From his fantastical sagas as Final Fantasy to the wide-eyed songcraft of Heartland, Owen Pallett’s intricate chamber-pop songs have always been delicate exercises of introversion - but by scaling back even more on their fifth full-length effort, Pallett manages to extract a poignant tale of faith and humanity from a wandering, orchestral expanse. Six years on from the vulnerable In Conflict, the Canadian composer reprises the character of Lewis, the protagonist of 2010’s Heartland. Having defeated his omnipresent deity Owen in the album’s predecessor, Lewis is now alone, washed ashore - and instead of their usual exuberant electronics, Pallett’s achingly beautiful arrangements take center stage, weaving a restrained and brooding tale of self-reflection. The record’s first half is much more reserved than his previous efforts. From the folky picking of Transformer to the prancing Paragon of Order, Pallett’s airy vocals present his novel-esque mythology episode by episode, while the orchestra looms in the background, waiting for the perfect moment to emerge.

A Bloody Morning, in turn, is Island’s magnificent centrepiece. As the album erupts into a narrative climax, Lewis brings a ship to impending ruin as a drunken, distraught sailor, presenting a monologue alternating between masks simultaneously sarcastic and self-reflective. As suspended piano chords colour an insistent pulse played by Liturgy’s Greg Fox, obstacles emerge in the horizon (“Our two-masted yellow schooner seemed to need some course correction”) - only for Lewis to meet them with cynical apathy. "Who gives a shit about them? When did they ever give a shit about me?" he notes. His pride is his hamartia, and it begins his literal and figurative descent, as a rumbling brass motif awakens him from his stupor. As Fox's powerful drumming lights up the previously sparse expanse, the track’s sudden density is overwhelming, and sets up a dramatic, heart-rending scene.

“I've mistaken self-indulgence for self-care/But do not be scared” he assures, and soon amidst cascading waves of timpanis, horns and strings, the disaster unfolds graphically. Hulls batter into rocky shores, passengers topple overboard amidst violent winds, chaotic scrambles for survival ensue in treacherous oceans. The majestic bombast - brought about by the lush stringwork of the London Contemporary Orchestra - reduces Lewis to an insignificant speck, as he is literally swallowed whole by the dense instrumentation, struggling to swim to shore. After riding endless crescendos, the curtains close with an uncertain, fading dissonance, bringing Pallett’s narrative arc towards its resolution, as Lewis’ soul-searching and yearning for his former deity eventually vanquishes him (more specifically “fucked into space”).

Yet even within these grandiose orchestral arrangements, a sense of grounded clarity resonates throughout the track. Pallett's delivery remains subdued even under Lewis’ duress, and it feels as if Lewis is aware of the absurdity of his existence. Even in moments where Lewis is overcome with overwhelming gloom, calling for Saint Christopher and his deities, a hopeful sense of triumph persists. “Surely some disaster will descend and equalize us/A crisis,” he remarks, in a particularly devastating line. Here, his observation doesn't just serve as a turning point within Pallett’s narrative universe. As Lewis survives amidst his suffering, his tale may also be a hint for our troubled zeitgeist. Under overwhelming forces, we are reduced to equals, regardless of achievements - even as a defeater of god. There is light within darkness, hope within despair - perhaps, the bloody mornings can only signal new beginnings.

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