Two years ago, Antony Szmierek was teaching English and self-publishing novels. Now he has made a debut that sits somewhere between a cosy suburban bedroom and a full-on 3 am warehouse rave: words that make you think, beats that make you drift. The leap would be annoying were the record not so obviously made by someone who has spent a very long time paying attention. ‘Service Station At The End Of The Universe‘ weaves deeply confessional spoken word through house-adjacent grooves, garage shuffle and synth-pop glow, and it never feels like a genre exercise so much as someone reaching for whatever tools are to hand to make sense of things. His matter-of-fact Mancunian delivery disarmed me at first. Within a couple of tracks, it became obvious that the restraint is the point. All the care is in the detail.
“Rafters” makes the case early. On the surface, it is a propulsive bit of house, all straight-ahead kicks and a bassline built for festival tents. Listen a little closer and the whole song revolves around a single piece of confetti falling from the ceiling the day after a party, a tiny image that Szmierek uses as a stand-in for timing, regret and the decision to stop waiting for perfect conditions. The production gives that speck of colour the full cinematic treatment, lifting it with synth swells and precise rhythmic nudges, until something as weightless as confetti carries the gravity of a life decision. It was the first track that made me stop what I was doing and just stare at a wall.
When we first featured ‘Yoga Teacher‘ and its strangely fitting video, I talked about how the yoga mat is out, the incense is lit, all the while he quietly unravels, and that still feels like the perfect pathway into the full record. On the album, those 80s-leaning synths and house-inflected basslines hit even harder, the track sitting like a pressure point between wit and panic, letting him spiral in real time about masculinity, class and the odd comfort of wanting to be looked after without ever clogging the groove. It sounds breezy right up until it does not, and by the third play, it has found a soft spot and stayed there.
“Crashing Up” moves the record further into late-night territory. The groove keeps moving: all forward momentum and synth-blur at the edges, but there is a line about missing the H in his ADHD that hangs in the air long after the track ends. It is not about falling apart in big cinematic ways, just quietly grinding your gears against the day until even the climb feels like an accident. That gentle smear in the production mirrors the sensation precisely. It is one of those songs you realise has become a favourite, not because it demands attention but because it earns it slowly.
Then there is “Restless Leg Syndrome“, which is where the skin really comes off. The production pulls back into something skeletal, a gentle twitching beat and not much else. Over it, Antony Szmierek lays out the kind of spiralling internal monologue that will land like a gut punch for anyone whose brain flatly refuses to slow down at 3 am. It feels less like a song and more like a late-night voice note you were not meant to hear. Unsettling is the right word, and the album earns every second of it. This is the moment that proves it is not just clever writing over nice beats but an attempt at genuine catharsis.
It is impossible to listen to ‘Service Station At The End Of The Universe‘ without hearing the lineage. Like Scroobius Pip, Szmierek sits comfortably where poetry meets beats, more interested in ideas and ordinary people than in technical showboating. Like The Streets, especially ‘Original Pirate Material’, his conversational flow is rhythmically locked to the production, the vocal almost functioning as extra percussion weaving around garage and house patterns. The production carries its own diaristic quality, club textures doing the emotional heavy lifting. The difference is in attitude. Where Mike Skinner reached for swagger and Scroobius Pip for a manifesto, Antony Szmierek reaches for something quieter and, ultimately, more personal.
Part of what makes this record stick is the production chemistry. Working across twelve tracks with Max Rad, Robin Parker and Luis Navidad, Szmierek has shaped a palette that balances warmth and immediacy without ever tipping into polish for polish’s sake. The beats are built for big-room systems but never so shiny that they smother the words. Tiny flourishes, a sci-fi shimmer here, subtle guitar and synth interplay there, giving the record a strong sense of place without tipping into retro pastiche. John Cooper Clarke would approve: this is a record that finds poetry in the overlooked corners of English life, the bus stops, the forecourts, the places most writers walk straight past. These are not glamorous settings, yet the care with which he describes them makes them feel as worthy of attention as any grand city skyline.
If you have ever stood in a service station in the middle of the night, wondering how you ended up here, or stared at your ceiling in bed replaying an almost perfect night, Antony Szmierek has already written it down and set it to something you can dance to. This album makes me feel like I am being seen.
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