Like Jacques Brel if only he'd been born in Falkirk, this drink-sodden song-cycle of an ageing roué's developing self-disgust is nasty, brutish but absolutely compelling.
Arab Strap vocalist Moffat half-speaks novelistic lyrics, while composer/pianist Wells creates spare yet emotionally intense themes of great beauty. As with some diseases, the album gets worse before it gets better, but by the end you're left stunned in admiration. Hell, there's even a redemptive arc. Amazing.
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