For Post-Rock Octet Caroline, Everything Is Up for Debate

“The political mood was one of hope—the idea that, structurally, things could change for the better,” says Hughes. “That didn’t just manifest itself in the lyrics, but also in the experimentalism. I do think that wave of optimism has had a wide impact on culture and music.” That sense of artistic adventure can inspire social change, he says. “You think, how has this been constructed? That’s politically interesting.” 

When Boris Johnson’s Conservatives crushed Corbyn’s Labour in 2019, focus returned to fostering local communities and building systems outside government, including within music. Hughes acknowledges rising awareness of streaming economics and dodgy label models, and would like to see musicians who earn “tiny fucking crumbs” return to collective action and “agitate for an assertive class politics.” 

Without a belief this might in fact happen, caroline could be doomed. “The idea of doing some sort of commercial venture as an eight-piece band is insane,” says Hughes. 

“Making this sort of music, and then having eight people,” Llewellyn adds, chuckling.

“You couldn’t dream up a scenario where you would earn less money. But everyone is irreplaceable.”

A fortnight later, eight pairs of wide-leg trousers billow onstage beneath EartH Theatre’s steep auditorium. So rapt is the crowd that a security-intercom crackle, or a tiptoeing toilet-goer, can send a frisson through the room, jolting us back into the material world. Folk principles gird the ethereal experience. For the new song, “When I Get Home,” Llewellyn brings up a horde of young acoustic guitarists from the crowd, who encircle him on wooden chairs and learn the chords in real-time.  Though Hughes ended the show with an emotional kiss-off to caroline’s debut, they will bring it on the road for another round in North America this spring, ushering in the band’s second phase. 

As the auditorium empties, band members stack gear by the stage door. Is there a system for loading the van? “Just biggest stuff first,” says Llewellyn, lugging his cello downstairs. He turns to appraise my helping hands, carrying dainty keyboard cases. “So that’s probably…” He grasps for a tactful word. “Small?” 

Outside, shivering in a thin jumper, Llewellyn reflects on the concert and band—on the whole precarious enterprise. Where Hughes spoke passionately about politics, Llewellyn is more circumspect. For him, the performance is a social ritual built on little acts of faith. The trumpet will sing, and the cymbal will crash, the instant you lash the cello. 

“There’s something fundamentally moving in that fragility,” he says. “So many micro cues and spaces being stretched. Things hanging on a precipice. It’s always teetering a little.” The rest of the band has dispersed, heading off for early nights and day jobs. O’Malley and Llewellyn, a quarter of an empire, jump into the van with their precariously stacked cargo and, safely tucked inside, peel into the chaos of the city.