Keaton Henson is a master of dark introspection and unashamed vulnerability, a 21st century manifestation of what used to be called bed-sit blues. There isn’t a shred of extrovert joy in his latest album, where he explores, with forensic authenticity and a gift for poetic lyrics, a miasma of self-doubt, regret and resignation. “Don’t I just know how to fuck things up” he sings, almost mantra-like. It’s very British, this gentle and almost whimsical self-deprecation, but unless you’re seeking a homeopathic remedy – in which like cures like– for you own despair, this might be an album to avoid.
This isn’t to say that Henson’s vibe is toxic in any way, for there are several gems here, in a collection of songs which take a new turn…