Hylton Symthe’s unofficial godson drones on, rhyming in Chris Eubank’s jodhpurs and tweed jacket, but replacing the monocle with a Terminator’s eyeball.
Obaro Ejimiwe is the know-it-all shoulder shrugger to Roots Manuva’s older guru. As his raps become more stretched and less-syllabic, idly, distractedly commenting on the world passing by outside, you remain drawn to Ghostpoet’s apathetic addresses that best served ‘Peanut Butter Blues And Melancholy Jam’ cold.
Patting you from the palm of his hand, he sits loftily, courting a preservation chamber lit by synths and orderly electronics capable of a domineering aspect set to an unhurried flicker: ‘Them Waters’ is something for new wave vampires to lock themselves into.
They toy with you like the bard himself, the quintessential Englishman sidling through (the glum-upon-ghostly ‘Dial Tones’), inexplicably breaking out into a mediaeval swing on ‘Plastic Bag Brain’. The sedated, understated authority, brooding with a Mensa membership but refraining from a finishing pincer movement, turns Ghostpoet into a wallowing post-apocalyptic crooner revealing few new layers.
In a dangerous game of substance against presence, gambling on less-is-more and the often excellently closed-in music to carry him home, his logic and peculiar magnetism – playing vulnerable on ‘Meltdown’ (video below) and Sloth Trot’, though he could just as easily not notice the isolation – keeps the geezer’s verve of a ‘I Just Don’t Know’ or ‘Cash And Carry Me Home’ at a distance.
Don’t mind Ghostpoet, he’s just on his hobby horse; leave him be, rocking away in the corner. In a way an ideal sequel, but it’s a missed opportunity to find out more about the man.
Words: Matt Oliver
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Ghostpoet reviewed some singles for Clash - read what he made of Little Mix, Primal Scream and more here.
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