The opening “Radio Ha Ha” establishes an appropriately unstable atmosphere. The title might suggest a comedy programme broadcast from a particularly eccentric corner of the universe, but whatever amusement is implied here is unlikely to survive the first encounter with reality. Violin, organs, percussion and processed textures contribute to a sound world in which familiar musical gestures seem to have been slightly misremembered. There is a song-like quality to the material, but it is continually unsettled by details that refuse to behave. Dave-id Busaras enters this environment with a voice that seems to have accumulated its own private collection of ghosts. His delivery is not merely expressive in the conventional sense; it carries the peculiar authority of someone addressing an audience from somewhere just beyond the safety of ordinary conversation.

Busaras, formerly of the influential Irish post-punk group Virgin Prunes, is a particularly compelling choice for this material. His work with the Prunes was never characterised by the polished emotional restraint of conventional rock performance. There was always something theatrical, confrontational and physically exposed about it, and those qualities remain useful here, even in a more introspective setting. On "Everyman", his voice becomes the human centre of a record that frequently seems intent on dissolving the distinction between song and sound construction. He does not need to shout to suggest distress, nor does he have to manufacture solemnity. The tension is already present in the grain and pacing of his delivery.

Sorry For Laughing is the project of Gordon H. Whitlow, a musician and composer whose involvement with the American experimental collective Biota, previously known as Mnemonists and Mnemonist Orchestra, places him within a particularly rich tradition of sound collage, musique concrète, improvisation and unconventional songwriting. The original Sorry For Laughing cassette appeared in 1986, before the project was revived decades later as a collaborative enterprise. Since 2020, Whitlow has assembled an impressive circle of musicians around the name, including members and associates of Legendary Pink Dots and Eyeless in Gaza, as well as guitarist Janet Feder and other adventurous instrumentalists. The present album continues that collective approach, although its personnel should not be confused with a fixed band lineup: the composition and overall architecture remain Whitlow's responsibility, while the individual contributions are incorporated into a carefully arranged whole.

This time, the principal lyrical role belongs to Busaras, and the thematic territory is decidedly existential. Mortality, love, emotional endurance and the pursuit of inner peace recur throughout the album, but "Everyman" is not interested in presenting these subjects as a sequence of philosophical talking points. Its central character is an ordinary person exposed to circumstances beyond his control, attempting to maintain some sense of direction while everything around him changes. Whitlow has described the work as an existential opera, and the term makes sense, provided one imagines an opera whose protagonist has misplaced the libretto, whose orchestra occasionally seems to be playing from another building, and whose dramatic resolution remains stubbornly uncertain.

“Sad Lullaby” initially offers a more restrained atmosphere, but its apparent gentleness does not amount to reassurance. The title promises comfort, yet the music seems conscious of the peculiar sadness that can accompany attempts to soothe oneself. There is something unsettling about a lullaby addressed to an adult who has already discovered that the world does not necessarily become kinder when the lights go out. “Down The Alley”, a shorter episode, works as a transitional scene, introducing a more fragmentary sense of movement. Its brevity is important within the album's architecture: not every thought needs to become a fully developed composition, and some experiences are better represented by a sudden change of perspective than by another ten minutes of explanation.

The ten-minute “Secrets Of The World” is one of the album's major structural statements. Here the compositional process has room to unfold through contrasting textures and a more expansive arrangement, with Whitlow's keyboards and processed elements interacting with the contributions of the ensemble. The music moves between recognisable melodic shapes and less predictable passages, creating an impression of a song that is continually being interrupted by the contents of its own subconscious. It is not difficult to hear the connection with Biota's long-standing interest in assembling music from disparate materials, although the presence of Busaras gives the piece a more direct emotional focus. Rather than allowing the sound collage to become an end in itself, Whitlow uses it to frame a human voice struggling to make sense of its surroundings.

“Sadness In Your Life” follows with a comparatively compact statement, its title almost comically blunt after the more elusive character of the preceding track. There is no shortage of music willing to dress melancholy in elaborate metaphors, but sometimes a direct announcement is more effective. The album's alternation between lengthy and shorter pieces also prevents the concept from becoming oppressively uniform. Whitlow understands that existential anxiety is not a continuous orchestral crescendo. It can be interrupted by mundane distractions, brief moments of clarity or the sudden realisation that one has spent twenty minutes worrying about something that may never happen. Human beings are impressively inefficient machines for generating distress.

