The Setlist & The Script

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There’s something deeply affirming about seeing an artist evolve in real time. Harrison Rimmer, the Fleetwood-born troubadour known for his gravelly vocals, big choruses, and even bigger heart, has spent the past few years carving a niche as one of the UK’s most emotionally honest voices in alternative music. With the release of Cheaper Than Therapy, he’s not only solidified that position, he’s elevated it.

From the first chord of the record, you’re thrown headfirst into Rimmer’s world: not some polished, idealised version of it, but the messy, complicated, gloriously flawed real thing. And that’s the point. This isn’t an album that’s trying to impress with style over substance. It’s one that dares to look you in the eye and say, “This is how it feels. Let’s talk about it.”

The title couldn’t be more fitting. Cheaper Than Therapy is part journal, part therapy session, part late-night pub chat with a mate who’s got a knack for turning pain into poetry. It’s brimming with big emotions, fear, love, grief, loneliness, and channels them through guitars, sweat, and sheer determination.

When I interviewed Harrison earlier this month, it was clear how much of his soul had gone into this record. He spoke often about Fleetwood, the small town on the North-West coast where he grew up, and how that push-and-pull between staying grounded and yearning for something more still informs everything he does. That duality, belonging and wandering, comfort and confrontation, sits at the heart of this album.

There’s a recurring theme of return, of circling back to where things began even when the road forward feels unclear. The opening lines of the record quite literally set the scene: “I come from the North-West, from a little town.” It’s a bold way to start, and an even bolder way to root an album so heavily invested in the universal struggles of self-doubt and vulnerability. But it works. Because Harrison’s magic lies in his ability to make the specific feel universal. His hometown becomes our hometown. His fears become our fears.

And fear plays a starring role. Whether it’s the candid lyricism about mental health, or the way he explores the fragility of connection in tracks that teeter between punk ferocity and acoustic intimacy, Rimmer refuses to shy away from life’s darker corners. One of the standout emotional gut-punches is Be Reet, written in tribute to a close friend who passed away. It’s a track that sits in the same emotional weight class as Frank Turner’s Wave Across the Bay, a grief anthem not just about loss, but about speaking out, picking up the phone, and checking in on each other. It’s impossible to hear it without thinking of the friends you’ve lost or the words you wish you’d said. There’s a grace in that sort of songwriting, and Rimmer handles it with genuine tenderness.

What makes Cheaper Than Therapy so compelling is its range, not just in sound, but in emotional scope. One moment you’re belting out the chorus to Cold, a song that balances introspective lyrics with a stadium-sized hook, and the next you’re pulled into Monologue, a one-minute acoustic interlude that somehow says more in sixty seconds than some artists manage in whole records. That track in particular, quiet, reflective, deeply personal—feels like the eye of the storm. A necessary breath before the next wave hits.

Rimmer’s versatility continues to surprise, even for fans familiar with his past work. On Shake The Rust, he takes a more soulful turn, adding texture and groove to his usual punk-meets-folk blend. It’s not a showy reinvention, but a subtle shift that shows just how comfortable he is stretching the limits of his sound. He’s never been one to sit still musically, and here, that restlessness pays off.

There are also lighter moments, like Dave’s House, a track that might at first seem almost throwaway in its title, but is anything but. It’s a joyful ode to friendship, built on the kind of memories that are so specific they become iconic. Harrison told me he wrote the bones of the song while literally tapping out a rhythm on his steering wheel, en route to see Dave. It’s that spontaneity and affection that gives the track its charm, proof that not every emotional high has to come with heartbreak attached.

Throughout the record, Rimmer’s vocal delivery remains as arresting as ever. There’s a grit to his voice that makes every line sound lived-in, every lyric feel earned. When he sings about being scared, hollow, or heartbroken, it’s not a performance, it’s a confession. He’s not afraid to sound raw, or strained, or vulnerable. In fact, that’s kind of the whole point.

And yet, for all the darkness and heaviness of the subject matter, Cheaper Than Therapy never feels hopeless. There’s always a through-line of resilience, of community, of healing through shared experience. It’s an album that recognises the pain, but insists on singing through it anyway. In a time where male vulnerability is still often misunderstood or sidelined, Harrison’s openness feels not just refreshing—but vital.

Perhaps the most impressive thing about the album is how it maintains that balance of depth and energy. These aren’t sad songs whispered into the void, they’re anthems. Songs built to be screamed at gigs, to be played loud in the car, to soundtrack the messy process of figuring your life out. Cold, in particular, feels built for live stages. It’s catharsis in its purest form, shouting difficult truths into the dark and hoping someone shouts back.

The album closes with Ripped Up Magazine, a final blast of energy that distills everything that makes Rimmer’s music work: honesty, heart, and hooks. It’s fast-paced and defiant, but never loses its emotional centre. It’s Harrison Rimmer through and through, rough around the edges, bursting with meaning, and ready to leave it all on the stage.

In a world full of polished pop and algorithm-chasing playlists, Cheaper Than Therapy feels like an act of rebellion. It’s messy and real and achingly human. Harrison Rimmer has created something that doesn’t just ask to be listened to, it asks to be felt.

And if that’s not the point of music, then what is?