She's on the cover, smirking in front of an old map: a naughty sea god(dess) in a Cruikshank cartoon. Which somehow suits the discursive post-folk rompery of the music: highly arranged, wordy as an Elvis Costello song with larks taking the place of bitterness.
Clank biff skanky-diddle: Brechty, theatrical. Carthy commands the foreground with her large, milky mezzo and the sheer force of her personality sometimes taking the place of real content, as is modern. Impressive.