tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27037066906253068882024-03-13T00:58:01.343+00:00hissyfitHissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.comBlogger785125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-36462821614392708892024-01-28T00:44:00.066+00:002024-01-28T08:01:45.828+00:00East of Ely: 8: The Paul Woodgate Review<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkisgj162id7VnusF0b7eZrAIyWVXujHRpFIYQZPlIqWmpTeKAPR1ecA7EQaPI3aNu0r5n9yZ5eWojQ4hjbA7rMkAkuXwNcqSF_a-CjfMljrYWNGn288lrB1e-BiJHiFcp1nfcivm31hrY00GHOIZro6AceAPd4nxGYkb2qpFC1io7mJI_ZQiZ1vRNpPK/s1882/Walberswick%20Cocktail.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="1882" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkisgj162id7VnusF0b7eZrAIyWVXujHRpFIYQZPlIqWmpTeKAPR1ecA7EQaPI3aNu0r5n9yZ5eWojQ4hjbA7rMkAkuXwNcqSF_a-CjfMljrYWNGn288lrB1e-BiJHiFcp1nfcivm31hrY00GHOIZro6AceAPd4nxGYkb2qpFC1io7mJI_ZQiZ1vRNpPK/w510-h287/Walberswick%20Cocktail.JPG" width="510" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>Miracle Mile</b> released<b> 'In Cassidy’s Care',</b> their last full-length recording, in 2013. It was the year Taylor Swift released her fourth long player, <b>'Red'</b>. She was still a year away from the titanic shift that 1989 and its globe-swallowing exploits were to herald. Tay Tay is not the reason <b>Miracle Mile </b>went quiet, but it seemed possible to those of us who cared that they were never ever (ever!) getting back together. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A lot can happen in 11 years. Music has succumbed to the digital diktat of corporate streaming services where it is now described as <i>‘product’ </i>and a lot of it seems created only to fuel our connection with the adverts scrolling across the small blue screen in front of us. You’re probably reading this on your smartphone, right? The whole world is in your hands, but where is your heart?</div></div><div><br />Perhaps you need <b>Miracle Mile</b> more than you thought.<br /><br />And what of our heroes? <b>Marcus Cliffe</b>, multi-instrumentalist, studio owner, all round melodic marvel has, amongst other things, toured on and off with <b>Manfred Man</b>, released solo LPs and worked on a musical with <b>Mark Knopfler</b>. <b>Trevor Jones,</b> always with Marcus’ assistance - it would come as no surprise if they finished each other’s sentences (I sort of want them to) - has released a series of solo LPs culminating in 2019s '<b>Carver’s Law'</b>, which have allowed him to step outside the<i> ‘band’</i> ethos and explore a gentler, more introspective journey.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xRZBRkbHGMpNegILTXdlVGiVJULPWAz538dblj0T2MWWCYHKsDQ2Reia1Z-uhn5QLF13FQOgxGPm4HDzFw9KfWsjubJADGAdH2Qgq-lmu4PGeLvsBFRhLYUrH_NZ9oCfv94ywOp00wa7GbpOtenbBO9gpOuWiyWFsdVdOuDxSimRm4G8DCbFpsEkbRKi/s3088/Hunchback%20and%20Scientist.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xRZBRkbHGMpNegILTXdlVGiVJULPWAz538dblj0T2MWWCYHKsDQ2Reia1Z-uhn5QLF13FQOgxGPm4HDzFw9KfWsjubJADGAdH2Qgq-lmu4PGeLvsBFRhLYUrH_NZ9oCfv94ywOp00wa7GbpOtenbBO9gpOuWiyWFsdVdOuDxSimRm4G8DCbFpsEkbRKi/w268-h357/Hunchback%20and%20Scientist.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br />That tilt towards introspection continues here. It will be no surprise to long-term fans of <b>Jones</b> and <b>Cliffe</b>, and can be measured in rough correlation with the decreasing number of ‘official’ band members over the years. From the fizzing pop of '<b>Bicycle Thieves'</b> with a full compliment, to the later LPs where the duo made best use of friends and hired hands to conjure music so irresistibly catchy and thought provoking it’s probably illegal. The road now arrives on the windswept shores of East Anglia; East of Ely.