Sunday afternoon and Di's clan (locals) descend for the evening meal, rendering me sous chef and chief bottle collector.
Earlier that day I'd made a controversial move at the village hall 'Cake Bake' by buying all of Jill of the Cake Bake's frangipane tart for supper's desert. Yup, the full pie. Jill is Walberswick's own Mary Berry and apparently her almond and pear tart is much sought after/fought over. I honestly didn't realise that the queue for tea was different from the queue for cake but... the deal was done. It was politely suggested that I buy a slice at a time, so as not to "annoy the natives".
A wafted £20 note soon ended that discussion and the pie was plated. "Although, it might be an idea to buy a raffle ticket or two..." whispered Jill nervously. There was a brief debate about the defined differences between 'cake' and 'tart'. My suggestion that perhaps we should refer to a pie chart was met with stoney silence. Then: custard or cream? Jill came down definitively on the side of custard. Head down, holding my tart at arm's length, I made my way penitently past the orderly line of glowering glares and legged it up to the village store. "Custard?" I asked Till Lady. "Are you the one what just brought all of Jill's frangipane?" deadpanned Till Lady. "I was promised a slice... and those... those are our LAST two tins of custard. You want them both do you?" My answer was a definitive "Erm..." I sheepishly returned one of the last two tins in town back to its rightful shelf and settled on a tub of creme fraiche to flesh out my basket. "Word gets around fast" I muttered apologetically at the checkout. "You'll get away with nothin' in these parts." retorted Till Lady. "Nothin'..."
Later that afternoon there was a rap at the studio door. It was Ben on a Bike. Ben on a Bike had been sent around by Jill of the Cake Bake to remind me to return Jill of the Cake Bake's pie plate to the village hall the next day, and to advise that Till Lady wouldn't've minded the slice she'd been promised. "You did have ALL of the frangipane I believe? Every slice... And, you won the bloody raffle too!" Ben on a Bike reluctantly handed over the prized bubbly as I poured him a large glass of wine as a pacifier. We shan't be opening the champers for a day or two. I suspect that it's been prepped by the locals or Ben on a Bike with a right royal F1 style shaking...
The frangipane was a triumph ("even better than your dumplings!") and apparently was best taken with custard, although I'll have to take Di's word for that: we were a can short: there's nothing worse than dry frangipane.
I got up early this morning to return the plate to Jill of the Cake Bake and dutifully delivered the final slice of tart to Till Lady. I think that broke the ice although it was hard to tell. "Someone's had that last tin of custard and there's nothin' worse than dry frangipane" said she...
I could but agree.
Meanwhile, Di has taken to art.
Returning train-bound, from Darsham to London, she sent this doodle done in transit: a parting shot.
I suspect that there were leaves on the line...
I believe that it's the Danish who say 'if you're warm enough when you set out on a walk you have too many clothes on."
Point proven today.
A lazy morning led to me striding out purposefully early afternoon down a coastal path towards Dunwich. A 2 hour stroll would see me in The Ship for a late lunch: likely a local scotch egg, chips and a pint. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and I had a Spotify playlist to listen to: I just wasn't paying attention. I needed to remember that the non coastal path to Dunwich is 2nd right after the windmill. I took the 1st right... deeper and deeper into the woods.
By the time I realized I was lost the sun was setting ahead of me.
3:45pm!
I kept going reckoning that a healthy path and a setting sun would surely lead to civilization.
By the time I realized my folly it was too late to turn around. The sun had gone, the path had turned to a muddy glue, my phone had died and I was lost.
I had company. In the dusk I came across a snarling Alsatian who backed me up against a tree. I'm"don't be so silly Sally". The hound from Hades morphed into a pooch, smelt my crotch and departed.
not great under pressure. Are you meant to make yourself big and eyeball an aggressive beast or make yourself small and submissively look the other way? I did both! I'd be useless with a brown bear. I was eventually saved by a vaping little old lady in a bobble hat and pink wellies who sang
Next contact was even more unsettling: a little blond girl in a blood red cape (yup) closely followed by a scruffy bearded bloke (Daddy I hope) who smilingly showed me a set of long white teeth.
Really! Although I am, I couldn't write this stuff...
Still lost in the woods.
Bugger!
It gets dark early in these parts.
Really dark.
Suffolking dark!
I sang to myself to steady the ship: "Not out of the woods yet".
I eventually stumbled upon a bridle path promising 'Walberswick Common: 4 miles'.
I reckoned that was 6400 meters (it took a while) so committed to counting 6400 strident steps: that would see me home. I lost interest at 459 and went back to the singing. "Not out of the woods yet".
Stumbling blind.
As long as I kept my feet in the tyre track puddles I knew that I was still on track.
I was nearly taken out by an 8 year old (?) driving a Land Rover: obviously having lessons from his Dad who, as far as could tell, was sitting in the back seat.
I tried to wave the boy down. He waved back, hollered and kept on going.
By now the moon was up and lit the path ahead.
You can't trust in nature but it'll never let you down.
Eventually I spotted the lights of the village and arrived disheveled and thirsty at The Bell.
Sweltering in my thermal vest.
The Danish know their onions...
A pint of Ghost Ship, a packet of Chardonnay & sea salt peanuts and a chat with a pretty local toothsome barmaid whose accent is so strong that I still don't know her name.
I think it's either Sharon or Byron...
I believe that she advised 'The Eel's Foot' as the best local pub food after The Bell.
I'm sure to get lost again.
And the moon led me home.
It's the little things that can make a day...
Sitting here in a fisherman's net shack on the Suffolk coast counting blessings.
It's blowing a hooley and, on occasion, this exposed wooden shelter seems likely to take off. I know that we are more robust than that: the vacantly vulnerable often need to gather strength and develop static, stable and stoic defences.
Now that Di's bailed out London bound I'm trying to prep for some time in the studio with Marcus and am doing my usual: safely content in a cozy cabin but occasionally offering my chin to the elements to see what smarts.
Noting and toting.
As ever it's the daily rituals that develop and shape the day.
Late night whiskey means early morning coffee.
Perhaps a pill or two: purely medicinal.
I reach to the wood fire basket for inspiration. That's where the kindling and 'fire paper' is kept.
'Fire Paper': usually the Sunday sups. The financial pages go to blazes ('Doh Jones!') and I hold back the travel, sports and arts for the reading. As ever there's much inspiration in the minutiae. Looking at my notes from yesterday I think there's a song to be had from an article on how man developed his relationship with wolves: it seems that, when a domestic dog reacts to your every whim, it is down to his wolves' eye: an acute sensitivity to the pack, an instinct vital for survival: a hunter's eye for weakness, a selection of prey in order to avoid fruitless pursuit. Could be that when you are nose to nose with your best friend you might actually be having a 'conversation with death...'
A piece on nudity in Art produces a few notes about the difference between 'nude' (clothed in art) and 'naked' (vulnerable) and might make it into a ditty.
A review of Jonathan Coe's new novel 'Middle England' sets me scribbling about Brexit, this island life and the recognition that I might be beyond middle age.
And that gets me listening to new music for inspiration.
This morning 'new' comes from a fairly sage source: Mumford and Son: 'Delta': 'Aching' and 'empty' come to mind.
