From the opening mournful piano chords of 'After Afterall,' you know that this UK re-issue of William Fitzsimmon’s 2008 record is not a party album. By the time he gets to the line “until death do we part / don’t leave me / after all” it is hard to not to get caught up in the all-enveloping melancholy. Lyrically ‘Please Forgive Me (Song of the Crow)' gets even more morose and tormented: “My demons are with me / they told me to not leave them / I put you on a tree / I tore your heart to pieces.”

Fitzsimmons’ biog seems to go out of the way to suggest an ‘other-ness,’ to suggest how strange he is; born to blind parents, brought up in a house filled with sounds but with limited social interaction; then spending years working as a mental health therapist. But if you are a fan of Sufjan Stevens or Iron and Wine, Fitzsimmons is less an oddity and more of a musical fellow traveller. Like them he sings sparse, intimate, folky songs that can make the hairs on your neck stand up – and like Iron & Wine’s Sam Beam he has a damn impressive beard.

Fitzsimmon’s voice is sombre but deeply affecting – sometimes close to the frail whisper of Sam Beam, at other times reminiscent of Sufjan Stevens’ sweet croon. Fans of either should enjoy the record although it lacks the pastoral swoon of the former and the beautiful orchestrations of the latter. And there are occasional moments where it does sail too close to copy-cat or sound a bit too cosy-mainstream like in ‘If you Would Come Back’ - David Gray over-dosed on downers.

The highlights however outweigh these moments of doubt. The achingly beautiful duet 'I Don’t Feel It Anymore (Song of the Sparrow)’ with delicate picked acoustic guitar and banjo accompanying the alternating boy/girl verses is sombre and sublime. ‘Even Now’ is another dose of mournful piano ballardry (“how long should I sigh”?). 'You Still Hurt Me' is the track with the most upbeat rhythms, jaunty banjo-playing and even “ba-ba-bom” backing vocals but it is still choked up with the bitterness of rejection: “it’s been thirteen months since May / it still feels like yesterday... we were lovers / now we’re not even friends.”

Over 13 songs and 50-plus minutes the repetition of the hushed confessional whisper and somnambulant pace mean some of the intense engagement of the listener from those initial songs is lost. But despite this tendency to same-ness, it is a gloriously bleak wallow. File under late-night heartbreak.