Ghostpoet - Shedding Skin (LP)

Some records feel like a turning point the moment the needle hits. Shedding Skin is one of those. Ghostpoet had already earned a Mercury nod for his debut, but the 2015 follow-up lands with a different kind of weight. Released on Play It Again Sam on 2 March 2015, it steps out of the murk of laptop-born beats into a room with a real band, valves warm, guitars humming, drums pushing air. The spoken-sung delivery is still there, heavy-lidded and conversational, but the backdrop has a pulse you feel in your ribs.

The shift suits him. Off Peak Dreams opens the album with a late-night lilt, a melody that climbs over a restless groove. It sounds like city lights hitting wet pavement. He’s always been a chronicler of small-hours thoughts, and here the stories feel tighter, more lived-in, less abstract than before. The detail sneaks up on you. He worries about money, ageing, friendships that don’t quite hold together. It’s never melodramatic, just honest, and the band gives him room to breathe between lines.

There’s a streak of indie rock static through these songs that surprised a lot of people at the time. Critics picked up on it straight away, and the reviews were strong across the board. You can hear why. The title track is lean and steady, a patient build rather than a big swing. Sorry My Love, It’s You Not Me, with Lucy Rose adding a cool, steady harmony, is a highlight. Her voice slips in like a streetlight flicker and suddenly the chorus hits harder. The hook isn’t showy, but it sticks. These are songs that trade instant gratification for staying power, and that’s why they keep drawing you back.

The writing is sharp and economical. He avoids grand pronouncements, preferring the texture of everyday anxieties. That Ring Down The Drain Kind Of Feeling is a perfect example. The image is simple and a bit bleak, and it tells you everything about the relationship in question. A lot of artists flirt with gloom for effect. Ghostpoet makes it humane, even funny in places, with these small asides that feel like a mate telling you the truth over a pint.

You can tell the studio choices were deliberate. The guitars favour grit over gloss, the bass is round and forward, and the drums are dry enough to feel close. Nothing crowds the vocal. When the arrangements open up, it’s subtle. A guitar line steps out front for eight bars. A keyboard smear colours the edges. There’s restraint at work, which gives the album its tension. It’s a colder record than his debut on the surface, but the warmth is baked into the performances, and that tension is what made it such a critical step up.

The Mercury Prize shortlist in 2015 felt like a proper acknowledgement. Not a token slot either. Shedding Skin sits in that lane where post-punk and trip hop share a cigarette outside the club, but it doesn’t cling to nostalgia. It nods to lineage, then heads down a side street. If you came for hazy beats, you still get the mood. If you came for guitars, you’ll find plenty to sink into.

On vinyl, the songs breathe. The low end has a nice, rolling heft, and those close-mic’d drums pop in a way that flatters the half-spoken vocals. If you’re crate digging in a Melbourne record store and spot Shedding Skin vinyl, don’t overthink it. Grab it, take it home, and play it after dark. The sequencing makes sense in a full run, and the quiet-loud dynamics feel truer on wax. It belongs in the stack next to records you reach for when the city has worn you down a bit and you need something human but not cloying.

For anyone hunting Ghostpoet vinyl or trying to buy Ghostpoet records online, start here. If you’re building a row of Ghostpoet albums on vinyl, this one anchors the lot. It captures him mid-shed, stepping into bolder colours without losing the muttered charm that made early fans stick around. Ten years on, it still sounds like a streetlight reflection, a little blurred, strangely comforting, and hard to shake.