Review

Thirteen years on from her X Factor breakthrough, Lucy Spraggan has settled into something rather comforting: the role of Britain's most dependable singer-songwriter. Not the flashiest, mind you, nor the most experimental, but dependable in the way that a proper cup of tea is dependable—which, given her most famous song, feels rather apt. *Other Sides of the Moon*, her eighth studio effort, arrives as both retrospective and renewal, a collection of reimagined classics from her considerable back catalogue alongside a pair of new compositions. It's the sort of project that could easily feel like creative housekeeping, a greatest hits with a fresh coat of paint. Instead, Spraggan has crafted something more substantial: a meditation on growth, both personal and artistic. The opening salvo of "Unsinkable" immediately announces the album's intentions. What was already one of Spraggan's most anthemic live staples has been transformed by sweeping strings and thunderous percussion into something that wouldn't sound out of place closing a festival set. There's real weight here, both sonic and emotional—the sort of arrangement that suggests Spraggan has finally embraced the full scope of her ambition. The title track, originally released as a wedding song for Spraggan and her wife Emilia, benefits enormously from its new context. "A tender reflection on their journey from friendship to love, the track is delicately layered with soft piano and subtle strings." What might have felt overly saccharine in isolation becomes genuinely moving when positioned as part of this broader narrative of self-discovery. Simon Cowell's involvement as A&R—his first hands-on project in years—proves fortuitous rather than intrusive. His fingerprints are most evident on "Heaven," one of two completely new tracks, which builds from a distorted vocal loop into something approaching gospel transcendence. If Cowell truly believes it's the best song Spraggan has ever written, as reported, he's not entirely wrong—though "Tea & Toast" might have something to say about that. The real revelation here is how thoughtfully Spraggan approaches her own material. "Sober," already a deeply personal exploration of sobriety, gains new dimensions through Robbie Williams' guest vocal—not as celebrity stunt casting but as genuine artistic dialogue. His weathered delivery plays beautifully against Spraggan's more direct approach, creating something that feels like a proper conversation rather than a duet. Elsewhere, "Bodies" opens with an unexpected choral arrangement that transforms what was once a moment of stark vulnerability into something approaching communal healing. It's the sort of creative decision that suggests real confidence—the willingness to trust that her songs can bear the weight of broader interpretation. Not every reimagining lands with equal force. "Lucky Stars" trades its original charm for banjo-driven exuberance that, while undeniably energetic, occasionally threatens to overwhelm the song's more intimate moments. And "Run," despite its infectious energy, sometimes feels like it's trying rather too hard to recapture the spontaneous joy of lockdown creativity. But these are minor quibbles with what amounts to a genuinely affecting statement of artistic maturity. The closing "Lightning" embraces a full folk arrangement that wouldn't shame The Lumineers, complete with jangly banjo and layered harmonies that suggest community rather than isolation. Throughout, Spraggan's voice carries the weight of lived experience without ever feeling heavy-handed about it. She's learned to trust in understatement, to let the songs breathe rather than forcing every emotional moment. It's the sort of craft that comes only with time and genuine self-knowledge. *Other Sides of the Moon* succeeds because it never feels like a nostalgic exercise. Instead, it's a document of an artist who has found her voice and isn't afraid to use it differently. In a musical landscape often obsessed with reinvention for its own sake, there's something quietly radical about Spraggan's approach: deepening rather than discarding, enriching rather than abandoning. The result is perhaps her most cohesive statement yet—proof that sometimes the best way forward is to truly understand where you've been.

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