Despite the furore that seems to have encircled Frank Turner since the fateful Guardian compilation of soundbites from his previous interviews in September 2012, it is somehow refreshing to see a musician attracting attention for his politics, rather than his party antics. Although there is a certain irony of an Old Etonian penning a song entitled ‘Thatcher Fucked The Kids’, I have a soft spot for this posh (although emphatically ‘not Tory’) boy.

As his new album, Tape Deck Heart, begins to unravel with ‘Recovery’, we find ourselves in a scene all too familiar to the Frank Turner fan: ‘Blacking in and out in a strange flat in East London’, a distinct echo of one of Turner’s earliest openers, ‘I woke up on a sofa in an unfamiliar house’ (‘The Real Damage’, Sleep is For The Week). Tout ça change, plus c’est la même chose. However, like many of Frank Turner’s best songs, ‘Recovery’ gets straight at the point: the aftermath of break-up. Yet it’s about more than that, encompassing the familiar themes of loneliness (always in airports, it seems), disposable love affairs, and the steady onset of middle age. For such a downbeat premise, the album is surprisingly spirited (I’m thinking in particular of the buoyant strumming on ‘The Way I Used To Be’).

Turner is one of the few mainstream musicians who makes money from shouting rather than singing, having carried his distinctively throaty timbre from his past life in punk-rock over to his folkish reincarnation. However, this is counterbalanced by the beauty of his lyrics, hitting a note between spoken word (‘Everything’s gone fractious, / And I felt faithless / At the moment just before the dawn when everything falls apart’ – ‘Plain Sailing Weather’) and folk refrain (‘We won’t all be here this time next year / So while you can, take a picture of us’ – ‘Polaroid Picture’). If you’re looking for subtlety, however, Turner is not your man; if there’s one thing punk-rock has bequeathed to him, it is a penchant for angry abruption: ‘Give me one more day of plain sailing weather, and I can fuck up anything’ (‘Plain Sailing Weather’).

Not only this, but the granularity of Turner’s voice provides the fury needed to fuel his more emotionally - and indeed often politically - rousing numbers: ‘The lives we lead may not be so very perfect / And the plans we make may not serve some final purpose / But the hearts we heat still beat the way they used to / If we’re doing it wrong, well, what you gonna do?’ (‘We Shall Not Overcome’). If there is one thing that might prevent this review from becoming one long love song to Frank Turner, it is his occasionally veering towards cheese. However, his unabashedly anarchic spirit is infectious: for a public-schooled bourgeois boy, he really makes you want to stick it to The Man.