Beautifully produced, shimmery and intense, punctuated with the trademark crescendos, but... it's all a little passionately dispassionate. When you're singing from the heart there needs to be... a heart. Interestingly the best track (for me) is 'Wild Heart' which takes them back to their faux folky roots.
Next up the much vaunted The Good, The Bad & The Queen:'Merrie Land': Damon Alban working alongside other late 20th century icons: most notably Clash bassist Paul Simonon. It's a concept album that casts an eye over West London bathed in Brexit's gloomy half light. A 'Merrie Land' in “Anglo-Saxostentialist crisis”? apparently. “Are we green, are we pleasant?” questions Damon. At least he's singing and not shouting. I particularly like the recorders and ache of 'Lady Boston'so here it is:
Oddly it's Mark Knopfler who provides the morning's keenest pleasure. 'Down the Road Wherever' suggests that you know where he's going and what he'll be giving you will be sturdily dependable. And. yup, he delivers. A crumpled curmudgeon with a canny eye for the everyday. Anyone who can put a lump in your throat with a song about a sandwich must be master of his craft: lacing sanguine sadness to a universal conundrum: "When you're dealing with a toastie what do you prefer: Brown or red?"
No video so here's a link:
https://open.spotify.com/track/6iPklJBWZbOENNOsCPlfhh?si=5pVv9EAZT1iTojQXyRCdeA
Right: I'm off to make myself a bacon roll.
It'll be 'red' for me: Local Adnams ketchup.
Talk about 'sage sources'...
Di and I are still buzzing after Saturday night's Tom Baxter show at The Hat Club. If ever a performance made me want to sell my guitar AND rush home to play my guitar at the same time... this was it. I know that it's no competition but how would you follow that?
Live music is fast becoming the prime income for most musicians. Tom made the point last night that (after much research) 10,000 Spotify plays of his latest album would buy him a bag of nappies for his daughter. That doesn't smell right does it?
Tom Baxter performed, supported by his "baby sister" Vashti on Saturday.
There was such a positive vibe in the room; something that both Tom and Vashti commented on.
You’ve got to love musicians: they do the miles, the waiting, the set up and then… they make something happen.
Vashti was a revelation: she has matured into a fascinating performer: her delicate and dark tales in stark contrast with (in person) her earthy warmth: perhaps that’s what parenthood does for you? It was lovely to meet her husband Richard and her two backing singing, ragamuffin boys, Buster and Sonny. I can’t wait to actually hear something of hers recorded: particularly her last song: the beautiful; ‘Blue’.
Tom? Not a lot to say really as this’d end a gush. We have seen a gig or two: we knew what a brilliant performer he is: that he inhabits every song and sings them from the heart: from a whisper to those soaring moments when the wail seems to be coming out of the top of his head. It was fascinating to watch the mechanics of his performance up close. Because he is such a brilliant writer and singer it’s easy to overlook Tom’s guitar playing: not just dynamically dextrous but also sweetly finessed. The control of his performance was mesmeric: a man in total control whilst in the act of letting himself go: ‘vulnerability' can often seem affected and gauchely garrulous… Tom authentically inhabits every minute.
And that brings me to my main thought this morning: what a sweet man. ‘Never meet your heroes’ they say. They inevitably disappoint. Whilst I’m not given to hero worship, I love to like people. And Tom was such a gentle guy. A listener with lots to say. He’s obviously a sensitive soul who has taken a knock or two, but he wears his worry wisely. I love that he took the time to think about us: beckoning us all onto a squash court for the encore, his intent: to create a special, intimate moment just for us. And how special was that moment?
Gush over: thanks Vashti and Tom.
Can I bring your attention to a lovely review/note/post from Jus Moody: staggeringly good writing: makes me which I’d been there: made me pinch myself to remember that I was.
Jus (who hasn’t been well) articulates perfectly the reason that Di and I wanted to develop The Hat Club.
We were keen to support kindred musicians but we also wanted to create and share the possibility of something special: in Tom’s words we wanted to ‘make something happen’.
We all love a pat on the back and this is as good as an endorsement could get.
Jus writes:
"I’m struggling to articulate the last 12 hours! Like actually lost for words, (which let’s face it is already a miracle)! When Tom Baxter announced his tour dates, I had no idea one of them would include a venue on my doorstep. I watched for months, eagerly hovering with bust credit card but when the day came, it collided when I took my eye off the boil, probably having some doctor or nurse prod me in the hip, shoulder or eye or one of the boys forgetting their homework or trying to find the games sock which literally tries to escape from the nuttiness of my life even more than I do. I digress...I blinked, tickets sold out. In my Aunty Juney’s words... ‘shit, bugger, arseholes’. There’s 2 ways of looking at this situation. You lie down, you sob, you beat yourself up for being so rubbish you can’t even get 2 tickets for your favourite artist ever or you try. I think I accepted first that I could be facing further potential disappointment but I pinged out a plea across selling groups on the off chance someone may have bought extras. I then hit the clubs’ social media and ever so nicely asked if they could let me know if any tickets came up. As polite as they were in responding, my feeling from the instant sell out was this was about as unlikely as meeting Tom Baxter in a squash club. So think back to just over a week ago and my overnighter with my new dodgy limbed friends in Heatherwood Hospital. Up pops the tagged post that lovely Trev from the Hat Club will be in touch if Lady Luck is coming to visit me. And boy did she. On Wednesday I get a follow on tag saying ‘Jus we have 2 tickets, pay here, code word BLUE’. My bestie (responsible for first introducing me to my aforementioned favourite artist of all time), now rudely lives in Eastbourne but tells me she’s coming up to stay with almost as much excitement as me hearing her words. She arrives, we cab to a heaving Firework night in Beaconsfield, devour a fabulous steak in the Sarry’s Head and then go off to find the mystery venue, under described on a dark lane. We suss our The Hat Club is actually virtual and a lovely duo called Trev and Di. Artisan people with big hearts and a passion for keeping it uncommercial and real. The venue is a Squash club, with a tiny modest bar complete with wrist splints and handle strapping next to the optics incase you want to restring your racquet whilst you have a pint. The room holds 60 people. It’s intimate and now full of friendly folk who potentially have little in common other than a taste in music. By this point, I’m hyperventilating and my memory is filled with the days of my deepest sadness, my rebuild and my quest whilst supported by lyrics that feel like they’ve been written personally for me. Tom’s sister Vashti comes on for the first set, filling me with awe of what their parents must feel with their doubling of amazing talent. I can’t even précis every note, word or feeling I had from the moments of last night but it is without doubt the best gig I’ve ever been to and more so now in my top 3 moments of life. I know I’ve been blessed by being married to a BAFTA winning composer and forever stuck in love with a renowned songwriter but this few hours summed up everything I feel about music and what I cherish in its power. The set finished and Tom suggests we carry on and move into Court One. (?) So, every one of the audience remove their shoes and walk into a beautifully lit squash court and sit. Tom follows us in and belts out 4 songs that turned the room into a mesmerising version of story telling hour for adults. Just incredible. At this point, I’m already on an extreme high so to come back out, put my boots back on and head out to the bar to look through the albums that I already have, I chat to the lovely Di who tells me how happy she was that the tickets came free for me, followed by Trev passing her a note that I have just won the night’s scoop of a signed vinyl. I’m handed over with weak knees to Tom for a moment where the obligatory happy photo became a chat that instilled what it is that resonates with me. He is an awesome guy with a backbone of life experience, fuelled with scars and trials but finds himself blessed with wanting to write and perform music which in turn bonuses him with people wanting to listen. Without gain or financial motivation and with a passion for his goals which translates as the epiphany of what is most attractive about him. Cocktails in the Crazy (and frightful) Bear, Uber home to the standard locking myself out for 2 hours in the freezing cold, being totally hung out to dry by a locksmith who coat-hangered himself into my apparently ‘high security’ lock followed by prayers before bed that my hyperthermic best friend would make it through the night and a sleep filled with dreams that came true."
