Even before he's played a note, Lancashire-based singer/ songwriter GLYN BAILEY's history is of interest. He once played in a band called The Urbane Gorillas (genius!) and before music snared him fully spent time active in politics working for a Labour MP before Tony Blair's post-Iraq shenanigans disillusioned him for good.
And, by the sound of "Toys From Balsa", poltics' loss is surely our gain, because it's a fine debut album, recorded diligently at home, showcasing a quintessentially English singer/ songwriter who's surely a kindred spirit of our best mavericks such as Robyn Hitchcock, Martin Newell and Vinny Peculiar.
Clocking in at well over an hour in duration, "Toys From Balsa" is a lengthy, involved statement of intent, but it's got plenty to get your teeth into and repeated listening is seriously rewarded after a few plays. The album opens with the immortally-titled "Sorry (She Went Down On Me But I Thought About You)" which is a likeably lascivious tale of lust and unfaithfulness with some neat Bolan in the guitar department. It's excellent, as is the ensuing "East & West", which - straight away - is a change of tack, setting up a wracked piano ballad concerning a parental marriage break-up as seen through the eyes of the child. "If I close my eyes, curl into a ball/ Fingers in my ears behind the bedroom door, I make it disappear" sings Glyn, only too realistically. It's wracked, moving gear and quickly marks Bailey out as a songwriter of some resonance.
The rest of the album is quite an eclectic affair, but one that hangs together surprisingly well. Musically, Bailey isn't afraid to spread his wings, as he does attractively on tracks like the pithy, witty waltz-time pop of "L'Humanite" (where a tale of attending a Communist feast in France is supported by trumpet, accordion and melodica), the growling Bo Diddley meets Pulp of the daft "My Love Is Out In Space" and the melody-hugging guitars of "D Block Girl", where the object of Glyn's fantasy affections comes across as a curious cross between Ian Dury's "Geraldine" and Vinny Peculiar's "Beautful Woman In Public Sector Management." In case you're wondering, that's a good thing, too.
Good as these tracks are, though, it's when Bailey gets up close and personal that he really scores. And nowhere more so than on tracks like "He Says, She Says", "Flowers Everywhere" and "Missing." The first is a guitar-heavy ode to dysfunctional relationships filled with acute observations (e.g: "He says: "if she tried, she could still be pretty"/ She says: "He is charming to anyone but me"), while the gentle acousticism of "Flowers Everywhere" intially throws you a loop with its' images of "Get me to the church on time/ up to then I'm doing fine." Certain that Bailey's about to describe a wedding, you take your eye of the ball, only for the picture to distort and you realise he's actually attending a funeral. This one is startling enough, but it's not half as affecting as "Missing", which is a sparse, predominantly acoustic affair, with odd, chromatic leanings. There's no misunderstanding Bailey's lyrics about love for a person who has literally disappeared though. "Seems like only yesterday, but could it be a year? Time stands still when you're missing, I just can't believe you're not there" he sings, incredulous, capturing the frustration and hopelessness to perfection.
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Sound-wise, it can occasionally be a tad stodgy, such as on "Don't Just Sit There (Do Something)", where chewy loops and white noise vye for attention with loud, proud riffing and neither wins the day. Also, Bailey could occasionally do with lopping a minute or so off some tracks, as the average timespan of his songs is the 5-6 minute mark. Mind you, lyrically he's never less than excellent and even when he's a little more obtuse - like on the oppressive, possibly murderous "Last Day Of Summer" - he intrigues regardless. He's adept with humour, too, as the jaunty, folksy closing track "Friends (John & Yoko In Bed)" proves admirably.
Besides, anyone who can write songs featuring Communist feasts, abusive relationships, cannibalism, plastic bags, funerals and Laurel and Hardy in Heaven and go on to present them in such an affecting, thought-provoking manner as Glyn Bailey is clearly doing something right. "Toys From Balsa" may suggest something cheap and functional, but its' author shapes rich, diverse and wonderfully engaging creations from his source material. Let's hope he can provide many more in the future.
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