Why is that nice RTÉ radio presenter singing about scoring black tar heroin in San Francisco? Actually, this is a different John Murry (one who apparently misplaced an ‘e’ on his way out of Tupelo, Mississippi). Four years in the making, his debut album is, as the surfeit of lyrics about dope use might suggest, deeply cathartic and gruelling. Nonetheless, it is ultimately an uplifting affair as Murry chronicles his dark voyage through the American underbelly and his ultimate redemption.

A distant blood relative of Southern Gothic godfather William Faulkner, Murry’s timeworn croon has a Springsteen-ish quality. Individually, each song is beautifully poised between despair and hope. Cumulatively, what comes across is the searing honesty. “It seems like musicians aren’t giving emotionally to the audience,” he said recently. “I want to do that, I want to get it right – to get it rightly wrong, perfectly ragged and real.” He achieves that, and more, on a record that will undoubtedly come to be seen as one of the year’s most stunning and wrenching breakthroughs.

Key Track: ‘Little Coloured Balloons’