Thanks to:
Tom’s manager Alaric for helping with the set up.
Chris Hope, Tom's right hand man last night: nice guy for a Lancy!
James Partridge for the pitch perfect sound.
The two Lisa’s for tending the bar so… tenderly.
Andy, our club manager for letting us use the Beaconsfield Squash Club for the Hat Club venue.
Paul Austin who usually provides a PA gratis. He only supplied the parking cones yesterday and they seem to have been nicked… check your pockets!
Barry Cross for doing the poster: I think that’s 26 without the whiff of an invoice.
Finally, thanks to Di for having the gumption to Tweet Tom directly to ask if he’d come out to play.
Tom’s response: ‘Sure, why not?’
And just like that… they made something happen.
A miracle of sorts.
The next Hat Club presentation will be something special.
Not only is it likely to be the only one of 2018 it is also sure to be the first ever 'Sold Out' Hat Club.
If the name Tom Baxter doesn't resonate, it should do.
Di and I have seen Tom live about 7 or 8 times and we both agree that he is one of the best live acts we've been privileged to see. 'Spellbinding' doesn't do him justice.
His debut album, Feather and Stone, was released by Columbia in October 2004 to critical acclaim, and was a regular on the BBC Radio 2 playlist. Singles from the album included "This Boy" and "My Declaration".
Tom's second album Skybound (released 7 January 2008) was recorded independently and released on the revived Charisma Records label through EMI[1] after he split with Sony in 2007. The first single, "Better", was released in January 2008 and was subsequently used on the soundtrack for the motion picture Run Fatboy Run. "Miracle" was used by the BBC to cover the final montage of their Olympics and Paralympics coverage.[3] The second single was "Tell Her Today".
Baxter contributed the track "Make a Stand" to the Survival International charity album Songs for Survival in 2008. Later that year Boyzone covered and released "Better", reaching number 22 in the UK Top 40 singles chart.
In 2009, "My Declaration" was covered by Eliza Bennett and used in the soundtrack the film Inkheart (Bennett also played the female lead, Meggie Folchart, in the movie). "Almost There" was covered by Dame Shirley Bassey as the opening track of her album The Performance. Baxter and the BBC Concert Orchestra accompanied Dame Shirley Bassey when she performed the song at the BBC Electric Proms on 24 October 2009 at the Roundhouse in London, a concert broadcast live on BBC Radio 2 and on BBC Two television the next day. The song was also used in the ending credits for the 2011 film, Trust.
We will be releasing tickets to club members first before opening up to the public.
In order to tempt Tom to our venue we have agreed a ticket price of £15.
Details on how to reserve and pay will come later in the year.
Meanwhile, put the date in your diary.
The final Hat Club of 2017 is a special one.
We're presenting our first songwriter's special: 'Roots in the Round'.
Hat Club favorite Dean Owens returns in good company, with duo Worry Dolls and Americana troubadour Robert Vincent. An exhilarating Nashville style Songwriters Circle, with some of UK’s most exciting singer song-writers. Upliftingly melancholic songs, laced with rootsy Americana, country, blues and harmonies that will raise the hairs on your arms and warm the coals in your gut.
Robert Vincent
An award winning singer/songwriter from Liverpool, continuing that city’s notable reputation for producing great songwriters and performers. Robert was voted one the top 20 acts at the 2016 Americanafest Nashville, courtesy of Rolling Stone. He was also the recipient of the inaugural 'Emerging Artist' UK Americana Music Award - personally selected by legendary BBC Radio DJ Bob Harris.
Robert's recent album I'll Make The Most Of My Sins (At The Helm Records) is a record that totally embraces the varied influences that make up the 'Americana' genre, from Emmylou to Waylon Jennings to Pink Floyd. “The real deal” Bob Harris “Live, he is a colossus” Liverpool Sound and Vision
Dean Owens is one Scotland’s finest singer/songwriters. Armed with a searingly soulful voice, skillfully crafted stories and earworm inducing melodies, he is a compelling and engaging live performer, with an emotional hurricane of stories and songs. He can rock up a storm, with subtle flashes of roots and twang, and break your heart with the next inflection.
In September 2017 he became the first Scottish musician to be officially invited to showcase at the prestigious Americanafest in Nashville.
Southern Wind - his 7th solo album – is scheduled for release in Feb 2018, on At The Helm Records.
"Scotland's most engaging and haunting singer songwriter" Irvine Welsh “One of Scotland’s best troubadours… fabulous” Bob Harris
Worry Dolls are an up and coming London based indie-folk female duo, their debut album Go Get Gone was recorded in Nashville (with Dean's producer Neilson Hubbard) and released in 2017. Sublime harmonies and great songs.
“Brilliantly quirky” The Huffington Post“Really, really, really stunning. Without doubt, ones to watch in 2017” Paul Sexton, BBC
The final Hat Club of 2017 is a special one. We're presenting our first songwriter's special: 'Roots in the Round'. Hat Club favorite Dean Owens returns in good company, with duo Worry Dolls and Americana troubadour Robert Vincent. An exhilarating Nashville style Songwriters Circle, with some of UK’s most exciting singer song-writers. Upliftingly melancholic songs, laced with rootsy Americana, country, blues and harmonies that will raise the hairs on your arms and warm the coals in your gut.
Robert Vincent An award winning singer/songwriter from Liverpool, continuing that city’s notable reputation for producing great songwriters and performers. Robert was voted one the top 20 acts at the 2016 Americanafest Nashville, courtesy of Rolling Stone. He was also the recipient of the inaugural 'Emerging Artist' UK Americana Music Award - personally selected by legendary BBC Radio DJ Bob Harris. Robert's recent album I'll Make The Most Of My Sins (At The Helm Records) is a record that totally embraces the varied influences that make up the 'Americana' genre, from Emmylou to Waylon Jennings to Pink Floyd. “The real deal” Bob Harris “Live, he is a colossus” Liverpool Sound and Vision
Dean Owens is one Scotland’s finest singer/songwriters. Armed with a searingly soulful voice, skillfully crafted stories and earworm inducing melodies, he is a compelling and engaging live performer, with an emotional hurricane of stories and songs. He can rock up a storm, with subtle flashes of roots and twang, and break your heart with the next inflection. In September 2017 he became the first Scottish musician to be officially invited to showcase at the prestigious Americanafest in Nashville. Southern Wind - his 7th solo album – is scheduled for release in Feb 2018, on At The Helm Records.
"Scotland's most engaging and haunting singer songwriter" Irvine Welsh “One of Scotland’s best troubadours… fabulous” Bob Harris
Worry Dolls are an up and coming London based indie-folk female duo, their debut album Go Get Gone was recorded in Nashville (with Dean's producer Neilson Hubbard) and released in 2017. Sublime harmonies and great songs.
