Shadow of an Empire

Fionn’s life in a stolen moment, rendered newsreel flashback stylee: Tousle haired Bray singer-songwriter relocates to Brighton, finds a mirror image of his own childhood in that rainy out-of-sorts resort climate, begins writing subtle and impressionistic low-key tone poems that have as much to do with experimental film fragments as bard school, puts out a couple of EPs, signs to Bella Union and eventually releases the seaside verite minor masterpiece that is The End Of History. The record gets shortlisted for the Mercury and the Choice, generates a plethora of four-star reviews, and before you know it the lad’s been picked up by Lost Highway in the US and is soundtracking scenes in Gray’s Anatomy.

The second act should rightly run as follows: Our boy goes to ground and records a more refined second album that constitutes a respectable consolidation, garners more respectful reviews and samey sales. So far, so hum. Except here our Candide departs from the path. With Shadow Of An Empire, Master Regan has – shock, horror – GONE ELECTRIC! The opening ‘Protection Racket’ blows away the cobwebs of his reputation within moments, a rambunctious Bringing It All Back Home rag with a patina of Rough Trade circa ‘83. Fionn now sings to the back rows instead of his breastbone, cracking up with laughter even as he spews anti-corporate robber baron spleen (“Raise your glasses to Mr Onassis”). It all sounds exuberant and rejuvenated and a lot of fun.

It’s no fluke. ‘Catacombs’, ‘Genocide Matinee’ and ‘House Detective’ confirm that the lad has torn up his own aesthetic blueprint, set fire to it and is capering around the flames in skintight strides and pointy boots, using the brazen cadences of ‘Maggie’s Farm’ and ‘Tombstone Blues’ as his iambic pentameter.

True, we need a new Bob like a dose of the clap. But remember the thrill that shivered up the spine when you first heard Bruce circa ‘Lost In the Flood’ or Costello’s first album, or Andy White’s ‘Religious Persuasion’? It’s like that. Except on ‘Coat Hook’, Regan channels that Dylitany skill into Plastic Ono Band production, replete with stabbing rhythm guitar, piercing vocal sound and Keltner type rhythm track.

He hasn’t completely abandoned the pastoral poetics, just hybridised them. ‘Violent Demeanour’ is an urban gangsta scenario that begins as a Coheny nylon-string rumination before being kicked into higher gear by white reggae telecaster jabs and a killer chorus; ‘Lord Help My Poor Soul’ is an 18th century decadent urchin prayer; ‘Lines Written’ is probably the most orthodox thing here, first cousin to Josh or Rufus.

On that first album Fionn Regan’s visions were fully formed. Here he casts aside his original voice and forges a rougher and more robust one. The Empire’s new clothes are a suit of lights.
Suits you sir.