A spellbinding tribute to nature and the Cornish spirit, Daisy Rickman’s Howl blends folk, mysticism, and profound simplicity.

Emerging from the mystical landscapes of Cornwall, folk singer Daisy Rickman’s self-released sophomore album Howl is a magical ode to the sun, which translates to “howl” in Cornish. Ebbing and flowing, expanding and contracting in its own time, “Howl” is refreshingly unhurried, encouraging deeper connection with the Earth and oneself across ten devotional tracks.

“Falling Through the Rising Sun” instantly casts a meditative spell over listeners – its simple lyric “all we have is one, falling through the rising sun” repeats throughout, while Rickman’s sonorous vocals are enveloped by the rich tones of a sitar. It’s an utterly intoxicating opening track, drawing us in with a heady mix of softness and intensity that flows into “Bleujen an Howl”. Translating into “sunflower”, the song’s Cornish lyrics fall like a mesmerising prayer on unfamiliar ears, as deep, haunting melodies roll across six minutes of intricate guitar strums grounded by the steady sway of a tambourine.

In “Signpost to the Stars”, Rickman wanders through a celestial realm while pondering love and loss: “the day I turn to dust / here I will roam / the day I find you there / I’ll find my home”. She tackles the heaviness of grief with a tender sonic lightness – listeners are cocooned in gentle guitar strums and soothing low vocals in a way that is both melancholic and comforting, with quiet yet profound vulnerability. Bringing us back down to earth, “Feed the Forest” evokes wild pastoral imagery, guiding us deep into Cornwall’s otherworldly countryside with layers of guitars and unwavering, rousing vocals: “feed the forest / let it grow”, she sings over and over, inviting us to nurture both the soil and the soul.

Having captured the warmth of the sun, the vastness of the sky, and the vitality of the forest, Rickman also reveres the solitude of winter. Recorded during the pandemic, “Winter Solstice” elicits a darker atmosphere through its hazy percussion and muffled overlapping vocals. The aptly-titled “Howlsedhesow” – meaning sunset or west – brings the album to a gentle close, as Rickman’s plaintive vocals cut through the dreamy ambience of layered psychedelic twangs.

Many standout tracks like “Bleujen an Howl” and “Feed the Forest” offer little in the way of complicated lyrics, yet Howl still communicates the rich imagery and spirituality of the Cornish landscape. Rickman draws on a self-made orchestra of instruments including the accordion, cello, banjo, drums, sitar, fiddle, clarinet, and various guitars, creating her own personal patchwork of sounds that transcend language and speak for themselves.