Perhaps 20 years or so recording under a plethora of aliases is to blame for M.E. Baird's star being overlooked in the Melbourne sky, but trimming his name to his initials still seems a spotlight defying move even for his first solo record proper.
Like Bob Dylan with an unravaged larynx, Baird fingers a half empty tumbler of cheap scotch while a forlorn violin lollops in the corner. And that's just the fabulous opener, Always Tuesday, from which point things remain distinctly lachrymose. For an album so burdened with personal tragedy, Baird sounds remarkably unbroken.
