Aldous Harding : Train On the Island
Aldous Harding’s intellectual oddball reputation precedes her. To some, she mimics that one kid at school who, if you got to know them deeper than their questionable behavioral anomalies, they’d become your most interesting friend—the one that would get you into Captain Beefheart or David Lynch. If only they weren’t making dodgy sculptures out of papier-mâché. Or, in Harding’s case, wearing silly hats and looking a bit possessed while dancing.
Not that we know the true (Hannah) Harding much, nor that her off-the-wall presentation should ever change. There’s a fine line between performative strangeness and someone actually funneling the buzzing nonsense in their mind (as we all have) into creative endeavors. It’s this latter space that Harding inhabits, and Train On The Island is about as successful an attempt of that funneling as her discography has gotten. Alongside her cryptic lyrical detours and hallucinogenic soundscapes are assured indie-folk songs that are, more than simply being whimsical, bonafide songs. This record is made up of ten brilliant ones.
Unsurprisingly, this release continues Harding’s excellent return since the start of the year. Her lullaby-like feature was the best part of “Elitist G.O.A.T.” by grimy satirists Sleaford Mods, preceding her own outstanding “One Stop” single, which still shines here. Its percussive piano arpeggios follow the more gentle and natural tinkering across “I Ate The Most”; in line with Fetch the Bolt Cutters’ instrumental approach, or if The Neptunes went down a bohemian route. Save for the more abstract lyrics, Harding also faces down visceral, difficult topics including bulimia, the mind-clouding effects of medication and unwanted advances on the title track, despite its delightful, plodding energy. Incidentally, it is one of the album’s most subtly striking vocal performances.
The adaptive nature of Harding’s voice takes even the conventional, repeating musical motifs (which are not completely conventional, being in the hands of PJ Harvey collaborator John Parish, no less) into far new shapes. The enunciation across “Worms” makes seemingly unrelated terms like “brewery,” “rocks” and “la profesora” sound like they all definitely make sense together. “If Lady Does It” is sung in a drawl that warbles like the fretless basses they use in modern death metal; spluttering, yet fluid. Harding makes her talky delivery on the chorus of “Coats” so unbelievably catchy that it will never leave my brain, if I ever wanted it to, despite the words being “big thick coats on the dogs of people just trying to help.” And once you reach the “why wouldn’t I wanna meet ya?” refrain from “One Stop” being repeated on “San Francisco,” it feels simultaneously out of nowhere and exactly what you’ve been digging for since a few tracks ago, just to hear it all over again.
If irritation can be found within Harding’s long-running absurdity, the enjoyability factor here is far more palpable than before, where genuinely inspired songcraft may even bring the naysayers aboard. It feels like the accomplished lane Harding has been slyly veering toward for some time, even though you’re left questioning who exactly Harding’s “blue women” are once you reach the destination. It’s fine to question that further or leave it alone, just so long as it’s part of this intricate and oddly comforting patchwork of a record.
Label: 4AD
Year: 2026
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