me re-listening.
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Review by Cerys Smith
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