Antony Szmierek is a romantic. A believer in possibilities and positive outcomes, his is a voice that we need right now.
Last year’s breakthrough debut Service Station at the End of the Universe was a dancefloor-centric peach that focused on the beauty in the mundane – a single piece of confetti falling, two cold teas on a bedside table, the dry skin at the back of his neck. The smallest of things are central, while a sense of authenticity in his spoken-word storytelling made it clear he’d been through some tough times. There’s a sense of introspection on “Take Me There” with the line “I trained in self sabotage classically” which hits hard on an album by a guy constantly telling you that things can get better; that things will get better.
On Decoding Birdsong, Szmierek takes a slightly more cynical approach to life, looking at how interpreting the small things can become a fixation. Opener “Chalk” concerns itself with the snooker cue chalk and maintaining a level – or illusion – of control. And there’s the central concern of the record: the human need to feel a sense of agency in a world of chaos, chance, and coincidence. Making your own luck rather than letting life happen to you. The music soundtracking the poetry is still positive in its aural palette with dance beats and major chords to the fore. There’s no despondency here, just a sense of reality from someone who’s now living the life he manifested. The buzzsaw bass brings to mind early 80s Chicago house, and the sweeping synth lines underpin a muted sense of euphoria as Szmierek states that he’d “Rather play my best and lose than be like you, mate.”
“The Heron” has a looping piano line over a disco beat where Max Rad’s production skills come centre stage. There’s a reassurance in the lyrics that the emotional risk inherent in falling in love might just be worth it (yes, it is!), and that the child inside still exists even when we live in a society designed to deconstruct and fracture us. Where Szmierek constantly wins is in his ability to offer advice without being an untouchable force. He’s not an influencer or distant voice as there’s a ground level force in the words that make you appreciate that this is a life he’s living alongside us. He’s an observer, but he’s as flawed as the rest of us. He has a way with words and working-class reference points rarely seen since Mike Skinner at his peak. High praise.
“Godzilla Hotel” with 1-800 GIRLS (listen to their track “eye contact” if you haven’t already – one of the tunes of 2026) uses a breakbeat and minimal bass line to focus on Szmierek’s retelling of being in Japan and ending a relationship by accident. The rawness of the delivery makes you think this is no fiction, but that’s neither here nor there. The beat on the track is the most infectious on the album, with a chiming zither line gives a sense of place, and the lyrics are some of the best on the record. “You woke up and went back to the shrine / Writing things down, remembering / Mythologising our disappointment that we couldn’t make things work” is filled with pathos.
There are some introspective moments on Decoding Birdsong which is most obvious on “Seminal” which centres on emotional stagnation. There’s still a soaring quality to the music which uses Underworld-style swirling techno and a bright two step garage beat to great effect. Elsewhere, “Flight Simulator” starts with the same sense of doubt before building to a sense of optimism as he claims “{I’m the luckiest I’ve ever been}” and “Dave’s Angling Superstore” kicks off like a Getdown Services track. The Minehead duo are key contemporaries of Szmierek as both use clever word play often hidden behind tales of the everyday.
The idea of coincidence is at the core of “Magnolia” which directly references Paul Thomas Anderson’s greatest work. The first five minutes of that film are a masterclass in explaining chance and bizarre occurrences, and Szmierek uses it as a jumping off point to discuss concepts of the universe “holding my hand under the table” while a hazy, oscillating synth ebbs and flows.
By the time we get to “Aussie Gold Hunters” we’ve been through quite a ride. The last track rounds up the key thematic concerns of the record about how we should see the concept of luck. A wistful piano is the first melancholic musical moment on the record, and Szmierek’s sung vocals in the chorus have an air of Ian Curtis about them. They’re from the same part of the world, after all. The track is about the temporary nature of things and what happens with your thoughts when you stay up too late. That sense of late-night introspection where you invent scenarios that only serve to hurt you, and remember things that no longer really matter. It’s a great ending to the record. For once, the music sits in the background through the spoken word parts but builds to a more positive ending before the autobiographical nature of the record is summed up by Szmierek saying “And that’s me” before the sound of snooker balls ends things. We’re back to where we started. Or maybe the late-night tale ends in our narrator falling asleep, only to dream of the command you pretend to have over your life.
On Decoding Birdsong, Szmierek proves that the tricky second album trope can easily be smashed out of the water. It’s a more mature album compared to the debut, but also one that’s self-assured without being self-satisfied. The metaphor of birds that runs through the record never wears thin, with each reference being clever enough to stand on its own merits within the wider body of work. It’s a hearts on sleeves kind of album that you’ll relate to if you think and feel.
