by Paddy Kinsella

Liverpool singer-songwriter, Astles, is as real as they come. While other artists create a personna, on his Instagram you’ll find pictures of him sitting with his relatives, wishing a happy 50th to his mum, and showing off all of his Uncle Joseph’s posters. His new song, Somebody’s Father, Somebody’s Son, is about all the different things we are to people; as he puts it, ‘I’m “our Dan” to my family but maybe “Joe’s brother” to someone else.’

Such is Astles humility that he is unafraid of revealing his influences in his work. Bill Ryder Jones’ mark, who he has worked with previously, is indelible. However, he adds his own whimsical charm in the form of an almost illusory fanfare that he calls the ‘Balloon Moon Orchestra’. Such a name suggests that his strings-rich soundscapes are characterised by a scratchard-like sheen rather than a rich and elegant glow.

While he may be based in Liverpool now, Astles is originally from Southport: a land of promises of sorts – where carousels and slot machines attempt to manifest escape yet fail to evade life’s unstoppable decay. That particular sense of seaside longing comes through in his earnest orchestra. While that sense of rusting promises encircles Astles’ work, lying within is an inescapable, utterly human warmth, his candour is at odds to the fictitious qualities that funfairs tempt us in with, and it makes for a fascinating dichotomy.

Humanity – even in places that try to escape it – always rises to the top, and as you hear Astles candidly sing, ‘hold on, hold on, hold on,’ you cannot fault the sincerity of his words. Though he may only be ‘our Dan’ to a chosen few for now, in time, we’ll all claim him as our own.

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