The album opens with the upbeat piano, overdriven electric guitar and drums of Live Fast, Die Old, a song resonant of the will of humans to run and ruin their own lives. Turner’s voice is as beautifully hoarse as it has always been, and the newfound addition of an organ to proceedings adds a delightful new dimension to his music. The chanting of the song is somewhat reminiscent of Death Cab for Cutie’s Transatlanticism, and is just as effective in highlighting Turner’s voice as it was Gibbard’s. The certain ability which Frank Turner holds in being able to motivate in his songwriting is shown once again through lyrics in this song such as ‘it won’t last, so be bold/live fast, die old‘; with the crescendo of drums at the end serving as punctuation to this universally applicable message. Try this at Home is Turner’s brand of meta-music; whilst it’s lazy music-about-music, it’s witty and incisive cleverly brash punk-ethic propaganda; the beat which carries the song along is unapologetically folk-punk to the extent which it would make the early work of Billy Bragg blush.

Dan’s Song is a Summer song if ever there was one: a song with an acoustic guitar in a major key about friends and drinking in parks; the very epitome of British Summers. The development of the instrumentation as the song goes on is also symptomatic of aspersions between this song and Summer: the bright tones of a harmonica cast rays of melodic delight upon the resonant ground of acoustic guitar chords. Poetry of the Deed is a return to Turner’s more sonorous work: electric guitars deliquesce into the mesh of Turner’s voice with the percussion of the track. The refrain of ‘life is too short to live without poetry, if you’ve got soul darling, now come on and show it me’ is perfectly demonstrative of Turner’s continuing theme of the importance of the Arts and living life rather than being the passenger of time. Isabel is a more downtempo track, and is ultimately a let-down compared to prior comparable efforts (see Jet Lag for comfirmation of this point) – it’s not downtempo and compelling, it’s downtempo and dull. Dreadfully so. Even Turner’s typically wry and insightful lyricisms miss their mark here,m which is a rare occurrence.

The Fastest Way Home is a return to form, and a song of devotion made more than believable by Turner’s borderline scream in places and a drop to muted guitar strums amidst ‘darling, oh my darling you know that everything that I do is to try to make me good enough for you‘: the drop to barebones-strumming making for Turner’s voice to appear more naked and more poignant. The oscillatory guitar lines add body to the whole experience and work wonderfully alongside Turner’s vocals. Turner’s penchant for pseudo-political commentary is resurrected in Sons of Liberty, with little positive to say about it. Much of the commentary seems forced as it has become expected of him; the melodies too familiar within the genre and vocals lacking Turner’s individual charm. Zane Lowe’s call of The Road being the ‘hottest record in the world’ wasn’t far off: Turner’s vocals return to their sometimes haunting, sometimes transfixing norm, with vocal faults intact; swirling in symbiosis with delicious guitar parts.

Another shortcoming of the album comes in the form of Faithful Son: a song, whilst delicate in instrumentation and even Turner’s voice, most drab and another ‘plodding’ song; the tale of faith through paternal strife is an overplayed concept. Richard Divine is another carbuncle on this album: it features a strange rhythm which Turner’s vocals seem unable to keep up with, and little in the form of lyrical content up to his usual standards. Sunday Nights and Our Lady of the Campfire do little to improve the quality at the tail of the album, and they’re both weak songs lacking the fire which Turner is so capable of delivering. Journey of the Magi makes sure that the album ends with a squelch rather than a band through its lacklustre delivery and pacing.

From its strong start, it truly is a shame to see the album end so poorly; but it’s more than likely symptomatic of an artist looking to evolve from the formula which has come to be expected from him and faltering short of the mark. All that can be hoped for is a return to form for album number four.

The album opens with the track Stolen Car: a delicate introduction of lightly plucked guitar and a low-pitched, somewhat sombre strings section leading into Orton’s elegant full-bodied and low-toned vocals. Higher-pitched harmonies melt into Orton’s voice in a manner most similar to the evanescence of a lover’s embrace: perfect effortlessness. The bereft tone set by the string section at the beginning of the song is never lifted, save for a short electric guitar solo around half way through, and even the overdriven lead parts toward the end tell a sorrowful story: even that which would be uplifting is itself a sinking ship. Beautiful misery.

