“Psycheatrick,” a standout track from Keith Woodhouse’s tenth album The Planet Who, arrives not just as a song but as an unfiltered expression of live experience. Recorded in a care home in Devon – a detail as revealing as it is poetic – this track bears the marks of 23 years spent within the psychiatric system. It is raw, visionary, and defiantly singular: music made outside of expectation, and all the more important for it.

Lo-fi in texture but emotionally widescreen, “Psycheatrick” has a bedroom-recorded aesthetic that paradoxically expands rather than limits its impact. The production, supported by the home’s manager who holds a sound recording degree, reflects a DIY spirit shaped not by aesthetics by by circumstance – and in doing so, it becomes a sonic mirror of the mental health journey it chronicles.

The soundscape is dreamlike and disjointed – gentle synth pads drift in and out of consciousness, while percussive elements skitter irregularly, evoking a sense of internal chaos and fleeting clarity. These are echoes of outsider folk, experimental ambient, and the unpolished storytelling of early anti-folk. The production refuses to conform, and that is precisely its strength.

Woodhouse writes like a poet who’s lived several lives in one – his words are sometimes cryptic, sometimes childlike, often deeply revealing. “Psycheatrick” leans into wordplay and double meaning, with the title itself blurring the boundaries between psychiatric care and psychic trickery. There’s a Kafkaesque sense of being watched, processed, labeled – but also a biting wit and clarity that cuts through the fog.

The lyrics oscillate between the surreal and the painfully real, suggesting a world filtered through medication, misdiagnosis, and manic insight. Themes of isolation, institutionalization, and framented identity are ever-present, but so is the desire to be understood – not just clinically, but as a person with imagination, memory, and music still intact.

Woodhouse’s voice is the record’s emotional center. It’s not polished or trained in a conventional sense – it doesn’t need to be. There’s something about his delivery that evokes Daniel Johnston or Syd Barrett: an aching fragility that makes you lean in closer. Sometimes he sings with an almost chant-like repetition, other times with the unhinged momentum of a stream-of-consciousness monologue.

His voice isn’t trying to be pretty. It’s trying to be true. And that’s far more compelling.

That “Psycheatrick” was recorded in a care home is not just a footnote – it’s a framework. This is not music made under ideal conditions or through the traditional studio route. It’s the sound of someone turning confinement into creation. Woodhouse’s body of work – The Planet Who being his tenth release – reveals a persistent creative force determined to document his world, no matter how much it’s been dismissed or misunderstood.

This is outsider music in the truest sense. And yet it taps into universal themes: alienation, healing, and the endless inner dialogue between what is real and what is imposed.

Psycheatrick isn’t easy listening, nor should it be. It challenges the notion of what qualifies as “professional” music, instead offering something far more rare: authenticity born of survival. For fans of experimental folk, anti-establishment songwriters, or the kind of deeply personal work found in the outsider art canon, Keith Woodhouse’s music will resonate deeply.

This isn’t music trying to fit in – it’s music that insists on being.

And that, in a world that too often marginalizes the minds it can’t label, is revolutionary.