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23jYstCZboXOWdX240v4F3tU5IrcokXE_hdwLkGQznVLaJY-zCSRgaiUDB99hAcmfLrVYX5l-gHl6R1GXjMHHyKq5V59xj8PGH3CGpsY0JkAEGxy4PWBXzsHD2agK-UaWDix6RvNq9g_yvEixQtlbjUeDuETGBX2epDLR5S0SQfgkhK04e1a-QEbbJ9Md/s960/IMG_4883.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23jYstCZboXOWdX240v4F3tU5IrcokXE_hdwLkGQznVLaJY-zCSRgaiUDB99hAcmfLrVYX5l-gHl6R1GXjMHHyKq5V59xj8PGH3CGpsY0JkAEGxy4PWBXzsHD2agK-UaWDix6RvNq9g_yvEixQtlbjUeDuETGBX2epDLR5S0SQfgkhK04e1a-QEbbJ9Md/w409-h307/IMG_4883.JPG" width="409" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>There isn’t a bad song on the album; the quality level is shockingly high. All the touchstones are here, from musings on family past and present, the joy of solitude, the passing of, and gratitude for, time. Add to those love, friendship, forgiveness and always, always, hope; it’s <b>Miracle Mile</b>’s oxygen. <br /><br /></div><div>Opener <b>'Appletree' </b>reads like a reintroduction to <b>Miracle Mile</b>'s manifesto. Over a typically gorgeous piano and string melody Jones reassures all those who wondered at their absence that <i>‘It's from me, just for you..’</i>, recognising the relationship between the artist and listener, between influencer and influenced; ‘<i>..you wouldn’t be you without me / but I wouldn't be me without you.’ </i>The re-connection is, I'm happy to report, instant.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvT2iH54VosNyCYXaOFWdyY032gWHlDbUek6cpsRbKeKayiyxH5doq-l1hurrOXqSKvJn3RCnTxRjA0r7NxVMFURF5ItDbq6v0WsMS5OzddKTh_ZriDviwN3FBDbdUkl8AipJbOcFSV3v0C29k_r-xIijSkTeqzA3raO01fSB-HsbQYMRUi2sPvM-MSNF/s960/Session%20Photo%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="409" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvT2iH54VosNyCYXaOFWdyY032gWHlDbUek6cpsRbKeKayiyxH5doq-l1hurrOXqSKvJn3RCnTxRjA0r7NxVMFURF5ItDbq6v0WsMS5OzddKTh_ZriDviwN3FBDbdUkl8AipJbOcFSV3v0C29k_r-xIijSkTeqzA3raO01fSB-HsbQYMRUi2sPvM-MSNF/w306-h409/Session%20Photo%202.jpeg" width="306" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>'Sparrows' </i></b>unwinds delicate memories - <i>‘Home holds your scent, and whispers your name / He scratched it there on the back window-frame’. </i>Underpinned by brushed snare and a wash of keys, it has one of the band’s brilliant trademark codas, a songwriting skill so often lacking these days but well understood by these gents. <br /><br />No-one’s Walking John Wayne here, but there’s no less drama. <i><b>'Night Wedding'</b></i> opens like one of Carver's short stories. There’s no disguising the storytelling craft in <i>‘Well she walked down the aisle with a Scotch in her hand / She was only really there for the wedding band’.</i> The beautiful strings in the middle-eight could have soundtracked <b>Brief Encounter.</b> I don’t have a favourite, but I keep coming back to see how the girl got on.<br /><br /><i><b>'Shorebound'</b></i>, a title track of sorts, continues Jones’ penchant for the spoken word in song, in this instance joining with both <b>Marcus</b> and <b>Lucinda Drayton</b> (whose voice in her spoken word verse sounds uncannily like Sarah Cracknell) to extol the virtues of their coastal retreats, retreats where most of the album was conceived and which birthed its title. The song is an anchor around which all the others float. Try getting the ear-worm of a chorus out of your head - you’ve been warned.