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 “In the taxi you poured out your heart/And your head fell on my shoulder like a willow” 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, ‘Sow, Mare, Bitch, Vixen’, is thrown off-kilter by inappropriate sugary strings, and elsewhere there’s even – spit – xylophone. Sadness – it’s not a hobby, people.
Order a copy of Fionn Regan’s ‘100 Acres of Sycamore’ from Amazon