‘She’s deep as a well, she’s deep as a well‘: once again, Orton’s unique vocal style is demonstrated; and this time at its top end. Sweetest Decline breaks any possible illusions of a pattern being set by Stolen Car: a brighter piano lead sets the tone for the song, accompanied by a far more jolly violin part, meeting delightfully with Orton’s discovery of the concept of a major key. ‘What are regrets? What are regrets?‘ – the song’s message is one of self-improvement and certainly is convincing amidst this incredible positive atmosphere of swelling violins and jangling keys. Couldn’t Cause Me Harm is another more upbeat song, with the higher-yet-husky nature of Orton’s vocals being explored. Xylophone and an African-esque percussive influence combine to form a slightly eccentric pop sound.

So Much More is another downtempo track, with the slow pace of the music accentuating the seemingly painstakingly wide shifts in vocal pitch; shifts more than dramatic enough to show Orton’s complete vocal range. Soft and delicate piano carries the listener through the song with casual ease; floating arrangements for troubled minds – minds ‘looking for air to breathe’ as Orton herself puts it. Pass in Time allows for a folk-pop cliché to be well and truly fulfilled: it’s a male-female collaboration, but one of a quality high enough for this to be excused. Bright guitar and piano meet with darker string parts in the flux of Orton’s voice meshing with that of Terry Callier’s; itself a harmony of great contrast amidst the contrast of guitar and strings gradually being more joyous throughout the song.

The title track (obviously, Central Reservation) starts simply with only Orton’s voice, a quiet guitar and piano: a trifecta which is to lead into nothing more complex, save for the addition of strings later. This simplicity of timbre and texture in the song definitely works in its favour: the rich nature of Orton’s vocals is stressed under the (frankly) bland underlying music. A more electronic feel is introduced to Orton’s music in All Stars Seem to Weep, an upbeat number introduced by a sweeping synth line. Orton’s deliciously sustained vocals over this further minimalist backing is an undeniable aural treat, and once again finds simplicity to be in its favour.

Unfortunately, it just had to be that a singer in her genre would just have to write meta-music: a somewhat reflexive song about the songwriting process is found in Love Like Laugher. Music about music is, to me, just laziness as does bias me against a song pretty strongly; combining this with a stereotypically bittersweet love song just leads to what is inevitably to be a musical train wreck: the muted guitar singals the inital derailing; Orton’s weakened, less tremulous voice the screaming of those thrown to the sides of their carriage. Blood Red River is a return to form: Beth Orton’s unleashes her siren song unrestrained once again over muted strings, and it is nothing but wonderful. Devil Song is much of the same, and that is no bad thing.

Feel to Believe ends the album on an uplifting note, Orton’s voice at its major peak; sole acoustic guitar for accompaniment. Throughout the album, Orton throws hints to the lyrical subtleties of Regina Spektor, the nature of the songstress exhibited by the likes of Leslie Feist and Chan Marshall and the musicanship shown by the likes of Joni Mitchell: to be able to draw such comparisons is truly a compliment to her, but it can’t be said that this amalgamam works perfectly. Her songs suffer, at times, by sounding fairly similar to one another. That aside, I can do nothing but recommend this album heartily.

James Summerfield’s MySpace

Birmingham seems to be at the forefront of a new wave of folk- and country-inspired music, with the likes of Sam Bentley, Friends of the Stars etc. coming to the favour of ourselves and other local media. And here, in James Summerfield, we could have another sign that the next ‘Birmingham sound’ is going to be closer to Saddle Creek’s current definition of the ‘Omaha sound’ than the metal of the ’80s.

The album starts with an almost painfully cliché country-esque song title in Another Day With You’s Like Torture – it just screams of the likes of I Beat My Wife to Dull the Pain mid-Western America songwriting – but (luckily) it finds its salvation in the content of the song itself. It’s a delicate number of strings, acoustic guitar, slide guitar and drums accompanied by the sort of pained, spiderweb-thin vocal delivery paralleling that of the late Elliott Smith. The lyrics are full of sweet little references to the limitations of knowledge and the transience of relationships, throwing back memories to late-era ‘everything is a ballad’ Dr. Hook. And that is quite possibly the only time that that particular comparison has been made favourably.

