He sees resentment, guilt and loathing, we see folk-song brilliance
The more [b]David Thomas Broughton[/b] tells you what an awful bastard he is, the less inclined you are to believe him. The maverick’s third album streamlines the sprawling electro-dashed folk of its predecessors into a dual-pronged thrust of debased beauty and elegant despair (“[i]I am a perfect louse, I bleed the goodness from your body[/i]”, [b]‘Perfect Louse’[/b]), but it’s his electrifying croon that lends this its wealth of weary charms – [b]‘Apologies’[/b] longs wistfully to “[i]set your body on fire[/i]”, while ‘Joke’’s regrets of a rocky relationship are tinged with a poetic, silver-tongued optimism at once deplorable and discomfitingly familiar.
Bleeding excellence from every pore, self-loathing never felt so worthy.
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