“Brilliantly quirky” The Huffington Post“Really, really, really stunning. Without doubt, ones to watch in 2017” Paul Sexton, BBC
Interesting how the muddled mind works.
I'm lonesome in a converted fisherman's netting shack in Walberswick (on the Suffolk coast), with a cruel dose of the flu so extreme that I've taken to bed. Refusing to get up more accurately. The squawking gulls are starting to irritate, so I put on Spotify: A playlist of new albums from 2017 that I need to catch up on. I'm dozing that doze that only a cocktail of 'Night Nurse', Manuka honey and whisky can inspire: half Coleridge, half Withnail. Then 'Cover My Tracks' by Charlie Fink (ex Noah and the Whales) comes on. In my medicine induced stupor, the songs start to reveal themselves as a weird kind of dramatic musical: almost like a pastoral 'Grease'. A succession of interlinked 3 minute, honeyed, sentimental sketches, each one setting up the next.
And I was directing the film.
And it was a saccahrine success.
The kind of film that makes cynical middle aged men cry.
The kind of film that Paul Buchanan would sing the soundtrack to.
I'm up now, sitting in my huge bay window, facing the sea; listening to Paul Buchanan's 'Mid Air' and waving to film director Richard Curtis (really) as he passes on his bike, back from the village's only shop, with bread and eggs. Richard waves back. We're not mates (yet) but Richard waves back...
Curtis owns the designer beach 'shack' (above, middle right) next to the one hire (above, left of centre). Talk about shabby v chic. And then I realise that he's the man who placed the song 'Mid Air' as theme song to his lovely/sappy film 'About Time'. Serendipity eh? And that got me thinking about other Richard Curtis films. Four Weddings ('Love is all Around'). Love Actually, with this wrenching Emma Thompson/Joni Mitchell moment:
Richard Curtis films: They're not so much narratives, more a collection of 3 minute sketches that are lovingly crafted into 'movies'. Quilted movies that we learn to admire for their 'best bits' rather than for their entirety. Movies that make cynical, middle aged men cry.
I reckon Richard Curtis is a Blue Nile fan.
If ever a man were to make this album into a film, then Richard Curtis would be that man.
Not me.
I have hope and Manuka but not the required amount of wide-eyed optimism and saccharine.
I might knock him up and work on a finders' fee...
And then I googled Charlie Fink's 'Cover My Tracks' and, lo and behold, the job's already done.
The album forms a theatrical production. One that's recently presented at The Old Vic. The expanded narrative is described thus:
"A downbeat, faintly autobiographical, not-quite-love story that takes our hero on a journey of self-discovery, from the brink of suicide in a grubby hotel room to the shores of a remote Scottish loch, via a whirlwind, whistle stop band tour of the UK."
It sounds a little like my current predicament... if you substituted the suicide with man flu...
In fact it sounds like a Richard Curtis movie... if you put the suicide back in but made the corpse Knightley beautiful.
Take a listen; it really does.
Oh!
There he goes again.
This time Richard waves first.
I better put some pants on...
Have a listen to Charlie Fink's 'Cover My Tracks' here:
"That I know nothing, that the world I live in will go on escaping me forever."
Paul Auster
How we miss our lives is life enough for most of us.
Opportunities abound but we're mostly looking the other way.
Sometimes we need other folk to point out what we are missing.
Some things are worth sharing, if only for the civility of sharing.
Sometimes we reach out to connect.
Sometimes we reach out to see if others are feeling as disconnected as we are.
Sometime we are disappointed not to make an expected connection.
Sometimes unexpected connections can amaze and astound.
Hazard.
Chance.
Serendipity.
Different names for the same hat.
This morning I was lying in the bath, with Spotify playing randomly from the world's vast library of music, reading Paul Auster. Auster is one of my favorite writers. Besides his novels he also writes beautifully about his life: the things that have led him to where he now abides. 'The Red Notebook' is a slight thing, chock full of anecdotes, small moments, minutiae that most of us would pass over, let alone write about. His non fiction hints at what inspires the writer: in Auster's case primarily memory, identity and chance. They say that stories cannot exist without storytellers and that stories will not endure unless they are well told. Auster is a fine story teller whose elegant prose can make the most mundane moments resonate. Auster's words will endure.
"I learned that books are never finished, that it is possible for stories to go on writing themselves without an author.”
Anyway... back in the bath:
Much of 'The Red Notebook' recognizes the potency of coincidence. There are moments of serendipity, missed chances and close shaves. All cleverly catalogued without any conclusions drawn other than a 'what are the chances?' shrug.Auster tells of how during all four flat tires of his life he had the same passenger in the car with him. He tells of Ralph, the boy who got struck and killed by a lightning bolt that was surely destined for Auster. I got to the last chapter of the book entitled 'Why I Write'. It concludes with this story: An 8 year old Paul Auster met his hero, baseball player Willie Mays. The young Auster shyly asked Mays for his autograph. Mays replied "Sure kid, sure. You got a pencil?" Auster continues:
"The great Willie Mays stood there watching in silence. When it became clear that no one in the group had anything to write with, he turned to me and shrugged. “Sorry, kid,” he said. “Ain’t got no pencil, can’t give no autograph.” And then he walked out of the ballpark into the night. After that night, I started carrying a pencil with me wherever I went. It became a habit of mine never to leave the house without making sure I had a pencil in my pocket. It’s not that I had any particular plans for that pencil, but I didn’t want to be unprepared. I had been caught empty-handed once, and I wasn’t about to let it happen again. If nothing else, the years have taught me this: if there’s a pencil in your pocket, there’s a good chance that one day you’ll feel tempted to start using it. As I like to tell my children, that’s how I became a writer."
As I read this story Spotify played Joe Henry's 'Our Song'.
It tells of the narrator coming across... you guessed it: Willie Mays.
What are the chances?
“I saw Willie Mays
In a Scottsdale Home Depot
Looking at garage door springs
At the far end of the fourteenth row.”
Rather than asking for an autograph he listens in to Mays talking despondantly to his wife:
This was my country This was my song Somewhere in the middle there It started badly and it’s ending wrong
This was my country This frightful and this angry land But it’s my right if the worst of it Might somehow make me a better man.
Another story of disappointment then, this time from the mouth of the All AmericanHero himself.
Interestingly the reason I was in the bath was to get away from the radio: specifically the clatter and clutter of the news: more graceless guff from anti-hero Trump, Stateside. So, not just the coincidence of two disparate stories colliding, with the same baseball hero (and featuring similar subject matter), but also... those lines written in 2007, pre-echoing the current disappointment, embarrassment, shame and fear at the face on the American coin: something articulated everyday by so many of my American friends: they surely deserve a better man...
As 'Our Song' concludes, the narrator casts doubt on himself.
That was him, I’m almost sure, The greatest centerfielder Of all time.
He’s just like us, I want to tell him, Stooped by the burden of endless dreams, His, and yours, and mine.
"Stooped by the burden of endless dreams, his and yours and mine"
Now there's a sagely inclusive line: a timely reminder to our leaders that they shoulder our hopes.
It made me jump out of the bath and reach for this virtual pencil.
If you can, get hold of a copy of 'The Red Notebook', and then run yourself a bath.
