Mark Lanegan - Scraps At Midnight (LP)

Mark Lanegan’s third solo record, Scraps at Midnight, landed in July 1998 on Sub Pop, and it still feels like slipping into a dim room after last drinks. He was best known as the voice of Screaming Trees, but his solo work had already carved out a stark parallel life by then. This one settles into a quieter, bruised folk-blues mood that doesn’t chase the scale of his band. It trusts the grain of his baritone and the hush between chords.

Longtime foil Mike Johnson, formerly of Dinosaur Jr., is central to that feel. Johnson had been writing and playing with Lanegan since the early 90s, and you can hear the ease of that partnership. The guitars sound unhurried, mostly acoustic, often fingerpicked, with just a little electric sting when the lyric needs it. Arrangements are spare, but never thin. A shaded organ slips in. Brushed drums hold the floorboards steady. It is the sort of production that keeps your ear right up against the singer’s breath, so the small shifts in phrasing hit hard.

Lanegan’s voice is the story, of course. He doesn’t belt here. He leans in. The songs feel written late at night, when the big talk has burned off and only the costly truths remain. His language is plain, full of weather and rooms and roads, but there is a painter’s eye in it. He has a way of carrying a melody that feels more like a spell than a line. You can hear the lineage back to Townes and the dark corners of folk, but he never sounds like a museum piece. There is a lived-in Seattle rain to it.

The record sits in a fascinating spot in his catalogue. Whiskey for the Holy Ghost was broader and stormier, Field Songs would open up again a few years later, but Scraps at Midnight pulls the lens tight on the man at the centre. It reads like a reckoning. Not a confession so much as a set of postcards from the middle of the night. The pacing is patient, even stubborn at times, which suits the material. It is music that asks for your attention and then rewards it with small, devastating turns.

If you want a single entry point, the closing stretch tells the tale. “Bell Black Ocean” feels like a candle guttering in slow motion, with Johnson’s guitar circling a lyric that never forces its sentiment. Lanegan keeps big emotions coiled, which somehow makes them larger. Elsewhere, when the rhythm section nudges forward, it feels like a body remembering how to move after a long winter. The tempos never rush. He lets the songs breathe and it pays off.

There was no feeding frenzy around this release, and that suits it. It has grown by word of mouth, the way many of the best Mark Lanegan albums on vinyl do. Among fans it sits as a sleeper favourite, the one you put on when you want the room to go quiet. In hindsight it also foreshadows the economy he would perfect later, where a small shift in tone or a single harmony can change the weather of a song. You can hear an artist building a language he would return to for the rest of his life.

On wax this record really comes into its own. The space in these mixes makes Scraps at Midnight vinyl a no-brainer, especially if you’re the type who listens after dark with the lights low. If you are trawling a Melbourne record store, or combing through vinyl records Australia wide, keep an eye out. It is the sort of LP that sneaks up on you and then never leaves the turntable. If you prefer to buy Mark Lanegan records online, put this near the top of your list.

Lanegan’s legacy has only deepened with time, and this album explains why. The writing is economical, the performances are generous, and the production feels like a room you know by touch. Nothing about it chases fashion. It just stands there, sturdy and humane, and lets the songs do their work. If you are new to Mark Lanegan vinyl, this is a beautiful place to start. If you already know the terrain, you’ll recognise how much life he found in the quiet.