Minor—a North London songwriter who spent years crafting hits for others before turning the lens inward—has refined his self-proclaimed "existential indie" into something both bracingly immediate and curiously durable. Where the debut announced his preoccupations with considerable charm, this sophomore effort demonstrates genuine growth, upping the ante without losing the plot. Working with producer Teaboy Palmer, Minor has expanded his sonic palette whilst sharpening his lyrical scalpel.

Those who caught last year's run of singles—kicking off with the brilliantly titled "Future Is an F Word"—will recognise several familiar friends here, though they sit comfortably alongside five previously unheard gems. Palmer's production allows Minor's eclectic influences to coexist peacefully: new wave angularity rubs shoulders with power pop hooks, psychedelic swirls dissolve into garage rock crunch, and occasionally a flash of soul or R&B sneaks through the cracks.

The album's genius lies precisely in its ability to make difficult subjects feel digestible without ever condescending or simplifying. Minor tackles capitalism's psychic toll with the same melodic generosity he brings to more intimate anxieties. "Consumer Bliss (Aisle Five)" remains a masterclass in how to write a protest song that actually sounds like a party, its infectious rhythm section propelling Minor's bone-dry observations about retail therapy towards something approaching transcendence.

But it's the previously unreleased material that truly elevates this collection. "Progressive or Punk" finds Minor pushing into territory he's only previously hinted at—a seven-minute epic that builds from a whispered confession into a full-throated howl, incorporating elements of krautrock repetition and post-punk dissonance without ever losing its fundamental tunefulness. Palmer deserves enormous credit for letting the track breathe, resisting the urge to tidy its rougher edges.

"Washed-Up Buoy" ventures even further afield, a surprisingly tender meditation on drift and purpose that strips away much of Minor's trademark ironic armour. Over gently lapping guitars and what sounds suspiciously like a harmonium, he delivers perhaps his most emotionally direct vocal performance to date. The metaphor extends across five verses without ever feeling laboured, and the bridge—where Minor's voice multiplies into a choir of doubt—borders on the genuinely moving.

Minor's knack for titles remains undiminished. "Fluorescent Afternoon," "The Theft of Joy," "Self-Checkout Blues"—each one a miniature manifesto that the songs themselves expand upon with wit and wisdom. His voice, slightly pinched and determinedly unshowy, suits this material perfectly. He understands that conviction needn't sound like shouting, and that vulnerability can coexist with a knowing wink.

Palmer's production throughout maintains a pleasing balance between clarity and grit. The mix allows detail to emerge on repeated listens—backwards guitars here, unexpected harmony vocals there—whilst never sounding fussy or overwrought. The sonic template nods to British indie's rich lineage (XTC's melodic complexity, Wire's angular precision, Orange Juice's literary jangle) whilst remaining thoroughly contemporary.

Minor has delivered that rarest of beasts: a concept album about modern malaise that never forgets to include actual songs you might want to hear again. His "existential indie" moniker initially sounds like a joke, but across these twelve tracks it reveals itself as entirely sincere. He's mapping the interior landscape of contemporary unease with precision and empathy, all whilst crafting melodies sticky enough to lodge themselves permanently in your consciousness.

For a songwriter emerging from the shadows of writing for others, Tom Minor has found his own voice with remarkable speed. This second album confirms that *Eleven Easy Pieces* wasn't a fluke—Minor has stories to tell, and crucially, the chops to tell them compellingly. The future might be an F word, but if it sounds like this, perhaps that's not entirely catastrophic.