“I’m glad you’re here with Christmas cheer stuck right there in your nose,” offers Howard Enyon in the opening song “Wicked Wetdrop, Orange and Me,” from his long lost private press album. In 1974 the Tasmanian resident released a startling album of quirky tripped out acid folk tunes that’s been out of print ever since, becoming something of a near mystical obscurity.
Born in the UK, but raised in Tasmania since the age of 11, Enyon went on to a career in acting with small parts in the Sullivans, Mad Max, and The Man From Snowy River as well as various theatre productions. Though alongside this he also became a folksinger, regularly playing Hobart coffee houses and even winning New Faces in the early 70’s.
In the liner notes he speaks of embracing spontaneity in his live performances, of creating in the moment, and you get the sense that much of this album was written this way, as you never really know which direction the songs will go in next.
His vocals are distinctive, often interspersed with offhand quips, or funny voices. He sings, he wails, he growls, he speaks, and anything is possible. His lyrics are steeped heavy in psychedelia, “our branches are the woodwind for the air to play, “ he offers in the rhyming, spoken word poem “Village Hill.” There’s a deep love of wordplay here, lots of humour, double entendre’s, surreal images, nostalgia, even protest songs.
The music is very much a product of its times, which is what makes it so fascinating now. Whilst predominantly acoustic guitar based, he’s also joined by spare and tasteful violin, mellotron, flute, synths, french horn, double bass, electric harpsichord, percussion and electric piano.
There’s a certain structural playfulness to his music, particularly the tongue twisting one and a half minutes of “Gone to the Pine Tree,” which just slows and speeds up mid song, depending on Enyon’s inclinations. In fact much of Enyon’s music seems like a response to a spontaneous whim, yet over time it becomes clear that the music is very much driven by his lyrics – which is quite clear on the cheeky yet quite complex “Roast Pork,” which is almost like three songs in one. You can hear vague references to everyone from Dylan, to Nick Drake, even Robert Wyatt in his sounds and approach. Yet it’s so quirky and idiosyncratic that’s it’s a pretty safe bet to suggest that you’ve never heard anything quite like this long lost acid folk curio.
