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Robert Wyatt

By • Oct 21st, 2007 • Category: Album review

To his followers, the phrase “new Robert Wyatt album” has the same halo of excitement as the phrase “James McFadden from forty yards” has to the average Scotsman. For over thirty years now Wyatt has entertained and perplexed his fans with such albums as Ruth Is Stranger Than Richard, often blending synths with acoustic instruments as he mixes the old with the new. Wheelchair bound since the early seventies his work is centred on an increasingly fragile voice, tender yet also capable of great scorn. Wyatt, it seems, is so disgusted by the English speaking countries of the West that he forgoes his native tongue on half of this collection, singing in Spanish for much of the second half. But really, all this description is hopeless, since this is an utterly sublime album and probably one of the most moving things you’ll hear all year. A savagely intelligent work, that wears its heart on its sleeve, from a man whose job title should really be “The Nicest Man In Britain”.

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