The imminent release of Neil Young’s latest album, Le Noise ‑which is a stunner, by the way- is somewhat topical insofar as this review (yet another one I’ve been wanting to do for a while) is concerned. Le Noise has been described by Young himself as “folk-metal”, and, as a completely solo album (albeit with ample help from Daniel Lanois’ remarkable production), it’s particularly notable for its edification of the electric guitar as a central element to the expression of solo folk.

This is of course, not completely new, though I would argue that Young and Lanois take things to the next level, a topic perhaps for another time. But hearing Le Noise for the first time immediately brought Didn’t It Rain (2002, Secretly Canadian) to my mind, and I feel that, whilst Jason Molina employs a band on his album, as opposed to Young creating (with Lanois’ help) his sonic maelstrom on his own, there is a similarity in the styles of the two artists. In true “folk-metal” style, Didn’t It Rain plays a deceptive game, with the first two tracks being driven by acoustic guitars and little else, before the rumble of electricity creeps over the horizon.

Jason Molina is first and foremost one of the most talented exponents of what is generally termed “Americana”. His music is deeply anchored in the folk, country and rock traditions of his home country, with perhaps only the slightest of nods to the blues. This is earthy, downbeat and humane music, anchored in the tradition of Johnny Cash, Woody Guthrie and Uncle Tupelo. A tradition of saying things as they are. But also a tradition of mystery and dark recesses, a tradition of deep spirituality and murky landscapes. From the opening seconds of the title track, the listener is confronted with Molina’s brutal honesty. His lyrics deal with pain, despair, loss, fear, depression and doubt, with “Didn’t It Rain” even taking a broadside at capitalism and injustice. At times, this is oblique and impenetrable, as on the mystical “Cross the Road, Molina”, with lyrics hinting at primeval mythology and the kind of spirits that people the literature of Stephen King, the Jeepers Creepers movies or Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes. An Americana laden with ancient, pre-white man forces and strange natural phenomena.

But for the most part, Didn’t It Rain, in the same manner as Cash’s Solitary Man or the debut album by Great Lake Swimmers, remorselessly lays bear the emotions of its creator, whipping into gear the moment the electric guitar kicks in, on “Ring the Bell”, perhaps the highest-tempo of all the tracks on the album, which isn’t saying much, as it’s only a few steps up from “funereal”. This is not an album you should go to if you want a bit of a let-up amongst the downers. Like Tonight’s the Night or Richmond Fontaine’s The Fitzgerald, Didn’t It Rain doesn’t let up from its bleak and remorseless vibe. “Ring the Bell” is actually the most upbeat track, not just in its pace, but in the stubborn refusal of Molina, via his lyrics, to give up on life and a glimpse of happiness he seems to have had at some point. “Why wouldn’t I try?” he moans, as he rails against double-tongues and watches his world crumble and collapse around his ears. It’s a stirring moment, brilliantly eradicating the slow-burning mournfulness of the two acoustic tracks that preceded it under a deluge of grim cello drones and jangly guitars that are like The Stone Roses after a half-bottle of Valium. The tone is defiance, but Jason Molina at the same time does not shirk away from bleak realities, be they the mysterious forces of “Cross the Road, Molina”, or the more tangible realities of a desperately sad life.

Depression is a major theme here, and as someone who has felt the dark shadow of that illness weigh on his poor mind since age 17, I was struck by the honesty Molina shows here. “I am paralyzed — by emptiness” he wails on “Blue Factory Flame”, the album’s doom-laden, eight-minute centrepiece. It’s a fantastic dirge, an endless parade of minor chords, aching vocals (Molina ably supported by the keening high range of Jennie Beckford), and a plodding, subdued rhythm section, like Crazy Horse after three days without sleep. There are no frills here, we’re not allowed them, it’s as if we’re being told: “life is hard, it’s a fucker, I’m not gonna let you pretend it’s not”. It’s a truly chilling song, and I am hard-pressed to think of a sadder one (maybe Neil Young’s “Borrowed Tune” or “On the Beach”).

And, as I mentioned before, we are not allowed to forget how much hurt this guy has been through. The dismally slow pace of all the songs is surely deliberate, as punishing and unrelenting as the most extreme noise, and Didn’t It Rain is a similarly potent assault, coming from the other end of the “fuck you” scale. But it is not all bleakness. If “Ring The Bell” sees Molina fighting with the army of snakes, determined to win, closer “Blue Chicago Moon” is perhaps even more defiant. Like “Blue Factory Flame”, it kicks off with a trudging, but fierce, pace, but where that song wallows in pure misery, this one takes that tack (“…the endless, endless, endless, endless, endless depression”) and then allows a glorious shaft of light to pierce the cathedral of murk. “You are not helpless / Tryyyyyyyyy to beat it!” Molina and Beckford rail, as if they’re trying to burst through the shadows using the force of their glorious voices. I’m not sure if Molina is talking to his audience, or to himself, but the effect is enthralling.

Throughout the song, and the album, the central focus, apart from the bleak-yet-hopeful lyrics, is Molina’s electric guitar. Like Neil Young, he is no virtuoso. He does not pour out torrents of notes at Steve Vai speed. Nor would that be appropriate for this music. But you get the distinct feeling that, even on the full band songs, Didn’t It Rain could, like Le Noise, work as just a man and his guitar. The notes are clear, but grungy; harsh but elegant. They are almost as drenched in meaning and sensitivity as the lyrics, and just as capable of piercing a line straight to your heart. So, whilst Young may be taking folk-metal to a new level on his latest opus (and I’m still not sure I like it as much — yet), I would say the road had already been rather gloriously, and heart-breakingly, paved way back in 2002 on Didn’t It Rain. Can I get an “amen”?