Fun fact: I know nothing about Robyn Hitchcock. Of his 21 studio albums, I have heard only this 2017 self-titled release. Having seen him walking around Tomato Fest or hearing friends sing his praises, I still managed to have zero context about his work.
So, with that in mind, I’m either a hilariously inappropriate person to share thoughts on his latest record or a incredibly apt conduit for thoughts on it as I have no idea how it measures it to previous undertakings.
What I can say is that this is absolutely not the case of a British artist with an illustrious career moving to Nashville to re-invent himself as some sort of Bluegrass aficionado. The album is British pop in all the enjoyable ways; self-deprecating, poppy and sometimes just a bit absurd. While there are elements of Nashville seeping in via the occasional slide guitar or twangy lick, it’s an enjoyably diverse record that defies pigeonholing.
I may not have known a thing about Hitchcock’s work prior to this offering, I’m certainly game for a deep dive now.