In a blog towards the end of last year, I gave a head's up that Midlake’s The Courage of Others was impending. Well, it's out. And, as predicted in that same mediatation, it has in fact turned out to be an incandescent and pastoral work of Much Greatness.

A lot of the Professional Music Pontificates are alluding to its similarity to the foggy, British Isles acoustic music of Fairport Convention, Lindisfarne, Strawbs and Renaissance — which are by and large reasonable comparisons. Of course, these same writers are also sorta downplaying the album because, in their collective opinion, there’s no monstrously memorable hook in any one particular song that would equal "Rosco" on their previous and similarly excellent The Trials of Van Occupanther.

Lazy bastards.

Even on first listen, these songs are amazing. And, on the second and third time through the disc, I’d say this CD is going to be a favorite for a long, long time. And there are plenty of hooks: spend quality time with "Rulers, Ruling Others," "Winter Dies," "Acts of Man," "The Horn" and the title cut (with its fond homage to the ghostly coda of King Crimson’s majestic "Epitaph"). In fact, there are no weak cuts on the whole album.

As for the ancestral link to long-ago UK folk-prog:  yes, you can hear it. At the same time, there’s something about Midlake that is distinct and wonderful and contemporarily haunting. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that, while it’s probably not possible, I could imagine that the sound of Midlake evolved without any of the band members, or songwriter/vocalist Tim Smith, being even remotely familiar with Strawbs or Richard Thompson.

I dunno.

Midlake is so freakin’ terrific that I like to think the band evolved its sound in a hermetically sealed vacuum of creativity without other influences. Maybe they all lived in some forest together, worshipping an anter’d stag god of antiquity, who in turn taught them to play instruments and sing together in pagan supplication.

I mean, you listen to Courage and its crystalline acoustic guitar arpeggios, the harvest-meadow flutes and the spooky melodies delivered in the cluster-harmonies of hooded monks — and I swear you can smell woodsmoke and damp earth and raindrops and stout mead and the melting wax of thousands of flickering votive candles.

And what I hope you will soon hear the sounds of sixteen semi-trucks delivering Midlake’s equipment to sold-out 15,000 seat arenas because by God that’s what they deserve. This is a really, really killer band and album.