Then put Spotify on 'random' and, you never know, as you get to the last chapter, you might just get struck by lightning, or...if you're lucky 'Our Song' might come on.
It really is Our song: his and yours and mine.
May that moment come to you in brighter times: a time when the most powerful man in the world is not a narcissistic surface feeder, but a deep thinker with broad shoulders, emotional intelligence and a social conscience: A compassionate leader with a plan and a pencil in his hand.
Hopefully a hero: or at least a better man.
I love this. Talk-Show is songwriter Lawrence O'Shea. The offerings are a fascinating melange of troubadour song-smithery and 70's influenced pop. I hear T. Rex sipping (slightly out of date) cocktails with James Taylor and Macca. It's a heady, tasty, out of time capsule that is oddly compelling. Melody is the master but there's a vibrant buoyancy that reminds me of Boo Hewerdine's latest offering 'Swimming in Mercury'. No surprise then to see that Boo is listed as 'Executive Producer' and appears on one of the tracks. The sonics are dynamic and compelling: kudos to the recording and mixing talents of Chris Pepper who also twiddled Boo's knobs on the aforementioned... Another star of the Talk-Show is Danish multi-instrumentalist Gustaf Llunggren whose wonderful woozy woodwind offers Nordic warmth to the affair. Nordic warmth? Yup, it's a transcendent conundrum of an album: one that's a pleasure to puzzle over. Regardless of the stellar support, O'Shea is very much the star of his own show: his voice both doleful and hopeful. It's that strident vocal performance that holds the 10 songs in such ear catching, fuzzy focus. He might have his back to us but Lawrence is surely stage centre. 'Permanent Honeymoon' is perfectly displaced and our hero displaces us perfectly: disorienting, knowing, wry, sanguine, yet with a melancholic underbelly that you want to tickle and cuddle at the same time.
These are songs to ponder and prance too.
Why were they not on the radio yesterday?
The new Joe Henry album 'Thrum' is a beguiling mixture of obtuse lyricism and sombre, sonic beauty. T'aint 'whistle test' catchy but, boy, does its timbre get under your skin.
The vinyl version is spread over 4 luxuriant, syrupy sides: noiseless and quite startling in clarity.
Joe's son Levon is the prime accompanist, offering wonderfully wheezy woodwind, whilst the long
standing rhythm section of bassist David Piltch and drummer Jay Bellerose stitch everything together with a gloriously funereal clatter and... thrum. There's some fine guest guitar from John Smith too.
Thus far it's hard to pick a favorite, although 'The Glorious Dead' and 'River Floor' (see the video below)are just lovely, whilst the subtle orchestrations of 'Keep Us in Song' shuffle and slide, broken backed, yet somehow standing tall.
When I've worked out what Joe's banging on about (“The bride throws off her veil onto the groom. Salvation’ meaning nothing but ‘consumed’”?) this might just rank as my 'Album of the Year' alongside Neil Finn's wondrous 'Out of Silence'. It's certainly my most silent vinyl purchase of 2107.
Instinctive, live and perfectly imperfect is the new black and it suits me just fine.
Often likened to Dylan and Springsteen, 2016 was a big year for Chicago singer/songwriter Michael McDermott. Voted Best Male Artist by Americana-UK readers as well as top 3 Live Act, his album Willow Springs received several Best of 2016 awards as well as reaching the Number 1 spot in the Euro Americana charts. American Roots UK described it as one of the best album of the 21st century. His live shows are legendary. Author Stephen King describes him as “one of the greatest songwriters”. Once touted as Rock’s “Next Big Thing” following a major label signing in his early 20s, success seemed guaranteed with MTV, Rolling Stone and The New York Times tipping Michael for the top. A music industry in turmoil and some 20 years spent fighting addictions saw Michael take a different path. Now over 3 year’s clean the emergence of Willow Springs showed how right those original pundits were. Michael’s band The Westies, which he formed with his wife Heather Horton, have featured on both Bob Harris's Country Show and Sunday show and Michael recorded a session last December with Bob Harris for Radio 2. Michael’s live shows are legendary. In 2015 he broke off a European tour for one night in London, described aptly by the local promoter "the date was May Day bank holiday Sunday and because it was a 3-day weekend we had people flying and driving from all over the UK for that one night. It was a barnstormer".
“This is one of the most desperate, haunting, unforgettable yet musically balanced albums you will ever listen to…Unforgiving and Unforgettable.” (Americana UK) , “I'm a believer. One of the best albums that have reached these ears in a long time.”(No Depression)
“A wonderful true record” (Whispering Bob Harris, BBC UK)
“This album is one of the best, not only of this year, but of the 21st century”(American Roots UK)
Often likened to Dylan and Springsteen, 2016 was a big year for Chicago singer/songwriter Michael McDermott. Voted Best Male Artist by Americana-UK readers as well as top 3 Live Act, his album Willow Springs received several Best of 2016 awards as well as reaching the Number 1 spot in the Euro Americana charts. American Roots UK described it as one of the best album of the 21st century. His live shows are legendary. Author Stephen King describes him as “one of the greatest songwriters”. Once touted as Rock’s “Next Big Thing” following a major label signing in his early 90s, success seemed guaranteed with MTV, Rolling Stone and The New York Times tipping Michael for the top. A music industry in turmoil and some 20 years spent fighting addictions saw Michael take a different path. Now over 3 year’s clean, the emergence of Willow Springs showed how right those original pundits were.
Michael’s band The Westies, which he formed with his wife Heather Horton, have featured on both Bob Harris's Country Show and Sunday show and Michael recorded a session last December with Bob Harris for Radio 2. Michael’s live shows are legendary. In 2015 he broke off a European tour for one night in London, described aptly by the local promoter "the date was May Day bank holiday Sunday and because it was a 3-day weekend we had people flying and driving from all over the UK for that one night. It was a barnstormer".
“This is one of the most desperate, haunting, unforgettable yet musically balanced albums you will ever listen to…Unforgiving and Unforgettable.”
Americana UK
“I'm a believer. One of the best albums that have reached these ears in a long time.”
No Depression
“A wonderful true record”
'Whispering' Bob Harris, BBC UK
“This album is one of the best, not only of this year, but of the 21st century”
I've just heard that one of my favourite teachers Gordon 'Delme' Thomas has died.
Back in 2013.
How did I miss that?
