Florence & The Machine, High As Hope new album review: Calm after chaos

Florence Welch looks back on her youth with a mix of fondness and regret, and takes as stripped-back an approach as seems possible

On previous albums, Florence Welch has revelled in the sheer power her voice can deliver, hammering it down on the listener with unforgiving force. What she's come to realise, finally, on new Florence & The Machine album High As Hope, is that her voice is just as, if not more powerful when she holds back. Opening with “June”, it’s delightful to hear how she explores the dexterity of her vocal range in a way that suggests she’s going for substance rather than sheer brute strength, sounding less windswept and more sun-kissed.

The single “Hunger” may be one of her most explicitly personal songs to date, opening on with the exquisite pain of: “At 17, I started to starve myself/I thought that love was a kind of emptiness/And at least I understood then, the hunger I felt/And I didn’t have to call it loneliness.” The delicate shimmer of the tambourine and the cello gliding sweetly at the start of the build on the chorus also make this one of the best-structured songs on the record; the sense of purpose both in the instrumentation and Welch’s determined vocal work make it a standout.

Florence Welch recently said in an interview that she had taken more of a stripped-down approach to this new album. But she’d promised the same of her last album, 2015’s How Big How Blue How Beautiful, which was just as brash and theatrical as its predecessors. On High As Hope, where actual clarity is found, she seems to attribute much of this calmness to her new-found sobriety – she quit alcohol a few years ago and looks back on her twenties with a mix of fondness and regret.

“Grace” is a moving love letter to her younger sister which asks for forgiveness for her past, chaotic behaviour: “I’m sorry I ruined your birthday,” she sings over gentle piano chords. “I guess I could go back to university/try and make my mother proud.”

“Patricia” is another tribute to an important woman in her life, this time it’s the godmother of punk herself, Patti Smith, whom Welch calls her “North Star”: “And do you understand with every seed you sow/You make this cold world beautiful?” she asks, diverting on the second verse to address a so-called “real man” with withering contempt. It’s a simple yet stunning appreciation of an artist who has paved the way for women, not just in music, but elsewhere: a person who carved her own path in one of the most male-dominated industries around, and, even as she rages against the oppressors, preaches love and compassion.

Stirring violins open “The End Of Love” like a sinister eulogy; Welch’s voice comes in with gorgeously textured harmonies, unfolding elegantly as she details a finished relationship with bittersweet recollections. Finally, “No Choir” is transparently self-deprecating: Welch sings about the fear of lost inspiration as she leaves those wild years behind her and confesses: “I did it all for myself… but the loneliness never left me.” She drifts off on an airy “la da da” as the violins fade until the song is stripped bare, left with just her vocals, sounding lighter and freer than ever before.