The story behind Bon Iver's debut album was so perfect some wondered if its fragile beauty was a one off. But the follow-up wove an even more ravishing tapestry of folk, ambient and MOR
If there was reason to doubt Justin Vernon's staying power three years ago it was the seductive neatness of his debut album's backstory: the beardy midwesterner who disappeared into the snowy woods to nurse a broken heart. It suggested fluke brilliance and a future in the Americana undergrowth, where warm reviews mingle with modest sales. But the future sounded more intriguing after 2009's Blood Bank EP, whose eerie Auto-Tuned a cappella Woods caught the ear of Kanye West – and made Vernon the rapper's most unlikely favourite since Chris Martin.
Yet West's endorsement made a kind of sense. On his second album Vernon became, like Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush in the 80s, as much a producer as a singer-songwriter. First-time listeners zeroed in on final track Beth/Rest, either smiling or frowning at the influence of melancholy 80s smoothies such as Bruce Hornsby and Phil Collins. But Vernon's new sound – bright yet blurry, like winter sunlight shining through mist – is no pastiche. It was as if he had extrapolated the elusive beauty of his keening voice and puzzling lyrics into the arrangements themselves, weaving a ravishing tapestry of folk, jazz, ambient, electronica and MOR.
Each song title is a place name, real or imagined, and the album unfolds as a dreamlike travelogue, winding a path down highways, through forests, over lakes. This exquisite mood music could be mistaken for mere background prettiness were it not for the frequent bursts of revelation: the climactic, brass-led ascent of Perth, or Vernon's awed epiphany in Holocene: "I can see for miles, miles, miles …" Rich and expansive without being the least bit grandiose, it won myriad fans (and four Grammy nominations) by stealth: a quiet record that ended up making a great deal of noise.