The problem with the whole "freak folk" movement is that far too many of its practitioners are clearly trying way too hard to be freaky: true eccentricity cannot be forced. And then you have
Kevin Cormack, who is clearly, to use
Frank Zappa's memorable phrase, "freaky right down to his toenails."
Cormack hails from rural Scotland -- the Orkney Islands, to be precise -- and he sings with the most unapologetic Scottish burr heard on record since
Ivor Cutler passed away, which is coupled with a guilelessly sweet pop tenor croon in the manner of
Scritti Politti's
Green Gartside or, no kidding, vintage '70s
Michael Jackson. Underneath that compelling vocal style, the songs are an intriguingly odd blend of rustic folk, vintage electronics, and rhythmic sounds recorded with improvised, non-musical instruments made out of household objects. Fellow Scots the
Beta Band are an obvious touchstone, but
Iodine is both stranger and more accessible than their sprawling, twisted take on pop. For all the odd noises leaking around the edges of songs like the opening "Big Chief (The B&B Frequenter)," that song's main hook is instantly catchy, even if it's being doubled by a clarinet and an accordion. That a song as gentle and lovely as the acoustic reverie "Abide" can remain simply heartbreaking in spite of the casual surrealism of its lyrics, and can sit comfortably next to the impressively weird, warped soundscapes of "Police Torch," which sounds as if its arrangement is built on samples of thin metal sheets being wobbled about, it's clear that
Cormack is some kind of twisted pop genius.
Iodine is an instantly compelling record and a surefire cult favorite waiting to be discovered by its cult.