I was a border at Ermysteds 1971 to 78. He instilled a passion within me for the written word: I was a dullard then, he helped me to see the beauty in language and taught me to look for a laugh, even in the stiffest prose. He also taught me how to seam a cricket ball and throw a dummy to the opposite '10'. Years after leaving school I coached Varsity rugby at The American School in London. At the start of every Fall term I'd take my relative fledglings up to Yorkshire where Delme would arrange a Saturday fixture with the 1st XV and a Sunday mauling up at Wharfedale. Of course the Yorkshire lads would thrash and kick the crap out of my boys who always came away from the weekend bewildered but buoyant, more in love with the game, beer and each other than on the Friday. Delme was always a kindly and witty host. He'd fuel me and my assistant coach with Tetley's and tales of... me. Me: 'twinkle toes'. His protege. His blue eyed boy. He remembered every break that I'd made, every dummy scissors, every tackle, every perfectly place chip. And this was the magic of Delme Thomas. He made every kid under the shadow of his beaky, beady eyed gaze feel like a potential hero. His selfless enthusiasm for life was addictive; he always put the boy stage centre. He was Merlin to many Arthurs. Under that benevolent beam we all felt emboldened, enhanced. We believed in ourselves. And yet... if we ever got 'up' ourselves he was quick to stick a pin in an over inflated ego with a withering, witty critique, that trademark guffaw echoing as chastised, humbled and a little dazed, we reset ourselves, wiping his spittle off our over pumped chests. He inspired us to be modest heroes: not a bad carrot to dangle to a wide eyed kid; all of us heroes in our own little orbits. He taught us to love life, to love ourselves, to laugh at ourselves, and to love our mates. Delme recognised the alchemy of childhood, encouraging camaraderie, coaxing us gently out of the playground and onto the pitch. He wasn't the only one to smooth the transition: Adge Douglas and Vernon Rook surely played their part, but while you kind of knew that they hung up their hats at the end of every teaching day, you sensed that Delme was forever on point, there when needed. 'You were a cheeky little bastard and never quite as good as I thought you'd be' was his assessment of my rugby ability 20 odd years later, 'but Christ, you had the best hands of any fly half I've ever coached." As a 40 year old I felt again the power of DT. Emboldened, an inch taller. I believed in me. As I strolled to the bar (as directed) he shouted after me "Ah, but cricket? Hopeless! You coming in at 11. Us needing 5 off the last over. You straight batting every delivery like Boycott. 'Playing yourself in' for Chist's sake! You were a witless little f*cker Jones." he cackled, spraying my back with spittle. But he'd remembered. He'd remembered. And I remember him on the touchline, a prompting Prospero; spitting, cursing, chiding, encouraging, praising, howling with laughter. His beady eye on me, only me: his blue eyed boy.
Last night's Hat Club saw the return, two years to the day, of Adam Beattie and Brooke Sharkey. They had new albums to tout and we were treated to some wonderful moments of balladry and candour. Their album titles tell you everything: Adam's 'The Road Not Taken'; Brooke's 'Wandering Heart'. Both are blithe, wandering spirits, true troubadours who reveal more and more as each song unwinds. Not so much an unravelling, more an open invitation to share in their vulnerabilities.
Adam's tender tales are offered in hushed and halting timbre, confessional, humorously faltering, yet sure darts to the heart. He revealed himself with 'The Man I've Become' and offered stories of past lovers in 'Catch the Biggest Fish and Let it Go'. The biggest emotional catch of the night came with a composition in memory of his centenarian Grandfather 'A Song of a Hundred Years'. It's a simple tote of changing times, a thing of misty eyed wonder:
"I was born when horses pulled the plough And marriage held by but a vow A beggar’s hand assumed sincere Much has changed these hundred years"
We all joined in the chorus and you could hear a catch in the voices of the hardiest hearts:
"Hold me high and send me low For it is time for me to go And in my eyes you’ll see no tears For I have lived one hundred years"
Brooke is a fascinating bundle of whispered wonders.
She sings as daughter, child, mother, lover; there's an exotic and sensual nature to her tremulous delivery that adds to a feeling of otherworldliness. Some songs were in her mother tongue and that impenetrable chanson added to the impression that her performance is as much about feeling as it is about meaning.
Songs from a siren: Brooke floated fragile above Sam Pert's delicate, intelligent drumming, with the warm and dark sensuality of cellist Dominie Hooper's flowing, meandering, syrupy lines adding to a feeling of haunting displacement. It was oddly moving and strangely unsettling: just as you nestled in convention, Brooke led you elsewhere. And it was a beguiling, bewilderingly beautiful journey, one that led all too soon to a stunning finale. 'Sailor's Wife' floated upon a shimmering guitar chord loop, and a lovely, prodding, cyclical drum pattern from Sam. The story is that of a woman who longs to have 'wild in her eyes' but ends in 'a cushioned cage':
"She fell in love, with a man on a boat His sails were high, he could keep them afloat But her bones ached and he would grind his ivory body on their love left behind. She was the type to keep her end of the bet, but with nothing to feed off, half way she met, a married man, soft and strong, his heard of silk had been stamped upon."
The song is worldly, yet not of this world, an intoxicating cocktail of traditional shanty and woozy modernity that perfectly illustrates the duality of this unsettling and enchanting performer's allure. Naive and knowing.
Perfectly petit yet sturdy and strong.
A wandering heart for sure: broken but sanguine, four faithful chambers full of blood, sweat and tears.
30 years ago.
My oh my.
30 years ago Di and I attended our first gig together.
It was at the UCL in the Aldwych.
I had dragged my new 'squeeze' (then a disco disciple) out to sample the folk musings and jangling introspections of Boo Hewerdine and The Bible.
The support band was Deacon Blue for Christ's Sake...
Di, initially reticent, was ultimately smitten and thus her rehabilitation began: Tom Waits being the next hurdle.
But I digress...
Tonight we joined the puckered pilgrimage to watch The Bible reform to perform 'Under the Bridge' at Stamford Bridge; a 'one off' 30 year reunion. Synchronicity indeed for Di and I. It being Chelsea, if 'blue was the colour' it initially seemed that the game was more about blue rinse and Blue Stratos than anything more sanguine... Things soon became more buoyant: Not since haunting a memorable Blue Nile gig (at The Albert Hall around the 'Peace at Last' album) have I seen so many misty eyed middle aged men punching the air in dolorous delight. 'Love at second sight will see me through' sang Boo and we all nodded 'Oooh yeeess', sagely, like that fricking Churchill dog. Boo fronted things gamely like a 'have a go hero' in his ultimate dream life; a happy rabbit in the headlights; gleefully throwing shapes that his 50 year old hips would surely question in the morning. That sweet, venerable vibrato endures: as vulnerably swoon-some as memory pledged. And the band made a glorious sound. Guitars chimed, rhythms syncopated, jazz infused chords were diminished just so... reassuring us that, yes, we had known our onions. The delights were many: 'Mahalia', 'Honey be Good' and 'Skywriting', before the inevitable goosebumps of 'Graceland'. Then came the night's revelation: 'King Chicago'. "And I love you a little bit more than I love myself... home of my heart" seemed to ring true as many grabbed at partners and joined the swelling chorus. It was a real 'chicken skin' moment. Our creased and crumpled heroes threw themselves manfully at the songs with a dynamic gusto and dextrous clarity of intent; keenly displaying a musicality that more than justified those aged Steely Dan comparisons. But this was no disparate Dan; there was a muscular thump and rattle, an earnest integrity to the playing that could do nowt but make us love and reclaim them as our own.
And there we were, as the dust settled, sated and sure, slapping our virtual friends on the back; misty eyed strangers who we knew inside out, after a mutual baring of souls on FB. We stood there standing: a mugging and a hugging in a kindly way; kissing like statues, reeling in the years, recognising what we were, what we'd become and what we'd never be.
The euphoria of nostalgia eh?
The wondrous power of music: to filter, distil and fulfil. To move you to that moment when you clock your younger self and realise that you might have actually known what you were about.
It was kind of wonderful: a kind of living, a kind of loving, a kind of slipping away...
