I’m not a purist with anything really. I despise VAR in football and DRS in cricket — but that’s just good sense. Which leaves me in a slightly awkward place with prog. I love it. I really do. I’ve seen Big Big Train live, and they were superb. But the almost devotional intensity of some prog fandom sits at odds with my rather more… ephemeral way of listening.
And that matters here, because “Woodcut” is Big Big Train’s 16th album and their first fully conceptual record. As I always say: this isn’t my Audible subscription. This is an album. So the only question that really counts is a simple one.
Are the songs any good?
The answer is an unequivocal yes.
“Inkwell Black” sets the tone as a short, atmospheric curtain-raiser, before “The Artist” plunges straight into the narrative. The opening line — “I don’t know when it started” — is quietly perfect, dropping you into the story without ceremony. It also underlines just how assured this is: prog from the top drawer, but worn lightly, with an unmistakably English sense of restraint and texture.
From there, the album breathes. Piano lines, haunting strings, and rich harmonies weave through the record, giving it an emotional pull that never feels forced. “The Sharpest Blade” leans further into folk-tinged territory, beautifully amplified by the female vocals, while “Albion Press” dazzles with its musicianship before handing the baton back to the narrative.
“Arcadia” is one of the album’s quiet triumphs — more acoustic, poetic, and patiently built, the kind of track that rewards attention without demanding reverence. A short string interlude acts as a pause for breath, before “Warp And Waft” unfurls with dazzling, slightly bewildering harmonies and synth work so expressive it wouldn’t embarrass Jordan Rudess.
There’s real variety here too. “Chimaera” pulses on its percussion, “Dead Point” is evocative and grand without ever tipping into excess, and it’s worth stressing just how immersive all of this is despite the album running a shade over an hour. Even at its most verbose, it pulls you inward rather than pushing you away.
Taken as standalone songs, much of this material is genuinely stunning. “Cut And Run” brings a harder edge — a muscular, almost Deep Purple-adjacent moment that proves Big Big Train can still flex when they want to — while “Hawthorn White” restores the lighter, folky balance that runs through the record.
Then there’s “Counting Stars,” which feels like the album in miniature. “Gleaming like a hint of something gold,” sings Alberto Bravin, and as a metaphor for “Woodcut” as a whole — and for the way this music soars without shouting — you won’t find a better one.
“The Last Stand” closes the record as a kind of state-of-the-union address, tying up loose ends and letting the credits roll with quiet authority rather than bombast.
One thing I’ve learned in 45 years of serious music listening is that it doesn’t matter how you listen to music, as long as you do. It doesn’t matter whether you catch every nuance or understand every reference — what matters is whether it gives you something.
In that respect, “Woodcut” — like all Big Big Train records — is brilliant.
I’ll let others argue about the fine print.
RATING: 9/10