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-VExpt6XeMkVVwWB0rqq69cm9TeM7bDZNVYl_2mf9cdj3gcqV5ykTul_l-HUI5l4Sn4ggv8dg-zdh2WL9A7Zx80bSflbsZEzc4G5iXgN_RUEtBVtHAc9NnFYeVSvSGcXyuXIijwXh4QoH2qepCKQg1kJqXHs1tVku9Y_N_qobSY95OKBRHC0GwXYojF_q/s3648/Luce%20B%20and%20W.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-VExpt6XeMkVVwWB0rqq69cm9TeM7bDZNVYl_2mf9cdj3gcqV5ykTul_l-HUI5l4Sn4ggv8dg-zdh2WL9A7Zx80bSflbsZEzc4G5iXgN_RUEtBVtHAc9NnFYeVSvSGcXyuXIijwXh4QoH2qepCKQg1kJqXHs1tVku9Y_N_qobSY95OKBRHC0GwXYojF_q/w302-h403/Luce%20B%20and%20W.JPG" width="302" /></a></div><br />If I were to choose a song for the first 7” - ah, those were the days! - it would be <i><b>'Chapel Flower Morning'.</b></i> It’s the most immediate track on the album and reminiscent of '<b>Limbo'</b> and '<b>Glow'</b>-era <b>Miracle Mile,</b> with a steadily rising wall of melody that breaks on your shore like a benediction. You’ll have to buy the CD if you want it though; it’s not on the vinyl. Buy both, why don’t you?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKvcqNfLE2PBapOcLJuTtzWsyuSOj3BheLRo9MzvPgWbBRiqo1LTq_DwjYDT7klp6_mcDwWlpyrOjZgQJaOM0KEx1qTiMjfiMVC4zNfoYduJS5VJF9qTLnKLsk8ZpFWrjNkuC9fqUdqXRLzPqmPQMfq6XdVBLw4XdbdlP_EWL41xqLD77SVeDOu94kkAQ/s4032/Marcus%20Norbury%20Brook%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKvcqNfLE2PBapOcLJuTtzWsyuSOj3BheLRo9MzvPgWbBRiqo1LTq_DwjYDT7klp6_mcDwWlpyrOjZgQJaOM0KEx1qTiMjfiMVC4zNfoYduJS5VJF9qTLnKLsk8ZpFWrjNkuC9fqUdqXRLzPqmPQMfq6XdVBLw4XdbdlP_EWL41xqLD77SVeDOu94kkAQ/w306-h408/Marcus%20Norbury%20Brook%201.jpg" width="306" /></a></div><br /><div>Nowhere is the sense of calm and clarity of thought they’ve discovered better summarised than in the album’s two short instrumental pieces. The first, <i><b>'Postcard from Happisburgh',</b></i> is a wonderful guitar piece from <b>Cliffe</b> that leaves you envious for his having found a place that makes him so happy. <i><b>'Postcard from Walberswick'</b></i>, the final piece on the album, is Jones’ gift, a musical wish-you-were-here from a man with a heart too big for his body. No, I’m not crying, you are. <br /><br />Over eight studio albums and a compilation, <b>Miracle Mile</b> have built a beautifully crafted catalogue of articulate, intelligent music. Beautifully rendered, resolutely anti-zeitgeist, often melancholy, always hopeful. They might not be in everyone’s sights, but when you travel under the radar, you can hit the target without being found out. If there’s a sadness in not having been more widely recognised, perhaps we should just be grateful <b>Miracle Mile</b> are here at all.<b> 'East of Ely' </b>is bullseye number nine. Hit the coast roads and rejoice; our happy/sad place is found again.<div><br /></div><div><b>Paul Woodgate</b> <i>27/1/2024</i></div></div></div></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order?fbclid=IwAR2mWEw5Fbsoa9-S3_mUKGgO3xZ7AsP-5vAF1AuPF82lc4hGgDOjvbvmXmM">Pre-order 'East of Ely' here</a><br /></i></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-26045898474306492582024-01-27T13:29:00.025+00:002024-01-27T15:44:35.813+00:00'East of Ely': 7: A Good Egg<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwK8otRq4Dsx291-L8l9UXnocjdz3DF_yBcgsxSOSpBc_hyDvZlPYCcTSpP3ImIt7XMDo7rnJ46bivdWm2n9vDNYZ14XDMzw5xr101MQCvW7csdaSkHmqHXqJxSUxyle5nefvFX8eZgtGllOlrtXouux-oNys-HrXhKLRKE_ex_2wiE-3H3jttapD2HwF6/s1400/East%20of%20Ely%20Cover.