The fact that Galwegian Kieran Gorman writes under a nom de plume is not the first sign that we mightn’t be getting a proper look at the all-too-human heart that beats beneath all those trademark smart polonecks. A stage persona is one thing, but being deliberately, consistently held at arm’s length is quite another; and, although Blake has done remarkably well on the continent for years, the one thing that has always held us back from falling properly in love with his urbane string-drenched Francophilic torch-pop is the fact that, even as his finest moments of opulent orchest-tronica swell and shine, Blake himself always appears to be at an emotional remove. Even Scott Walker and Burt Bacharach, from whom Blake has learned a lot (see the noirish ‘Ava’ and the ruefully jaunty ‘End Of The Affair’ respectively), may have been masters of orchestral grandiosity, but they also knew the value of putting your heart on your sleeve.
On this, his fourth studio album, something heart-shaped is – finally – just about visible on Blake’s perfectly tailored suitjacket. His sorrowful, mistake-grieving stillness, as in ‘Travelling’, ‘You’re Not Alone’ or ‘The Fox In Winter’, makes you think either he’s romantically gone through a hell of a time recently, or else as a songwriter he’s finally ditching the old jaded-boulevardier persona in favour of emotional specificity. Even less fraught moments (like the exuberant ‘We Are Not Stars’) breathe more deeply with new, real life.
However, what with the satin-smooth strings, the rich orchestral detailing and Blake’s own fey falsetto, the flawless, luxury-car-advert, Adult Contemporary sheen of it all is not for everyone; as well, Blake still can’t resist occasional slippages into minor-key-melancholia-by-numbers (‘We Couldn’t Decide’) and trumpet-parping cocktail-hour kitsch (a cover of ‘Native New Yorker’). That said, this is his finest LP yet, and somehow we feel we’re just getting to know him.