Ray LaMontagne: Ouroboros

Ray LaMontagne
Ouroboros
(RCA)
4 out of 5 stars

“You’re never going to hear this song on the radio,” sings Ray LaMontagne repeatedly on “Wouldn’t it Make a Lovely Photograph,” the closing track to his sixth studio release. Expand that thought to the eight songs on this audacious album and credit LaMontagne for realizing these selections aren’t going to be commercial hits.

From its enigmatic title (taken from an ancient symbol of a serpent eating its own tail) to “Hey, No Pressure”’s raw blues soaked riff and into music that pushes the soulful singer-songwriter outside any boundaries he has formerly operated in, Ouroboros finds LaMontagne challenging conventions and following his muse. This combination of meandering drugged-out folk (“Homecoming”), fever dream electrified guitar overload (“While it Still Beats”) and floating bucolic soundscapes (“In My Own Way”), is a psychedelic exploration that forces his existing fan base to take a leap of faith they may not be prepared for. Introspective if often inscrutable lyrics that pulse and throb dovetail with similarly styled melodies.    

It’s a combination of Gary Clark Jr.’s extended blues excursions mixed with 70s-era Pink Floyd — including a hushed Roger Waters vocal inflection — all downed with a chunk of stoner rock and acoustic interludes to transport the listener deep into whatever drug/dream-inspired state LaMontagne channeled in order for him, and notably co-producer Jim James, to lock onto an alternately calming and aggressive vibe. 

Those willing to take the plunge will be rewarded with one of the more challenging major label efforts released this year. Whether it’s the drifting instrumental interlude “A Murmuration of Starlings” or the slow core grunge-blues of the appropriately titled “The Changing Man” which takes you on a head trip back to the ’60s, this unexpected and daring album doesn’t pander to the audience LaMontagne has acquired through five previous releases that sound little like this. Better yet, it never feels forced or pretentious, but rather a natural if somewhat startling extension of the artist’s determined and compelling internal compass.