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwK8otRq4Dsx291-L8l9UXnocjdz3DF_yBcgsxSOSpBc_hyDvZlPYCcTSpP3ImIt7XMDo7rnJ46bivdWm2n9vDNYZ14XDMzw5xr101MQCvW7csdaSkHmqHXqJxSUxyle5nefvFX8eZgtGllOlrtXouux-oNys-HrXhKLRKE_ex_2wiE-3H3jttapD2HwF6/s320/East%20of%20Ely%20Cover.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>One of the pleasures of writing, recording and releasing music, is in meeting the folk with whom your music resonates. It's quite a thing to have a stranger let you in. In my songs I try to demystify the mundanities and clarify the confusions by using<i> facts of life.</i> It is encouraging then to hear when '<i>specific' </i>translates as '<i>universal'.</i> It helps if you steep your writing in truth: it keeps things authentic and convincing. If folk whiff falsity or contrivance you'll soon lose them. So, when a stranger calls to tell you that they recognise their own world in yours, the sense of <i>'connection' </i>can be overwhelmingly gratifying: particularly when your moment of clarity has been born from confusion. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZVJj_dFKobiL-C8jGdgCluwbBfvEbx0aZCb-uxn98RpcxjXOVtsHj3_Ns8qHpKWAMpHIKM_HUfWRVKlfZs1Xnnt9VA4l1QQpVrOzNgc53GcWZI6FhBh6_dWPiZkX_55KH6UaqQSDVGidOUAshJbYLirMpRaMVo8h6v9BUbPUFrDadSHr80jE4SydAd3E/s2016/IMG_3665.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZVJj_dFKobiL-C8jGdgCluwbBfvEbx0aZCb-uxn98RpcxjXOVtsHj3_Ns8qHpKWAMpHIKM_HUfWRVKlfZs1Xnnt9VA4l1QQpVrOzNgc53GcWZI6FhBh6_dWPiZkX_55KH6UaqQSDVGidOUAshJbYLirMpRaMVo8h6v9BUbPUFrDadSHr80jE4SydAd3E/w587-h330/IMG_3665.JPG" width="587" /></a></div><p>A few years ago Di and I were at a <b>Case Harding </b>gig in Soho.<b> The Borderline</b> has long gone, but was once a regular haunt: an atmospheric basement venue that offered cheap beer, decent Mexican food, a great rig and seemed to lean towards the artists that I admired. It's where <b>Mark Eitzel'</b>s brilliant live album<b> 'Songs of Love'</b> was recorded. I saw <b>Ron Sexsmith </b>there on his first UK tour: a young <b>Sheryl Crowe </b>too, when she was raw and hungry. I digress. This particular night I was aware of a young chap side-eying Di and I as we watched the zesty <b>Pete Gow</b> and <b>Jim Maving</b> strut their stuff as <b>Case Harding</b>. The next morning I received a FB message asking me if I was at the gig and was I the singer with <b>Miracle Mile</b>? Those recognitions don't happen very often so I was intrigued. The message came from Paul 'Egg' Woodgate. It seemed that Paul had recognised me from the cover of <b>'Slow Fade' </b>and was an admirer of <b>Miracle Mile</b>. My ego was stroked and we chatted. We were clearly kindreds and eventually met up for a messy pub crawl in Islington, followed by a gig at The Union Chapel; <b>The Unthanks</b> I think. Egg has since become a good mate. He is a sweet man: self-deprecating, witty, fiercely intelligent and wonderfully articulate. It also turned out that, amongst his many strings, Paul was a music writer. A great one at that. He has reviewed my solo albums a time or two for <b>AmericanaUk.</b> The reviews were always positive but, more importantly, perceptive: <i>on the nose</i> in terms of understanding and deciphering the thing that I do with <b>Marcus Cliffe.</b> He is therefore one of the first people that I send new recordings to: a bellwether: a touchstone. I trust his judgement and know that I'll get honest feedback. This rambling preamble is by way of introducing a piece that Paul has written for the album; essentially the first review for <b>'East of Ely'.