In a musical landscape often dominated by polish and predictability, Beautiful Terrier, the third album in as many years from Scottish outsider auteur Burnt Log (aka Andy Smith), arrives like a cracked broadcast from a parallel world. Equal parts post-punk nostalgia and ‘70s prog ambition, wrapped in the intimacy of bedroom recording and the scope of a film score, this ten-track journey is as beguiling as unsettling. Smith calls it “cinematic bedroom indie prog”, an oddly perfect descriptor for a record that feels homemade and vast, deeply personal and sharply observational.
Opening track “School” sets the tone with a visceral plunge into the anxieties of adolescence. Unlike the warm glow of nostalgia some artists summon, Burnt Log drags us through the grim corridors of ’80s high school trauma with unflinching detail. Synths snarl like overhead lights flickering in detention, while angular guitars mirror the confusion and cruelty of coming of age in a hostile environment. It’s a bold start, nearly theatrical in structure, and a reminder that Smith is unafraid to make discomfort beautiful.
From there, “Ice Cream” surprises with its warped whimsy. What begins as a seemingly sweet ode to simple pleasures melts into something far more surreal. The melodies wobble and shift like a memory that won’t sit still, and beneath the jangly surface, there’s a quiet sadness—the sound of trying to enjoy the treat even as it drips down your wrist. This layering of emotional tones makes Burnt Log’s work so compelling, and there’s humour, but always laced with melancholy.
“Chimpanzee” pivots into social commentary, skittering with nervous energy and primal rhythms. It’s a track that feels like trying to escape its skin, twitching with frustration at the absurdity of human behaviour. There’s a chaotic, Zappa-esque playfulness in the arrangement, but the lyrics are laser-sharp, casting a satirical eye on society’s basest instincts. If ‘Beautiful Terrier‘ is an album of dread, this is its most manic, teeth-baring grin.
The heart of the album lies in “Look What I Made,” a deceptively gentle track that unfolds like a late-night confession. Over a looping motif, Smith meditates on creation, art, identity, legacy, and how small triumphs can feel like lifelines. There’s a fragility here that recalls early Robert Wyatt, and as the instrumentation gradually expands, you get the sense of a mind trying to hold chaos at bay with melody and rhythm. It’s a quietly devastating moment, and one of the record’s finest.
“The Car Park” and “Sleeping” occupy the album’s dreamlike middle stretch, drifting through ambient textures and looser song structures. The former conjures scenes of late-night loitering and existential dread under sodium lights, while the latter is a slow-motion descent into insomnia and looping thoughts. Here, the cinematic influence is strongest, and the songs describe states of mind and inhabit them, building sonic environments that feel lived-in and haunted.
“Sticks” jerks the listener awake with its jagged pulse and cryptic lyrics. It’s a twitchy, skeletal track that plays like a post-punk séance—Joy Division by way of a lo-fi horror film. Yet even here, there’s warmth in the grain of Smith’s voice, and the production feels tactile, like you can hear the room it was recorded in. The limitations of the home studio setup become an asset, making each sound feel direct and human.
“Sharks” is perhaps the most accessible song on the album, a strange and shimmering indie-pop gem that balances its paranoia with a truly infectious hook. It’s a perfect single, not because it panders, but condenses the album’s major themes (fear, absurdity, quiet rebellion) into something you can hum along to. It’s as if Jonathan Richman found himself writing about climate collapse and media saturation, and somehow made it danceable.
Finally, we arrive at the title track, “Beautiful Terrier”—a sweeping, multi-part closer that pulls together all the album’s threads. Inspired by the documentary Navalny and especially the steely defiance of his widow Yulia, the song transcends personal grief and political despair to arrive at something strangely hopeful. The terrier becomes a symbol, not of cute domesticity, but of resilience. In its final moments, the track erupts into a soaring, cinematic crescendo, as if Burnt Log is urging us to resist, endure, and maybe, create something honest from the wreckage.
In ‘Beautiful Terrier‘, Burnt Log has created a fractured mirror held up to the world and the self. It doesn’t beg for attention, but it commands it. Weird, wise, and deeply human, this is the kind of record that lingers in the subconscious long after the final note fades. A beautiful beast, indeed.
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