Accidental, a curious coincidence perchance, but timely and touching nonetheless, Mr Leytons new E.P. – the best output I’ve heard from the man so far, but, patience, more on that later my lovely lurching urchins – opens with the rallying rock’n’roll-call that the dear departed Nikki Sudden copped from Keef for The Jacobites ‘God Save Us Poor Sinners’ track. That portentous intro heralds in ‘Fires’ with a suitably burning urgency lacking in some of Senor Leyton’s other material (not that I’ve heard it all, admittedly), though it is still resplendent in the undeniable air of elegance and educated dereliction he carries with him on this opening stoker and the other 5 songs on this limited release.

Produced, with wondrous results, by Ginger and featuring him and Wildheart Stidi Leytons soon-to-be-trademark stately home swagger aren’t compromised but spruced up and given the chance to crow for all they’re worth. And they’re worth a thousand tab-ends and wrinkled wraps of nebulous powders, having the effortless ebullience of eye-opening walks in the sun, with love in your heart, or the endless graspable possibilities that open up from sloth-like slumber that’s the hidden key of the greatest music.

Perfectly poised and with subtle power ‘Fires’ spreads wild and welcomingly, stomping like Strummers leg on meth, with a fine bespoke chorus, classy but not classic (that’d diminish it’s resolutely individual impact), and isn’t doused by either ‘Lie To Me’s refined acceptance with a medieval tenderness and awareness or the gutter gaunt twin barrelled riffing on ‘Of Course You Knew’. As with all his work the record is imbued with a tangible atmosphere. The glitter tainted strains are refined into a cultured and decadent esoterica, tattered tapestries and enigmatic erudition, with an amorous air of the faded glamour of a silver screen idol.

Whilst, in an unacknowledged nod to tradition, there are several sly steals that slink out of one bed and next-door into this party this Canadian chap manages to bring a uniqueness to the table, not least in his expressive voice, a clipped conjoining of ‘Ziggy...’ era Bowie and Jeff Buckley, though, thankfully nowhere near as over the top, just equally opulent, especially when the slow ascent of ‘Maryland’ brings rewards and riches from an astral mineshaft, rumour has it located in a ballroom on Mars, and the camp-fire and whisky bottle slumbering strum of the displaced blues of the reserved magnificence of ‘Right Here Don’t Feel So Right Right Now’ (Leyton and compadre and ex-Black Halo and Yo-Yo Rich Jones as The Stagger Twins, no less).

Beguiling and bedecked with jewels fit for a royal coronation, this gives a delightful taste of the treats waiting with the upcoming full length album.  A guy that could make a coronary seem regal, with the real grandeur of talent as opposed to delusion, and an deceptively simple sense, and surfeit of, splendour. Sumptuous.
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- Stu Gibson