A collection of the atonal yammerings of a weird, deluded shut-in, Hátindar has mostly only novelty value. The songwriting is fairly formulaic and perfunctory, and the delivery method—one dude with an acoustic and a harmonica (except for the couple of songs which make good use of the ‘auto-accomp’ feature on an electric organ)—doesn’t offer much variety. Like most musicians who’ve opted for this format, Insol’s focus is on his lyrics and their elocution, and they’re by far the most interesting bit. Direct, eccentric and random to the point of sounding stream-of-consciousness, they detail the musings and sensibilities of a marginalised, selfstyled poet with a slightly skewed view of everyday life, and if you’re into that kind of thing, fine, but listening to this album made me damn near as crazy as this guy sounds.
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