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As Baxter Dury bows out on another successful festival season at Manchester Psych Fest this weekend, we revisit the wry poets’ career in the wake of his beloved father and cult figure, Ian Dury.

Not many artists are so well versed in saying how it is. But many aren’t like the voice of Baxter Dury.

The setting itself is an assimilation for the ears. The subtle chamber lo-fi pop arrangements with a nervy new-wave testament pave the way for Dury’s deadpan vocals as he spins observant passing remarks of life’s stories in a template of weaving original works from a curiously-curated template from those eccentric artists before him.

Of course, brazen figureheads don’t just stay in their lane. They constantly try to reinvent the wheel. The despondent disco dance on the dunes in West Asia via 2017’s Prince of Tears; the synth-throbs of dance-ladled B.E.D in 2018 and now the lo-fi hip-hop laced I Thought I Was Better Than You last year.

Each era of Baxter’s templates have their own yapping dog, constrained, well-heeled but biting at the heels all the same. The casual gender, flexible encounters and promises of modern love are thought-provokers Baxter feverishly scrawls down and drawls out, as an ever-present bass remains, undulating and unforgiving; a perfect accompaniment to Baxter’s observances.

The sordid underbelly of his life plays out in full class and vigour. It goes without saying that the ivory tower philosophy is certainly not lost on Baxter, he’s most certainly aware. “Why am I condemned? ‘Cause I’m the son of a musician,” Dury drones on Leon. A highly successful one at that. Ian Dury was a dynamo: an enchanting charisma on stage with a formulaic style to making pulsating beats, Ian was an unrelenting icon to the alternative ’70s. It’s no news that being the son of a successful musician comes with its doted remarks, its backhanded compliments amongst those in spiteful politics. But it certainly doesn’t come without its hard earnings.

Baxter Dury has cultivated a career spanning eight fulfilling records dripped in wit, grace and lush deliverance that is too hard to ignore or pass off as a privileged expense.

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