In the grand tradition of Northern Irish singers (Van Morrison, Tim Wheeler, Gary Lightbody), JC Stewart doesn’t so much express his feelings as emote them. That’s evident from the opening song, and title track, “Space Hurts”, which cavalcades at the listener like the sound of a wounded animal gasping for air. It’s unclear what the central treatise of the number is, but the passion is evident; an intoxicating blend of funereal and fiercely independent.
“Here is my confession,” Stewart intones on “Breaking”, a tune in which the narrator etches his heart back together to the rhythm of a plonking guitar. The melancholic-tinged “Can’t Stop” is reminiscent of Neil Tennant’s work on Behaviour, particularly in the synthpop numbers “My October Symphony” and “Being Boring”. Stewart pays tribute to the rigours of soul by emphasising feeling over form, his voice quavering to a more rigid drumbeat. The charming Ulster lilt peppers “Loneliness Came”, a bonfiresque ballad complete with a Ronnie Wood-style guitar. If that is a given, the singer’s decision to namecheck “faces” has metatextual, as well as historical, associations.
“Hey Babe, I’m a Mess, I’m Sorry” opens with a choppy piano lick in the school of Sir Brian May, which likely explains the octave jumps and soaring vocals during the bridge. “BT45” strips it back to acoustic guitar; I detected a Bruce Springsteen inflection a la Nebraska. “In Ireland, where my people still reside,” Stewart hums, recalling the farmyard animals and rag-tag people around the pastoral green hills. His memories of the island are less romantic than Kevin Rowland’s and more exacting than Lightbody’s, which is why it should have broad appeal among the diaspora in America, England, and afar.
It’s wonderful to hear a songwriter from Ulster who doesn’t feel beholden to past conflicts over religion or national identities. However, “Waste” hints at a broken wasteland, a haven of broken, jagged bottles and washed-up dreams. Otherwise, the portrait woven on Space Hurts is of a fragile young man aching for a shoulder to lean on and cry.
That brings the audience to “In Her Arms”, an excoriation of grief to a gently plucked guitar: the tearing of strings aping the tears a bruised heart endures before it recuperates. Like Oasis on their striking debut, Definitely Maybe, Stewart closes the record with a demo: “Loving You”. It’s an intriguing move to showcase the artist’s evolution, expressing his devotion to the original, primitive form of songwriting.
At this time of writing, it’s unknown how many instruments Stewart performs on Space Hurts, but he’s a nifty guitarist, ploughing through the backdrop on “Tomorrow” with the gusto of a builder laying down cement: WHACK! Based on this debut, JC Stewart has a promising path ahead of him. If he channels his truth, fragmented as is often the wont of Northern Irish songwriters, into something more immediate, then he should be able to jump between cerebral and commercial.
It will be interesting to see how “Used To” can emerge as a stage number, given that the recorded version relies heavily on studio pyrotechnics. Yet over the dense mixes stands a vocalist shouting his truth from the bottom of his stomach, and his gut. Not everything flows. Some of the Auto-Tune meshes poorly with the acoustic instrumentation, and the overriding theme of heartbreak can be overpowering at times.
Yet, JC Stewart’s passion is always at the forefront of the project, lifting the record with a buoyant, invigorating energy that belies his relative youth (the singer is 28). Space Hurts boasts a wisdom, which will make it an Autumnal favourite: an album to listen to as the afternoons grow darker and the winds become fiercer. It’s an essential addition to the canon of Irish and Northern Irish music.