John Grant has the voice of an angel – if angels are baritones – the garb of a garage mechanic and the pants-swinging moves of a man who’s been through it all and just doesn’t care anymore. After all, he has his music through which to channel his desires, humour, neuroses and bile, and no matter what he sings about or how he presents it – whether buoyed by lyrical piano on TC and Honeybear or backed by the throb of moody synthesiser, cheesy keytar and trebly rat-a-tat syndrum on Smug C*** – a torch song always seems to come out in the end.