“Wild Wind Sea” provides the most immediately evocative image of the album's central predicament. The stormy-sea metaphor could easily have become an excuse for overblown drama, but the surrounding musical language is more interested in uncertainty than spectacle. The title track, “Everyman”, is shorter still, functioning almost as a concentrated portrait of the figure who has occupied the preceding compositions. It is a useful reminder that the album's protagonist is not intended to be a specific individual with a detailed biography. He is a composite, a vessel for experiences that are at once deeply personal and widely recognisable. The challenge is to make such an archetype feel human rather than abstract, and Busaras's presence helps to keep the character grounded in emotional vulnerability.

The final ten-minute piece, “Love”, is an appropriately ambitious conclusion. Martyn Bates contributes upright piano, while Tom Katsimpalis provides spoken word, adding further dimensions to the album's already layered vocal and instrumental language. The choice to end with love might seem reassuring, even conventional, but the preceding material has done enough to complicate any easy interpretation. Love is not presented as a magical solution to mortality or psychological unrest. It is something pursued, questioned and perhaps occasionally glimpsed amid the confusion. The piece's extended duration allows the music to resist the temptation of a neat closing statement. Rather than tying every thread together, it leaves the listener with the sense that the story continues beyond the recording.

Whitlow's production and arrangements are central to the album's identity. Electric organs, Rhodes piano and accordion provide much of its harmonic substance, while Larry S. Wilson's drums and percussion contribute a physical dimension that prevents the more abstract passages from drifting into purely atmospheric territory. Patrick Q Wright's violin, viola and processed strings add a further expressive layer, while Nigel Whitlow's trumpet and David Zekman's violin broaden the instrumental palette. The use of spoken word and processed material gives the compositions a distinctly collage-like quality, but the music remains attentive to melody and dramatic development. This is an important distinction: "Everyman" may draw on experimental techniques, yet it is not simply an exercise in rearranging unusual sounds and hoping that somebody mistakes the result for profundity.

The album also develops ideas evident in Sorry For Laughing's previous releases, particularly the relationship between unconventional instrumentation, songwriting and a narrative that emerges through successive musical episodes. The earlier "See It Alone" and "Sun Comes" involved a broader cast of distinctive voices, including Edward Ka-Spel and Martyn Bates in prominent vocal roles. Here, Busaras becomes the principal interpreter, and the change gives the project a more unified psychological focus. The music is still recognisably Whitlow's, but the balance between instrumental invention and lyrical expression has shifted. His arrangements provide a setting in which the singer can explore emotional states without being forced into the conventional architecture of verse, chorus and bridge.

There is a potential weakness in the album's conceptual ambition. Mortality, love, the search for peace and the human condition are subjects so vast that they can become almost weightless through sheer familiarity. One could spend an entire lifetime listening to records about the difficulty of being alive, and still be no closer to understanding why the washing machine has decided to stop working. "Everyman" occasionally risks the solemnity that accompanies such large themes, but its irregular structures, abrasive interruptions and moments of unexpected calm keep it from becoming a solemn monument to human suffering. The music is too eccentric, too changeable and too interested in the strange behaviour of sound to settle comfortably into grand statements.

The title itself carries a useful ambiguity. The everyman is supposed to represent everyone, but the individual experience of vulnerability is never entirely interchangeable. Whitlow's approach acknowledges this contradiction by bringing together musicians with distinct histories and sensibilities, while allowing Busaras to give the central figure a particular voice. The result is not a universal story in the simplistic sense. It is a personal interpretation of experiences that many listeners will recognise, even if their own circumstances are entirely different.

At around 46 minutes, "Everyman" is a substantial but manageable undertaking, and its eight tracks form a coherent dramatic sequence without requiring the listener to follow a rigid narrative. It is an album that rewards attention to its changes in texture, its contrasts between song and collage, and the uneasy relationship between Busaras's vocal presence and Whitlow's shifting arrangements. Some passages are more immediately accessible than others, but the less accommodating moments are part of the work's character rather than obstacles to be overcome.

Ultimately, "Everyman" is a curious, often moving piece of experimental songwriting that finds a productive balance between theatricality and vulnerability. Its protagonist may be buffeted by forces beyond his control, but the music never reduces him to a passive victim. There is resistance in the very act of continuing to sing, to search, to reach for another person despite the likelihood of disappointment. The album does not promise that everything will turn out well. It offers something more credible: the possibility of finding meaning in the attempt. And if that sounds like a modest achievement, consider how many people spend their entire lives failing to manage even that.