"Imagine for a moment the true weight of what it fundamentally means to be proud of your desires instead of shamed by them. It means that the things that wholly stir you in private darkness are the same things that you honor and fight for faithfully in the broad light of day. When this man wants to steal a kiss with his beloved away from prying eyes, it is not a fear of discovery that leads them into shadow, but a deeply held respect for each other and for the life that they share and together build upon."
Wise and empathetic words from songwriter Joe Henry in his assessment of outgoing President Obama. I agree with his thoughts about honouring your desires rather than becoming hostage to them. I reckon that a man's true character is shown by how he behaves when no-one is watching, but also by how he chooses to present himself to the world.
Trump?
Of course I don't know the man, but you've got speak as you see: I fear that Donald's 'private darkness' is a world away from a burning light. I also fear that there's likely to be little or no moderation or modification shown in deference to his wife and family. Where Barack has the temperance of Michelle to help shape, define and refine his world, I suspect that for Trump, Melania and family are nowt but pretty props, with little or no influence on his world view. If Donald's anything he is truly his 'own man'.
Is he driven by self-love or self-loathing?
Those inner narratives are surely private; the unholy "alliance between voyeurism and exhibitionism".
And why should we care?
It's rude to stare.
But given today's inauguration how can we not?
The trouble is that much of Trump's success comes from being a self-proclaimed 'straight talker'; a man ever increasingly keen to wear his inside out. For most of us our demons are defined and confined by inner boundaries and tethered by some sense of dignity and self-restraint. I'm guessing that Trump, now more than ever, feels empowered to boldly parade what would be better suppressed. He's moved beyond moral self-assessment and now, to Donald, America's lofty endorsement of his character and potential is an ultimate affirmation of his eccentric personality; delusional quirks 'n' all. He does like to strut his stuff; shooting fearlessly and without caution from hip and lip. But with his often baffling streams of consciousness, he's not only displaying a cluttered and confused inner mind, he's also publicly proving himself unstable, impulsive and reactionary; not traits befitting a statesman and politician.
Is there power to be had from unpredictability?
Is he chameleon, comedian, corinthian or caricature?
Fish or fowl?
Demagogue or dictator?
He's certainly no public servant.
And privately?
We all have a right to an inner life.
We can choose not to give form to our dark, shadowy thoughts.
In this, let's hope that Trump's private examinations remain unspoken.
We all love a list; particularly at the end on the year.
Here's the first of a few; this from a brother of a mate.
I play squash with Jim Cooper and he always talks of his bro's eclectic taste.
He's not wrong, I know about 6 of these 60 artists.
His number 1 is a revelation; I do like a bit of Stephen Fosteresque heartache and anyone who cover's Kate McGarrigle’s “(Talk to Me of) Mendocino” is a friend of mine.
So, here's a brother of a friend of mine's list.
I've never met D.C. Cooper but I imagine that he looks like a slightly more intelligent version of his pretty smart brother Jimbo. Something a bit like the furrowed brow on the right then...
Not so smart with his counting; he manages to cram 60 albums into his Top 40.
Perhaps that explains Jim's score keeping on the squash court...
Jimbo btw is responsible for a little scar under my right eye... but that's another story.
Here's a mainly instrumental trip around some unfamiliar backstreets.
The D.C. Cooper 40 Favourite New Albums of 2016
We’ve all read so many “Albums of the Year” lists now, that we’re full to bursting. But I hope you have room for at least one more helping. Because here comes the Cooper Favourite New Albums of 2016 list, and I like to think that it’s worth a quick glance. When I’ve done lists of previous years, I’ve restricted myself to 40 albums, but 2016 has been such an outstanding 12 months full of fine records that I’ve been compelled to expand the chart to an unprecedented 60 titles. And I still found there wasn’t room for albums by perennial favourites like Paul Simon and Lucinda Williams in the sixty.
Looking at the list, I see that 39 out of the albums are wholly or almost wholly instrumental, while only 21 are basically albums of songs. I don’t know why this is. I’ve certainly never made a conscious decision to seek out more music without the human voice on it; it’s just happened that way. One’s tastes mutate and evolve as the years go by.
My Sounds of 2016.
Here they all are:
1. Chaim Tannenbaum – Chaim Tannenbaum
Top of the heap is a guy who’s made his debut album at the age of 69. It was worth the wait. I was going to say something like “No one’s mentioned it on the Afterword at all,” but yesterday Artery pipped me at the post and sang its praises in the “Best Albums of 2016” thread. One could hardly imagine a more Afterword-friendly album: Tannenbaum has been an associate of and sung with the McGarrigles and the Wainwrights for decades. The rest of the time, he’s had a day job as a university lecturer in philosophy in Montreal. The album is sensitively produced by modern US folk musicologist Dick Connette, with sleeve notes by the great Joe Boyd.
Most of the tracks are traditional folk and spiritual numbers, beautifully arranged and sung. There’s also a respectful version of Kate McGarrigle’s “(Talk to Me of) Mendocino” sung with Kate’s ex-husband Loudon Wainwright. Best of all are the two original songs – “Brooklyn 1955,” about Tannenbaum’s childhood in the Jewish quarter of Flatbush, and the 10-minute “London, Longing for Home,” about the five rainy months he spent in central London in 1971. Evoking the spirit of Edmund Spenser, it’s a wistful, elegiac piece, and unquestionably my favourite song of the year.
In “Brooklyn 1955,” he sings of watching the Brooklyn Dodgers at Ebbets Field. Well, to use the corniest old baseball metaphor, Tannenbaum, in his debut appearance, has stepped up to the plate and hit the ball clean out of the park.
2. Yorkston/Khan/Thorne – Everything Sacred
Did you hear the one about the Mancunian, the Scotsman and the Indian? They made one of the best jazz/folk/Indian fusion albums of all time! Succeeds spectacularly where many such crossover projects flounder. 3. Andy Shauf – The Party
Third album by singer-songwriter from Saskatchewan, Canada. A sort of a concept album, apparently, focusing on the various people attending a party in a small town. Shauf has a thin, whiny voice which I find strangely appealing. Most of all, his songs and the arrangements of them remind me of the great, much-missed Elliott Smith.
4. Lloyd Swanton – Ambon
Lloyd Swanton is the double-bass player of the Necks. Ambon is a 2CD + book package which tells the true story of Lloyd’s uncle, Stuart Swanton, who died in a Japanese PoW camp in 1945. Lloyd has done his uncle proud. He’s assembled a 13-piece ensemble to tell the musical story of camp life in those terrible years through a series of hymns and instrumental pieces.
5. Ryan Teague – Site Specific
Eight instrumentals played on a Fender Rhodes, guitar, percussion and bass clarinet. Jazz-informed, but not jazz. A very rewarding listen.
6. Various Artists – Day of the Dead
A 5CD box of Grateful Dead covers. No – wait! Come back! It’s really good. Honestly it is. Bryce and Aaron Dessner of the National do a sterling job in curating and producing the whole set, and appearing on a few tracks as well. The collection is something that can be enjoyed by Deadheads and non-Deadheads alike. There are fresh new takes on around 60 Dead songs from artists as diverse as Orchestra Baobab, Tim Hecker, Béla Fleck and the Flaming Lips. I prefer many of the versions to the Dead’s originals, and for me that’s no mean feat.
