Although they have been defined as an alt-folk band, this could hardly be further from the truth. Maybe it's those hipster beards that Andrew Davie and Kevin Jones, the two remaining protagonists, wear, or the fact they continue to reside on the Communion label, a label that was founded by Mumford & Son’s Ben Lovett and Kevin Jones himself. Or maybe it's because they are called Bear's Den, a name that suggests rusticness, and the great outdoors, evoking something wild and free, like innocent boys discovering themselves in the woods of their imagination.

Certainly, their impressive début album, Islands, was a folk-flavoured affair, with banjos, acoustic guitars, stomping drums, brass, and a heightened anthemic quality, that mirrored the times even if it was only but two years ago. There was also a certain nostalgic and youthful grittiness to the music, aimed unapologetically at an American audience (you can see this via the American-set video for ‘Elysium’), with whom they have been developing a bond via extensive touring over there. But Bear's Den have unequivocally rushed for the exit door marked 'folk', only to come back through the same swinging door, this time marked 'American 80s FM'. And like Mumford & Sons, Bear's Den have transformed themselves in surprising and not-so surprising ways. But instead of donning leather a la Marcus and crew, they've reached out for some synths, an 80s beat and plenty of AOR, a conscious re-invention that sees them wholeheartedly strive for the really big time.

There's also a change in the line up. Just gone is founder member Joey Haynes, the circumstances of which are a little shrouded in mystery beyond the fact that he released a statement parodying Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow's 'conscious uncoupling' phrase, instead describing his departure as a 'conscious untripling', and that everyone is still good friends. There is also the question as to what extent he features on Red Earth & Pouring Rain, because his main instrument, the banjo, is barely audible.

Although Red Earth & Pouring Rain retains the cultured, honest and anthemic elements of their early work, they have for all intents and purposes foresaken folk. Right from the beginning it's as if you're listening to a different band with the titular opening track evoking the polished production values of 80s American AOR; synth heavy, a machine drum beat, waves of emotion, and power ballad lyricism: "Don't you remember, love/ Don't you remember anything? It's just you and I, love/ In the red earth and the pouring rain,” Davie sings, images coming to mind of couples embracing within a wind-swept visage. And from hereon in the template changes little. From the stylish ‘War On Drugs’ sinewy guitar chug of ‘Emeralds’ to the similarly soft-rock of ‘Dew On The Vine’ and the turgid drive of ‘Broken Parable’ (where the banjo does make a rather understated appearance), these are songs made for the arena; anthemic, stirring and, well, a little boring. Sure, they are well crafted, but the essential earthiness of their previous work has all but gone, and the words, while well-meant, veer too much into the territories of the bog-standard and clique, as Davie sings a lot about how he owes everything to someone, that we've come this far, but that he's trying to find a way back home, despite all the broken promises, whilst never giving up on that someone special. Or a mixture of the above.

There are fine moments though, such as the sad synth-drone soaked remembrance of ‘Love Can't Stand Alone’, heartbreaking in sound and content, which concerns the love a child (possibly Davie himself) has for his mother whose husband/lover as left. And the driving, and relatively urgent ‘Auld Wives’ is another song written with memory in mind; again from the perspective of a child (definitely Davie), but this time about his grandfather who developed Alzheimer's. And within songs such as ‘Fortress’ there lurks a darkness, that allied to a strong melody and an adventurous musical spirit, takes this song to an altogether higher level.

But, it's not enough. For the most part, the tepid AOR sound of 80s America takes precedence as does their penchant for extending the compositions well beyond what is necessary, often indifferently drifting to inconclusive conclusions.

It's a shame, because the cover artwork promises much. An evocative painting of a young woman in an old car (probably American; the gear stick is on the dashboard, and it's left-hand drive), that relates to the ‘Love Can't Stand Alone’ track, it's Edward Hopperesque style promising a vivid realism, where the silent spaces are saturated with suggestion.
Jeff Hemmings

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