The Easter Parade, the long-running project of Northamptonshire’s Matt Steven, has always been about more than just music. It has been about atmosphere, memory, and that strange place where sound and image blur together. With the release of his new five-track EP Raindrops on the Lens on august 22, 2025, Steven has once again proven that sometimes the smallest gestures carry the most weight. This collection feels less like a polished studio product and more like a series of captured moments—half-lit frames from an old film, the kind you stumble across and cannot quite forget.
The EP arrives after a long silence from The Easter Parade, making it both a return and a continuation. Steven himself put it best when he said, “After a long time of not releasing music, I’m really happy to share a new collection of honest and reflective songs, which I hope somebody somewhere might appreciate.” That sentence alone sums up the modest, human core of the project. These are not songs written to dominate charts or playlists; they are songs built to be lived with, revisited, and remembered.
Recorded largely live at Steven’s Indigo Scala studio in Northamptonshire, Raindrops on the Lens aims to capture presence rather than perfection. The decision to record with minimal overdubs means you hear the breaths, the space between piano notes, the subtle shifts in tone that would otherwise be ironed out. The Steinway grand piano becomes the record’s anchor, with strings draped around it in warm vintage hues. The effect is cinematic in the best sense—like a black-and-white film score that never tries too hard to impose itself but instead deepens the mood of the story.
The EP opens with “Prologue,” a brief but powerful statement. It feels like a curtain rising, an invitation into a world of shadow and memory. There is a restraint here, as though Steven wants us to listen closely from the start. By the time the second track “Sing Our Kids to Sleep” begins, the intimacy of the EP is clear. It is both lullaby and hymn, a song that builds from quiet piano into something communal with the help of the Oluwatosin Community Gospel Choir. Their voices lift the track into something larger than life, yet the fragility of the lyrics keeps it grounded in personal reflection.
“Yesterday’s Grace” might be the EP’s emotional core. The strings provided by Maria Betania Hernandez and Joseph O’Keefe give the piece a swelling, aching beauty that feels timeless. There is something almost Paul Buchanan-like in its ability to slow down time, to pull the listener into a moment of stillness that feels endless. The mix by Darryll Mcfayden ensures the song breathes naturally, with no sharp edges to distract from its mood.
The title track “Raindrops on the Lens” brings the project’s themes into full focus. It is nostalgic without being sentimental, cinematic without being overblown. The raindrops become a metaphor for memory itself—small distortions that blur the past but also make it shine in new ways. Steven’s voice, close and unadorned, carries the lyric with honesty. It feels like a song that could accompany a closing credits scene, but also like one that could play quietly in your kitchen on a rainy morning and feel just as right.
Closing the EP is “Adeline (Live),” a recording that strips everything down even further. It is raw, imperfect, and utterly affecting. By ending the EP this way, Steven makes his intentions clear: this is a project about real performances, real feelings, not studio trickery. It is also a reminder of his abilities as a live performer, a space where intimacy is heightened and every small moment matters.
The collaborators on this project deserve recognition too. Beyond the choir and string players, the presence of Warren Van Wyk on drums gives the songs subtle rhythmic depth, while mix engineers Evan King, Darryll Mcfayden, and Fab Martini each bring different colors to the tracks. Pete Maher’s mastering ties it all together, preserving the EP’s live warmth. None of these contributions overshadow Steven’s songwriting, but each one enriches the textures, making the record feel whole.
The inspirations behind the EP also shape its character. Steven has spoken about late-night screenings of Once Upon a Time in America, boxes of old family photos, and the atmosphere of classic British cinema. You can feel those references throughout, not in a literal sense but in tone. There is a worn quality to the music, a kind of sepia glow. It is music that seems to exist both in the present and in some remembered past.
What is most striking about Raindrops on the Lens is its quiet confidence. In an era where so much music is designed to be loud, attention-grabbing, or algorithm-friendly, Steven has made a record that whispers instead of shouts. It asks you to slow down, to listen, to notice the details. In doing so, it offers something rare: songs that feel lived in, songs that make space for the listener’s own memories and emotions.
The Easter Parade has always existed in a space between genres, drawing from artists like Randy Newman, Tom Waits, Nick Cave, and Ed Harcourt. Here those influences surface in small ways—the lyrical storytelling, the piano-driven arrangements, the balance of melancholy and beauty. But ultimately, what defines Raindrops on the Lens is its refusal to be anything other than what it is: a quiet record about memories, longing, and the little details that give life meaning.
It is worth emphasizing how well the EP works as a whole. Each track connects to the others, creating a narrative arc that feels cohesive. “Prologue” sets the stage, “Sing Our Kids to Sleep” offers comfort, “Yesterday’s Grace” reflects on loss, “Raindrops on the Lens” captures memory, and “Adeline (Live)” leaves us with raw humanity. Together they form not just a set of songs but a complete emotional journey.
Raindrops on the Lens is not a record that will shout for your attention, but if you give it space, it will stay with you. It is music for late nights, quiet mornings, and moments when you want to feel connected to something bigger than yourself. For The Easter Parade, this EP is a triumphant return, not because it tries to be grand but because it embraces smallness, honesty, and reflection.
In the end, Matt Steven has given us an album that feels like it was made for one person at a time. And in that sense, it succeeds completely. It is a quiet little record, as he himself described it. But sometimes, those are the ones that last the longest.
