Do you believe in true love? You’d better, ‘cos this slice of rootsy, grown-up pop is the most straightforwardly romantic album ever likely to be reviewed by Bearded.

Her Make Believe Band are a four-piece featuring songwriter Cy Winstanley and bassist Vanessa McGowan – two émigré Kiwis who met in New Zealand. Cy moved to London in 2004, and Vanessa didn’t join him until 2007. Most of the songs on their debut appear to be about this separation, full of yearning, dedication and the occasional doubt.

Burnished with a four-piece string section and his ’n’ hers harmonies, AM Radio wouldn’t be out of place on Radio 2, but that’s not necessarily a criticism (hell, everyone loves the Carpenters and Dionne Warwick, right?). It’s a bit of a mood album: on a good day, the slower songs are sweet and affecting, and the more uptempo numbers surprisingly swinging. But it is a ‘cup of tea, cosy sofa, have a wallow’ album: if you’re feeling tetchy or distracted, you may find much of the album a tad sluggish, the sentiments cloying, and Winstanley’s nice but unremarkable voice bland.

AM Radio begins in second gear, the first three tracks proceeding at a slow contemplative pace as the lovelorn Winstanley lays his cards on the table. He’s put his heart into this relationship, he lives 11 months a year for the month he can see his love; and the rest of the time he pines for her, and prays she feels the same and is being faithful.

Just as there’s a danger of it going a bit David Gray, there is a welcome injection of variety. The catchy ‘Nobody’s Business’ has hints of Crowded House and Squeeze in its stop/start rhythm and burbling organ. And the string-laden ‘Lonely Soul’ is a rare slice of 4am panic. Does he love her more than she loves him? Is all this waiting to be in vain?

Things then get surprisingly perky with romping country-tinged duet ‘That’s Why I Like You the Best’ and party piece ‘Having You Around’s muffled vocals, skipping vibe and rock’n’roll guitar.

‘D.P.H.’ breaks the mould somewhat, with drum machine and twinkly keyboards decorating a tale of pent-up sexual frustration. Less rootsy and poppier, this ‘let’s lock ourselves in and shag like rabbits’ anthem is a natural single.

After ‘Bah’s flirtation with reggae, it’s back to the familiar well-crafted, lovelorn path for the finale. But Winstanley and co have done enough in the middle section to suggest that they’re not ready for the pipe and slippers just yet.

Ben Wood