Heads Down and Eyes Up is a song which I can immediately love, if only for the passing theme of ‘I can’t stand theists for whom God only exists in their hours of need.’ It’s just delightful commentary on a breed worthy of hate. Again, Elliott Smith comparisons seem necessary: the delay on the voice is reminiscent of Independence Day, and works to thicken out the texture of the song in the same way, alongside the far more minimal backing of slide guitar and strings.

The third song on the album, Stuck in the Mud, is probably the most indicative of the minimalism of his music: voice and guitar. It’s a simple combination which works, especially with the contrast between the harsher highs of his vocal chords and the clean sounding mids of his accompanying guitar. Count to Ten is, simply, wonderful: soothing vocals tell the story of a stalkerish distant desire, but in terms so pure. Chinese food, independent films, cashews and cheap wine are truly the more base components of a successful relationship. The sudden-onset swell of the instruments at the end of the song at the point of ‘I’m thinking of you even though we have not met’ seems so earnest that the song cannot be construed as anything but earnest by anything possessing a heart. The descent into a whisper from this just compounds the effect. The subsequent instrumental of Jelly Bones demonstrates the technical proficiency of James quite well.

Getting thoroughly hammered because of a loved one: it’s so passé, but so wonderfully adaptable to music. What’s on Your Mind shows a struggle between whiskey and wine brought on by the perceived distance of another, and its wonderfully executed with vocals which for the first time on the album seem strained, and it’s a strain of a most appealing nature. It’s an emotional strain. It’s genuine. Delusions of adequacy and grandeur are also great concepts for songs, and Films tackles this, again, with great aplomb. The vocals and guitar mesh to form a whole, rather than just being the sum of two parts.

A Little Time’s guitar part is wonderfully playful, and it’s an infectious riff. It could be considered danceable, as far as that term is usable in country. I’d be a Helpless Friend is a song, once again, of James Summerfield’s more minimalist side: guitar plucking accompanied by slide and the most gentle of percussion. At 1:59, it’s a nice break from the rest of the album.

Once is a sad song, simple as: the debate of love as a once in a lifetime experience versus a constant one just doesn’t lend itself to jolly music. His melancholy is an enjoyable one, though: the vibrato on the vocals becomes gradually more and more unrestrained as the song goes on, just giving the feeling that the performer is close to tears. It’s wonderful.

9 Lives and Paper Bags are a stylistic departure from what was the formula laid down up to now. 9 Lives sees the introduction of clean electric guitars and a far more staccato vocal style. Paper Bags, on the other hand, is the polar opposite to this. The song brings with it a delightfully fragile piano intro and a gentle climb to full instrumentation. The only lyrics in this song, which are sung towards the end, serve as a closing to this album wonderfully: it’s a synoptic account of the themes of the entire album.

I must say that this album is, in a little way, a little hackneyed, but only in a thematic sense; and I’m not quite sure as to how bad of a thing that is. Sure, the songs are about love, about life, about the day-to-day: and all of that has been done before ad inifitum. But who cares? These themes cut to the very core of the human condition.

It’s out in August. Buy it.

Commercially Inviable Records, the record label at the helm of what I see as the folk revolution in Birmingham, are really pressing the concept of ‘art for art’s sake’, and I can truly respect that. I hope that their lineup grows exponentially with a maintenance of quality.

Track four, Heathens, sees more venom being spat: seemingly this time over transient Christians and faith merely to spite others. Once again, the Marwood’s gritty voice over simple, bright acoustic guitar dichotomy is on display in the most apparent example of its implementation yet. This fury in Ben’s voice spills over into Claire: a song clearly of a tale of a jilted liar, and as such, a wonderful place for the proliferation of his growl. In spite of his previous admonishment of the we-can-fix-the-world attitudes of the likes of Duckworth, Fake It sees demonstration of anger over the lack of difference perceived by some between him and the boy and girl bands so prolific on the television. This is righteous anger: this is the good kind of hypocrisy. Like it or Not finishes the album on a high note: the bitterness inherent in his voice seems to be gone, and the major key of the music is not deceptive as it had been previously.

To conclude: it’s £4.99 from HMV. It’s amazing. Buy it.