Although it is easy to compare Estelle Mey to Scandinavian bands such as Wardruna’s primal music or Aurora Aksnes’s magical soundscapes, I think of an artist from the country that Mey now calls home, the UK, when listening to “Snake.”
For me, in the song, there is the same balance of raw power and primal energy, soundscaping and genre-hopping, blends of ageless wisdom and modern musicality as I hear in Natasha Khan’s exquisite Bat For Lashes.
Sitting somewhere between the finesse of folk and the rawness of the metal-sphere, “Snake” is an intoxicating experience, drawing on past traditions as much as it does modern tastes. Part an echo of ancient woodlands, part the roar of the industrial landscape, it is a song out of time, something set apart from any music chronology you might be familiar with.
French-born, Iceland-forged, and UK-rooted, Mey is a world traveler, not just in the physical sense but through her music, able to traverse time and even open doors to alternate worlds. Like the cry of the first woman, the call of the wild, and the howling at the moon, “Snake” goes beyond being merely music and instead seems to talk to that primeval part of us that the modern world never quite tamed.
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