By Mark Wynn
There is an incredible self deprecation to the way York based poet, Mark Wynn conducts himself regarding his spoken word, acoustic punk. An air of irreproachable nonchalance frequents his recordings but through this, he appears world weary and humble, rather than arrogant or self indulgent.
Through a biting vocal onslaught, rife with confessions of distaste, shines a subtle musical elegance, with delicate folk motifs eloquently dancing around the vagabond subject matter. The unvarnished production of the release lends a sense of intimacy to his words which in turn creates a deeper, personal relevance. In particular, the 'Radio Song', where he recounts, in a haphazard northern drawl, the self conscious inadequacies attached to a lower class existence - "I like words that don't relate, I like the words builders use in the mouths of artists, masquerading as working class, who come from good families."
On first listen, it would be excusable to initially compare his music to the likes of Tom Waits, or an early Bob Dylan after grossly overlooking the fact that Wynn's music is distinctly British in both its Britpop-esque lyrical content and it's satirical, kitchen sink mockery - "Magazine flicking, it's pretty much a spectator sport nowadays..." They also differ on the grounds that despite being the figurehead of a social revolution, Dylan couldn't play guitar as well as the ragamuffin Baudelaire from Yorkshire, who goes by the name Mark Wynn.