7. Leyla McCalla – A Day for the Hunter, a Day for the Prey
Second solo album by cellist and vocalist McCalla, a former member of Carolina Chocolate Drops. She lives in New Orleans and her parents are from Haiti, and so the francophone influence on her music is strong from two directions. A lovely sparse sound. Spiritual, deep roots music from the Americas. Highly, highly recommended.
8. Conscious Sounds & Partial Records – Hackney Dub
A modern approach to dub, from a couple of East London crews. The main guy behind it seems to be the Hackney-based dubmaster Dougie Wardrop. An uncompromising and riveting sound.
9. Jean-Michel Blais – Il
Phenomenal set of supremely melodic solo piano pieces by obscure French Canadian chap. If you like Chilly Gonzales’s “Solo Piano” album, then dive in.
10. Suzanne Vega – Lover, Beloved: Songs from an evening with Carson McCullers
This is from some 2011 stage show about the life of “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter” hitmaker. Ms Vega writes a set of songs that are light and witty – bouncier and jazzier than her standard material. This may be her best ever record, at the age of 57.
11. Johánn Johánnsson – Orphée
Johánnsson is suddenly a pretty big star in the world of ambient and modern chamber/classical music. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.
12. Markus Stockhausen & Florian Weber – Alba
Very lovely and surprisingly delicate piano/trumpet duo album on ECM
13. Littlebow – Three
Very English instrumental trio: flutes, cello, harp, piano, clarinet. Sounds like a modern cousin of Virginia Astley’s “From Gardens Where We Feel Secure” LP from 1983.
14. Mammal Hands – Floa
Gondwana Records’ fourth signing make a big step forward from their debut. Some top tunes here.
15. Brigid Mae Power – Brigid Mae Power
Sounds a bit like Elizabeth Fraser out of the Cocteau Twins singing slightly folkier material.
16. David Bowie – Blackstar
Erm … you know this one, right?
17. Ryley Walker – Golden Sings that have been Sung
My favourite of his three albums so far.
18. Sokratis Sinopoulos Quartet – Eight Winds
I’ve only just received this. It’s the most recent purchase on the list, and it sounds really good. Maybe if I’d had it a couple of weeks longer, it would’ve been top 5. If you like the sound of the Greek lyra and you like the glacial, spacey ECM house vibe, then you must hear this. One for late winter evenings.
19. Djelimady Tounkara – Djely Blues
The aging Malian guitar maestro records fairly sparingly nowadays, but when the albums finally arrive, they’re always ones to cherish.
20. Dele Sosimi Meets Prince Fatty/Nostalgia 77 – You No Fit Touch Am in Dub
Someone had the brilliant idea of doing a dub version of the You No Fit Touch Am album by former Fela Kuti keyboardist Dele Sosimi. If you like Afrobeat AND dub, then buy with confidence.
21. Steve Gunn – Eyes on the Lines
This sounds like all Steve Gunn’s other albums. But that means it sounds good.
22. Marisa Anderson – Into the Light “Written as the soundtrack to an imaginary science-fiction western film”, apparently. And she makes a pretty good job of it, too.
23. Ilya Beshevli – Wanderer
Solo piano player from the frozen Siberian wilderness. Beautiful, and always very accessible pieces.
25. The Hardy Tree – Through Passages of Time
‘The Hardy Tree’ is Frances Castle, the illustrator behind Clay Pipe Records’ beautiful artwork. Now she’s put out some music, too: an instrumental suite with plenty of moog and mellotron. Nice.
26. Einar Scheving – Intervals
The Icelandic chamber jazz album of the year. Oh yes!
27. Jan Lundgren – The Ystad Concert: A Tribute to Jan Johansson
Concert given by Swedish pianist Lundgren (and a string quartet) in tribute to an illustrious predecessor of his, the great Jan Johansson, who died in a car crash in 1968, aged only 37.
28. Kacy & Clayton – Strange Country
Beguiling folk duo: two cousins from Saskatchewan – one female, one male. Sound like their influences are more British than North American. A short album, but a good ‘un. I can imagine quite a few Afterworders going for this.
29. North Sea Radio Orchestra – Dronne
Craig Fortnum and his NSRO pals again conjure up the sweetest large-ensemble chamber folk, somewhat in the spirit of the Penguin Café Orchestra.
30. Three Cane Whale – Palimpsest
The odd little chamber folk trio from Bristol continue to make enchanting sounds
31. Aziza Brahim – Abbar El Hamada
Charming, very accessible desert blues from Western Sahara
32. John Zorn (and the Gnostic Trio) – The Mockingbird
Bill Frisell (guitar), Carol Emanuel (harp) and Kenny Wollesen (vibes) present another delicate, mesmerizing suite of compositions by the superhumanly productive Zorn.
33. Andrew Bird – Are You Serious
His second best album, after “Break it Yourself”
34. Allison Miller’s Tic Tic Boom – Otis was a Polar Bear
The only proper, swinging American jazz album in my Top 60. How strange.
35. Nathan Bowles – Whole and Cloven
Paradise of Bachelors Records can do no wrong with their roster of modern fingerpickers.
40. Chuck Johnson – Velvet Arc
Absolutely first rate ‘American primitive’ guitarist. Not quite as stripped-down and bare as his two previous outings. More of fleshed-out band sound.
41. Alasdair Roberts & James Green – Plaint of Lapwing
More keening, left-field wyrd folk from the estimable Glaswegian.
42. Claire M. Singer – Solas
Ms Singer finally puts 14 years of music from performance art on a double CD. Soundscapes built up from organ, cello and electronics.
43. Dead Light – Dead Light
Debut album by English ambient/tape loop/synth duo. Rather nice.
44. Glenn Jones – Fleeting
Another fine US guitarist in the John Fahey/Jack Rose tradition. Lovely.
45. Daniel Bachman – Daniel Bachman
US primitive guitarist stretches out into some more raga territory here.
46. C Joynes & Nick Jonah Davis – Spill Electric
Two English guitarists duelling mightily through two sides of caustic instrumentals. A bit like Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd trying to play different selections from the John Fahey songbook at the same time. Obscure but well worth tracking down.
47. Palle Sollinger & Fredrik Hermansson – Brännkyrkagatan 44
Some exquisite, brief jazz piano and double bass duets recorded in someone’s front room in central Stockholm (plus a little clarinet here and there). Anyone who likes the Keith Jarrett/Charlie Haden duet albums would go for this, I reckon
48. Allen Toussaint – American Tunes
A worthy farewell by the N’Orleans keyboard legend.
49. Itasca – Open to Chance
50. Brigaden – Om Lill, Jesus, Alberto och våra föräldrar
Brassy, good-time Swedish folk-jazz
51. Mathias Landaeus – From the Piano
Landaeus states categorically that the only instrument used on this album is an upright piano. So the bits that sound like a synthesizer and percussion must be him doing very weird things with the piano. Bizarre but intriguing.
52. Peter Broderick – Music for Confluence
A beautiful piano-based soundtrack from the versatile and prolific Oregonian.
53. Dana Falconberry & Medicine Bow – From the Forest Came the Fire
All Joanna Newsom fans, please step this way
54. Chris Forsyth & the Solar Motel Band – The Rarity of Experience Pts. I & II
Forsyth’s full, casually abrasive guitar sound still reminds me a bit of Television, but with fewer vocals and a somewhat more down-home style.
