An atmospheric, archival dreamscape from a master of art-pop nostalgia.

At a certain point in any legendary artist’s career, there’s a quiet reckoning: a recognition that anything new will inevitably exist in the long shadow of their past. Bryan Ferry has leaned into that reality with grace—curating expansive box sets, reuniting Roxy Music for a 50th anniversary tour, and offering nods to his early work through subtle cover versions like Bob Dylan’s She Belongs to Me.

But Loose Talk, his first album of “new” material in over a decade, takes a more unusual path. Rather than offering wholly fresh compositions, Ferry digs into the vault—resurrecting unreleased demos spanning back to the early 1970s and reworking them with new instrumentation, including contributions from Roxy Music drummer Paul Thompson. The result is more dreamlike excavation than comeback—ghostly, fragmented, and quietly compelling. Fans may enjoy trying to trace each track’s origin: the tape hiss and vintage keys on Big Things and Landscape suggest a 70s provenance, while Stand Near Me’s funk-laced oddities might date to the Manifesto era. Yet this isn’t just a treasure hunt for Ferry devotees. The album, created in collaboration with artist and writer Amelia Barratt, stands as an ambient and impressionistic work in its own right. Barratt’s cool, detached narration floats through the instrumentals, adding a theatrical edge—think gallery installation more than pop release.

At times, Loose Talk drifts into the indistinct—Demolition and Florist feel like anonymous background sketches—but elsewhere it stuns. Snippets of Ferry’s old vocal takes emerge like echoes from a forgotten room: incomplete, low-fidelity, and strangely moving. Songs like Cowboy Hat and Landscape shimmer with faded beauty, the kind that lingers like a half-remembered dream.

Part ambient score, part art-pop séance, Loose Talk is a curious, haunting footnote to Ferry’s catalogue—proof that even in reflection, he’s capable of conjuring something quietly remarkable.