Album Review: Singer by Tim Beveridge (2004)
If you’re a fan of smooth, classy tunes with just the right touch of theatrical flair, then Tim Beveridge’s Singer is an album that deserves your attention. Released in 2004 under Sony Music Entertainment (New Zealand) Limited, this jazz-meets-stage-and-screen masterpiece feels like a warm hug for your ears. Produced by Eddie Rayner, known for his knack for crafting rich soundscapes, it’s clear why this record still holds up today.
The tracklist reads like a love letter to timeless standards—songs that have been covered countless times but somehow feel fresh here. Two tracks, in particular, stuck with me after giving this album a spin: "MacArthur Park" and "Smile."
Let’s start with "MacArthur Park." Now, I’ll admit, this song has had some… questionable renditions over the years (cheesy '70s disco versions, anyone?). But Tim’s take strips away all the glitz and brings back the raw emotion. His voice carries this bittersweet nostalgia that makes you feel like you’re sitting alone in a quiet café on a rainy afternoon. It’s not flashy or overdone—it doesn’t need to be. The piano work adds just enough depth without stealing the spotlight.
Then there’s "Smile," which is one of those songs that can either fall flat or hit you straight in the feels if done right. Tim nails it. There’s something about how he delivers each line—it’s tender yet confident, like he knows exactly what the lyrics mean but isn’t trying too hard to convince you. By the time the strings swell in the background, you might find yourself smiling despite yourself. It’s simple, heartfelt, and impossible to ignore.
The production quality throughout the album is top-notch, thanks to Rayner’s steady hand behind the boards. And let’s give credit where it’s due—the artwork by Andrew B. White and photography by Jane Usher perfectly capture the mood of the music: elegant, understated, and full of soul.
What surprised me most about Singer is how well it balances being both nostalgic and modern. Sure, these are classic songs, but they never feel dated. Instead, they come across as timeless pieces reimagined through Beveridge’s unique lens. Listening to this album feels like eavesdropping on someone pouring their heart out at a dimly lit jazz club somewhere in New Zealand—a thought that oddly comforts me.
In the end, Singer reminds us why we turn to music in the first place: to connect, to escape, and sometimes just to sit quietly with our thoughts. So grab a cuppa, press play, and let Tim Beveridge do the rest. Oh, and fun fact? If you listen closely during "Music Of The Night," you might catch yourself humming along even though you swore you didn’t know the tune. Weird, huh?
