I have already written about the history of The Emerald Dawn when reviewing their album “The Land, the Sea, the Air (Volume One)” for MLWZ.PL. That text serves as a natural introduction to the band’s world, so here I will focus solely on the music and creative process behind the second part of this remarkable story. For years, The Emerald Dawn have been creating music that does not merely tell stories — it opens worlds. Their compositions resemble landscapes: vast, organic, filled with light and shadow. “The Land, the Sea, the Air (Volume II)” continues this tradition, though not as a simple continuation. It is the second volume of the same book, written with different light, different air, different water. Its very structure — three long suites, each with its own inner life and emotional arc — makes it clear that this is not an album to be listened to “in pieces”. It is a journey that demands full immersion. And this time, the journey is not only musical — it is deeply human. The album carries within it the breath of a studio in rural West Cornwall, the unpredictable presence of local wildlife, the spontaneity of jam sessions, and the fragile magic of moments that almost slipped away forever. All of this can be heard between the notes, if one listens closely.
There are albums that tell stories, and there are albums that open worlds. The Emerald Dawn have long belonged to the latter category — creating musical realms where the elements have their own names, and where light and shadow hold quiet conversations. “The Land, the Sea, the Air (Volume II)” is not a typical follow‑up. It is the second volume of the same elemental chronicle, but written with different textures, different colours, different breath. If Volume I belonged to the sea and the sky, Volume II belongs to the land — its weight, its wounds, its breath. This is an album that does not merely describe nature — it allows nature to speak. And it does so with such sincerity that at times it is hard to believe this is only music, and not the voice of the planet itself.
The cover art by Katrina Stewart depicts a fantastical landscape: twisted trees forming a gate, paths leading toward distant temples, the sea and sky merging into a single line of light. It is not an illustration — it is an invitation. A gateway into a world where the elements are not metaphors but truths. Where music is not sound but landscape. And through this gate we enter the first suite — “Song of the Rainforest.”
I. Song of the Rainforest (21:20) — a myth of creation, elemental improvisation, and the world’s first wound
The first suite does not begin like a composition — it begins like a world opening its eyes. There is no introduction, no preparation, no announcement. Instead, there is immersion: into moisture, into light filtering through leaves, into a pulse that feels like the heartbeat of the forest. Synthesizers rise like mist above the ground — sometimes delicate, as if careful not to wake the birds, sometimes sharp and alarming, like a warning sent by nature sensing the approach of pain.
Yet it is Ally Carter’s saxophone that becomes the leading voice. Not the flute — that appears later, in calmer passages, like the breath of trees. In the first part of the suite, the saxophone narrates: at times sounding like a bird, at times like wind, at times like the forest itself trying to speak before it is too late. Its tone is jam‑like, jazz‑inflected, emotional, full of spontaneity — and this is no accident. Most of the suite was born from a single long jam in the Neapolitan minor scale, which the band had never used before. This is not music written at a desk. It is music born from a moment, from breath, from impulse, from intuition. And you can hear it — in its openness, its freedom, its unpredictability.
The rhythm section — Tom Jackson and David Greenaway — plays as if lifted straight from the golden age of progressive rock. The drums do more than keep time: they narrate, accelerate, slow down, pulse like a living organism. The bass is like the roots of trees — deep, organic, holding everything together. Thanks to them, the suite breathes, shifts, grows, falls silent, and erupts again.
The suite consists of four parts: Balance, Incursions (start: 4:19), Loss (start: 13:13), and Regret (start: 16:50). “Balance” is like the time when the gods still dreamed — the world unbroken, harmony intact, music flowing peacefully as if nothing could disturb it. “Incursions” is the first shadow on the earth: the rhythm grows uneasy, the saxophone draws lines like the tracks of an intruder, and the guitar introduces tension that foretells change. “Loss” is a wound that cannot be undone — the music slows as if trying to stop time, and the synthesizers create a space heavy with awareness. The saxophone does not scream — it remembers.
“Regret” is a confession. Ally wrote: “You cannot play the sorrow of rainforest destruction unless you truly feel it.” And indeed — his magnificent solo is not a display of technique. It is a wound, open and honest. The guitar sounds like the cry of a falling tree, like the sob of a river losing its course. It is a complete emotional take‑off — not technical, but spiritual. And this solo has its own legend: the perfect version was played spontaneously during rehearsal, captured only on a minidisc. Ally had to recreate his own moment of truth — like trying to catch lightning in his hands a second time.
There is also a nearly fairy‑tale detail behind this suite. The studio in Cornwall was repeatedly visited by a particularly persistent male pheasant who kept trying to enter the building. Tree had to chase him away gently every time vocals, flute, or drums were being recorded. Nature literally knocked on the door — like a guardian of the forest making sure its story would be told.
The entire suite — with its frequent changes of tempo, dynamics, and mood — does not allow passive listening. This is not background music. This is music that demands presence. Music that pulls you in, shakes you, guides you, and refuses to let you look away.
