Demis Roussos
Demis

There are two things.

Either the archaic, Hellenistic, vocally gravelly, owl-like Demis has pulled out of the battered hat, thanks to this twenty-year comeback, an unexpected yet now unlikely compositional jewel mostly made of Corinthian guttural-phonetic rants in a para-modernist soul-pop-rock sauce

or else

given the moderate benefit caused by several snippets ("September", "Love Is", "On My Pillow") contained in such worn, calcified, vocal exhumation, I would actually be establishing the inexorable, incontrovertible crossing of the threshold of personal befuddlement.

I would be tempted to opt for the latter that I mentioned.