om McRae's 2000 debut had the seductive darkness we all seem to demand of the serious solo-songwriter. It was a good album. It was decent enough, indeed cruel enough, to capture the imagination of the older, more mature crowd and attract all the sorts of plaudits publicists love to lash on front cover stickers. When UK awards nominations came knocking, probably more due to the token and dark songwriter berth having to be filled that year, it came as no surprise. The euphoric fatalism embodied in songs such as 'End of the World News (Dose Me Up)' a ditty detailing the crossroads reached where Armageddon, hard drugs and the terrible feeling of a life unfulfilled met, played to all the weaknesses of the disillusioned listener. But perhaps, just perhaps, I got the feeling, it was more an album littered with dead ends and heard it all before Nick Drake-isms. Sometimes I felt indifferent to it, its dourness crushing my enthusiasm.


“A Day Like Today” signals the fact his follow up reeks with polish and immaculate production values, stinking of money and thoughtfulness in all the right places. First the xylophonic tinkering, then the thunderous drums, instantly knock you out. The richness evident here is of the Sacher torte and not chocolate chip muffin variety. McRae finishes on a typically sinister note 'If you let me I could love you to death'. The word 'death' is emphasized to the point where you picture a teary McRae picking up a hatchet and running at you.


But that's not to say it’s preened accessible folk pop. He still has unbearable amounts of desolation flowing through his veins. Think more in line with what Elbow have set out to achieve; a kind of symbiosis with haunting beauty and lyrical penetration. The music always tries to explore different, yet equally effective avenues. 'Mermaid Blues' places a lone, plaintive voice over discordant and distant harmonies. The effect is a song of crawing desperation. In contrast 'Stronger Than Dirt' is a thumping, swelling, tempo changing classic. The contents of a kitchen sink: torrents of backing chants, a banjo cameo, unidentifiable percussion, smashed cymbals, are interchanged as a defiant McRae repeats, in his tender, world weary brogue: "You will never get close to me", as if he just loves to wallow in his enclosed sty of loneliness. He adores the feeling he gets from being misunderstood. And as on his debut, a sticking point is the utter absence of black humour a Bill Callahan might use to bolster his bleak observations of the human condition.


Just Like Blood is an altogether a better album than his first. It seems so much more focused and crystal clear. You can drown in its loveliness. Yet despite it all, don't expect McRae to be the next David Gray (God forbid and thank God), lighting up dollar signs in the eyes of his record company. It is apparent he always will be an inward looking mass of neuroses, prone to attracting critical respect and repelling those sick of the melancholic worldview. And compared to the likes of Cohen and Cave, he is a novice with many years of apprenticeship ahead. Nevertheless, ambition has reaped some great rewards.