"Green to gold" braucht dabei durchaus seine Zeit, um warm zu werden mit den The-Antlers-Fans der ersten Stunde, um sich einzunisten, um das Vertrauen zu gewinnen, um zu zeigen, dass es wirklich nur das Beste möchte und der nächste Schlag in die Magengrube eben nicht um die Ecke lauert. Dann aber kann man sich von der so schlichten wie schönen Ästhetik eines "Porchlight" verzaubern lassen, das die besten Seiten der letzten drei Vorgänger-Alben vereint. Da ist nämlich doch so ein kleiner Hauch Melancholie und Zerbrechlichkeit. Aber es traut den großen Schritt, es lässt sich auf die Ungewissheit ein – und gewinnt dadurch.

(Plattentests)

Wäre diese Platte eine Woche, dann die letzte im September, ohne Hitze, ohne Stürme, die Natur entwickelt sich langsam von GREEN TO GOLD. Im Vergleich zu den älteren Alben klingen die Stücke folkiger, das große Drama bleibt aus, zu Hause ist diese milde Shoegaze-Americana auf einer Veranda, das Glas ist immer halbvoll. Wer die letzte Fleet Foxes mochte, liegt hier genau richtig.

(musikexpress)

Ein sanfter Filter liegt über allem , was auf “Green To Gold” passiert, seien es die Bläser in “It Is What It Is” oder das Piano in “Just A Sec”.

Es klingt ein bisschen so, als hätten Cigarettes After Sex und John Mayer ein Kind gekriegt, und es – ganz kontraintuitiv – glücklich aufgezogen. Da scheinen die Erinnerungen an die omnipräsente Melancholie von Papa und Papas durch, aber eben auch eine dankbare Glückseligkeit, selbst dort gelandet zu sein, wo man gelandet ist.

(musikblog)

“No Question” is a haze of gauzy Boards of Canada-style synth arpeggios and lonely piano. And the closing title track, also on piano, has a gorgeous melody reminiscent of post-rock band This Will Destroy You’s “Threads.”

Head of Roses’ crowning moment, though, is perhaps “One More Hour.” Over a tremolo guitar pulse, crunchy drum machine and gentle swells of synthesizer, Wasner allows herself an aching moment of vulnerability to look back with regret: “When I was young, I was so sure… I’ll never get those hours back… Can I forgive myself for falling back into it? … If I could have anything, I’d take one more hour.” On an album of subtle yet emotionally resonant songs, such directness cuts through.

(Dusted)

The first sign of something different comes with Walking which has a more markedly mellow, alt-country sound. One More Hour has shades of Emmylou Harris meanwhile as she once again questions herself and expresses regret (“I know there’s nothing for it but if I could have anything, I’d take one more hour”). Awake For The Sunrise is similarly disposed, featuring more in the way of lamenting sadness. For all of the personal ground they cover however, such tracks have a strongly relatable quality, backing up one of the key ideas that Wasner covered in our recent interview, namely how she wanted to make music that could soothe others as well as herself.  

Elsewhere, Lightning is not too far removed from Laura Veirs at her most reflective (with the album in a broader sense sharing common ground with Veirs’ My Echo album from last year). 

(music OMH)

Breaking up may be hard to do, but growing up is even harder. Wasner’s command of grace for herself and others ultimately becomes a source of soothing as Head of Roses unfolds. Layers push aside to reveal a core scented with forgiveness and healing. Flock of Dimes has become the vehicle for Wasner’s most personal reflections, which makes it the one to treasure most.

(Under the Radar)

Allan’s guitar-synth conjures the chill winds of a concrete dystopia, before the grimy Pet Shop Boys riffs of “Dive”, like back-alley Hi-NRG, then Suicide conversely raised to cathedral grandeur. “Shadows they come,” he sings, aching and yearning already. Surf guitar twangs in prelude to the rumbling urgency of sympathetic junkie’s lament “Dying to Live”, the protagonist pleading: “I wish you could see me blowing this kiss/Don’t forget about me, don’t remember me like this.” “Shake the Cage (Für Theo)” is a spoken-word litany then foregrounding Glasvegas’s bonds with Irvine Welsh and co-manager Alan McGee, like a last battalion of Creation’s endorphin-rushing regiments, still scaling battlements towards the biggest sound.

(The Arts Desk)