Beverly Glenn-Copeland - Beverly Copeland (LP)

If you came to Beverly Glenn-Copeland through Keyboard Fantasies, the 1986 cassette that quietly changed lives, his 1970 debut credited as Beverly Copeland feels like opening a time capsule and finding a heartbeat still warm. It is a folk and jazz-leaning record with a classical singer’s poise, recorded in an era when Canadian songcraft was taking bold turns, and it has the calm certainty of someone who knows exactly what they want to sing about. The voice is front and centre, rich and agile, and the songs sit in that sweet place where melody, message and movement join hands.

Released in 1970, this self-titled set was Glenn-Copeland’s first full-length statement. It did not travel far at the time. Original copies became whisper-rare for decades, the kind of thing crate diggers gossiped about. Which makes its recent return to circulation feel both overdue and strangely fitting, given how contemporary the record sounds. Piano leads most of the way, with acoustic guitar and a discreet rhythm section giving the tunes lift rather than weight. The arrangements breathe, so you can hear the grain of the voice and the shape of each chord change.

“Don’t Despair” is the doorway in. It starts like a pep talk under your breath then swells into something devotional, not pious, just humane. The phrasing flickers between jazz timing and folk simplicity, and the piano has that slightly percussive touch that keeps the lyric grounded. “Colour of Anyhow” is the one that tends to seal the deal for first-time listeners. It has a patient rise and fall, a melody that lands softly but lingers, and a sense of grace that sits somewhere between Terry Callier’s warmth and a chamber recital. When the 2020 anthology Transmissions introduced a wave of new listeners to Glenn-Copeland, “Colour of Anyhow” felt like a quiet thesis, proof that the early work had already mapped out the spiritual and melodic horizons he would chase later.

Part of the record’s pull is how it threads together lived experience and musical training without ever turning showy. Glenn-Copeland studied classical music and worked in broadcasting, and you can hear both worlds here. The voice can pivot from conversational to operatic in a bar or two, yet the songs themselves are direct, open-hearted and uncluttered. You catch glints of spiritual jazz in the voicings, a little gospel in the uplift, and folk storytelling at the core. Nothing leans too hard. That balance is what keeps the album feeling modern, even after five decades.

Context matters with this one. Glenn-Copeland is a pioneering trans artist whose catalogue has been reclaimed with care and enthusiasm in recent years, and the debut plays a key role in that story. When critics circled back in the late 2010s, sparked by renewed attention around Keyboard Fantasies, the early acoustic album started to get the praise it missed first time around. Publications like The Guardian and others pointed out how assured and singular it was, even set against the heavy hitters of the period. You can hear why. There is no imitation here, just a curious, empathetic songwriter working out how to hold space for themselves in song.

For collectors and the vinyl-curious, this is where the hunt gets satisfying. Beverly Copeland vinyl used to be an almost mythical score, but sensible reissues have brought it back within reach. If you are looking to buy Beverly Glenn-Copeland records online, you will see this title sitting proudly alongside Keyboard Fantasies, and it belongs there. The album benefits from a clean pressing too, since the dynamic range is all in the voice and piano, and a quiet floor makes those soft passages shine. I have seen copies tucked into the staff-picks bin at the odd Melbourne record store, which feels right, because it is the sort of album a clerk slips into your hands with a knowing nod. For anyone searching specifically for Beverly Glenn-Copeland vinyl or browsing Beverly Glenn-Copeland albums on vinyl, this one is the soul of the catalogue. And if you are in the habit of supporting local, plenty of shops dealing in vinyl records Australia wide keep it moving in and out of stock.

In the end, Beverly Copeland plays like a love letter to resilience. It is gentle but not meek, spiritual without preaching, and it carries a listener through the kind of emotional weather that makes you sit still a moment longer than you meant to. Put it on at night, let the room go quiet, and you can hear the bridge forming between the piano hymns of 1970 and the synth blossoms to come. That is the magic, and it is why this album deserves to sit near the front of the shelf, ready to be reached for again.