II. Rivers of Tears (14:58) — a myth of the river that remembers everything
In mythology, every river is a goddess — a goddess of memory, of time, of life. A river is not merely water; it is the memory of the world, carrying everything that has ever happened upon the earth. The second suite by The Emerald Dawn is about such a river: an element that has seen more than it should, and which — though silent — remembers every pain, every wound, every shadow cast upon the land. It is a suite about water that does not forget, water that flows not only through landscapes but through stories. It consists of two parts: The Natural Cycle and Disruption (start: 8:59).
“The Natural Cycle” is like the birth of a river in an ancient myth. The piano sounds like the first drop falling onto stone — pure, innocent, unaware of what awaits it. The melody unfolds slowly, cautiously, as if careful not to disturb the silence of the source. This is a moment when the world is still unbroken, and the water flows as it has for thousands of years: calmly, rhythmically, in harmony with the natural cycle. Here we hear Tree Stewart’s voice — delicate, transparent, almost ethereal, as if she were singing not to the listener but to the river itself. Her voice carries a message about the fragility of nature, its rhythms, its ancient wisdom. It does not moralize — it tells a story: that the river is life, that it carries both light and shadow, that it remembers everything entrusted to it. The music is like the breath of the earth, as if the river were learning its own name. Greenaway’s bass is like stones in the riverbed, giving direction; Jackson’s drums — subtle yet alive — resemble gentle splashes. The keyboards create a wide, luminous space where anything is possible. Before the suite shifts into its second part, we hear Ally Carter’s warm, melancholic saxophone and a short but evocative solo — like the river’s voice echoing against its banks. It is the purest moment of the suite — the moment before tragedy.
“Disruption” is the moment when the river sees too much. At 8:59, the music changes course — like a river suddenly encountering an obstacle, a poison, a shadow. The drums accelerate, becoming more forceful and uneasy; the bass pulses with urgency, as if the current were gathering strength not out of joy but necessity. Carter’s guitar flashes like light on turbulent water, and the synthesizers open a wide, fluid space where everything is in motion but nothing is as it was. The saxophone sounds the alarm — not screaming, but warning, as if trying to say that something has been broken, that the cycle has been interrupted, that the river no longer flows as it should. This is music about inevitability, about the fact that a river never returns the same way, that once the cycle is disturbed, it cannot be restored to its original state. The lyrics say: “Through the rivers flows the lifeblood of the land…” — and this line is the key to the entire suite. The river is the bloodstream of the earth; if the blood is poisoned, the whole organism suffers. The music does not lament — it remembers. It remembers rivers that dried up, rivers that were poisoned, rivers that ceased to be rivers and became only memories. And yet, in this memory there is strength, because the river — even wounded — still flows, still carries the story of the world, still speaks with its own voice.
III. Paradise (8:56) — a myth of a lost and regained world
Every myth has its Eden. Every Eden has its loss. Every loss has its promise. “Paradise” is about all of these — about a place that exists only as long as you believe in it, and which can be lost far more quickly than one might think. It is a suite about the fragility of the world, about the shadow that appears at the edge of light, about hope that is not given once and for all but must be regained. It consists of two parts: Losing Paradise and Harmony Regained (start: 3:54).
“Losing Paradise” is like a paradise that begins to fade when humanity looks away. The melody rises lightly, almost weightlessly, but beneath it lies a shadow — the shadow of loss, uncertainty, imbalance. This is where Ally Carter’s extraordinary blues solo appears, the one he himself called “progressive blues”. The guitar sounds like a classic minor blues, but the tonal shifts intensify the emotion, as if the music were trying to grasp something slipping away — as if trying to stop a world beginning to crumble. It is blues played not on behalf of a person, but on behalf of the planet. Ally expressed it perfectly: “If losing a loved one is reason enough to play the blues, what can be said about losing the entire natural world?” In this solo one hears sorrow, longing, unease, but also tenderness toward a world that can still be saved. It is a moment when music becomes emotion, and emotion becomes story.
“Harmony Regained” brings light — but not naïve or easy light. It is light earned, conscious, mature. Here Tree Stewart’s keyboards dominate, taking on orchestral colours: at times like strings, at times like brass, at times like a wide symphonic backdrop lifting the suite upward. This is music that does not merely describe the return of harmony — it builds it, brick by brick, note by note. As the piece develops, the keyboards grow more majestic, more luminous, more exalted, leading to a culmination of triumphant fanfares that sound like the opening of a gate to a new world. This is not a return to Eden — it is the creation of a new Eden, built on awareness, responsibility, and hope. The ending brings a promise: “In harmony with nature, the land, the sea, the air…” — as if the world were saying: “We can return. If only we choose to.”
Epilogue — music that does not end with the final note
“The Land, the Sea, the Air (Volume II)” is an album that does not ask for attention — it commands it. It is music for those who can listen not only to sound but to the spaces between sounds. For those who understand that the elements are not metaphors but truths. For those who wish, even for a moment, to stop being part of the human world and become part of the natural one. This is an album that does not end with the final note — it lingers in memory, in breath, in the silence after the music. It opens a world larger than ourselves and reminds us that harmony with nature is not a luxury but a necessity.
This is not a record you simply listen to. It is a record you experience.
And then return to — because the world it opens refuses to be forgotten.
This is an album you must not overlook. This is an album you must hear. This is an album that stays.
