Sickly sweet and overly twee
You know those people who moon out of train windows, in love with their own picturesque melancholy? [a]Fionn Regan[/a]’s third album is like that. And yes, we’ve all done it, and a pretty track or two of heartstrung acoustic wallowing does no harm, but a whole album of lines like “[i]In the taxi you poured out your heart/And your head fell on my shoulder like a willow[/i]” and self-regarding rueful run-ins with the opposite sex can start to feel seriously unhealthy.
Even something that could be quite an interesting, raw little tale of infidelity, [b]‘Sow, Mare, Bitch, Vixen’[/b], is thrown off-kilter by inappropriate sugary strings, and elsewhere there’s even – spit – xylophone. Sadness – it’s not a hobby, people.