</b> </p><p><b>It'll be my next post. </b></p><p>Thanks to Paul for his kindly words: both elevating and humbling: he really is a good egg!</p><div>I hope that his insight whets your appetite and perhaps might move you to pre-order the album. <br /><p><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order?fbclid=IwAR3_Qduvk3dl03beR-gluw_hvTYsNobfhrmDZvYPlzvcttVFiyBo3R_S5vY">Pre-Order 'East of Ely' here.</a></p></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-85805013454401975102023-12-01T13:06:00.008+00:002023-12-01T13:37:03.534+00:00East of Ely: 6: Light Enough<div>December 1st, 2023. A year ago today was the final full day of a three week stay in Walberswick. </div><div>It was the morning that I took the photograph that is featured on the cover of the forthcoming Miracle Mile album ‘East of Ely’. It’s reassuring to know that, year by year, the place holds the same attraction. In such transient times it’s good to have access to such a sturdy touchstone.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNWrBABO9ifgwrI6vO6zrAFATMAASd9X4799xoyb8Pxsl3RR7zM_gVNZZJi94JcKtSt6x-2f-4gfGVP1GoYkMzFXrqTtMNbEAiVuoq11sirZzRMKr32z_FQvzJYYqnyZpyj_KQdM3ENI0MqPvMV96TfruZY-okgSkJngQUr8TLC-XReHv5WznwEDZIQVB4/s960/EoE%20Photo%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNWrBABO9ifgwrI6vO6zrAFATMAASd9X4799xoyb8Pxsl3RR7zM_gVNZZJi94JcKtSt6x-2f-4gfGVP1GoYkMzFXrqTtMNbEAiVuoq11sirZzRMKr32z_FQvzJYYqnyZpyj_KQdM3ENI0MqPvMV96TfruZY-okgSkJngQUr8TLC-XReHv5WznwEDZIQVB4/w422-h317/EoE%20Photo%20.jpg" width="422" /></a></div><br /><div>Early morning walk. My last full day. I have the beach to myself. The paths here peter out; releasing you towards adventure and receiving you upon return. I’m walking without intent: shuffling and stumbling really. Tom Waits is in my ear: “The obsession’s in the chasing and not the apprehending…” he wheezes. The wonder of this place? It tenders an unfathomable bliss. Beyond the beauty, its boundless skies offer a sense of arrival and departure: unbridled. The birds know that: vast squadrons of humming intent, gathering chaotically on the marshlands, waiting for a whisper of collective instinct to launch them towards something better. I walk past an anti Sizewell C sign. ‘It’s Not Too Late!’ Now there’s a timely reminder for a recent retiree. ‘Rootless’ and ‘route-less’ seems to sum up my journey thus far. Tomorrow morning I’ll pack and return to the fray. Refreshed and ready for… my return next year. Always the same fortnight. Always my birthday. Always Thanksgiving. This place. Now a part of my body clock; my migration. I’ve been revisiting for ten years and it has gently hooked itself onto my heart. What does that mean? I guess it means that there’s always next year and that it’s not too late. That’s as vague and invigorating as it sounds. It’s a half light of hope. And that is light enough.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order" style="background-color: #333333; color: #ff8900; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-decoration-line: none;">Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.</a></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-44730490631408239952023-11-22T13:48:00.022+00:002023-11-22T14:16:12.342+00:00East of Ely: 5: Songs and Serendipity<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhSwwMDNeLsp9OSzrGTfT1dwlb8UU6qnUm8SD7pCUJ_hIIjsA7G9QmHkJakJt0PmcvO5obGC-ZkGxX9R73ji5Zb6mLlohi8CtUfDDwFUmmmzm6aYfgqa-eHhJdggyBYlKqfM0Wf6hXpVwEQ4Vuq5tms1ceevP94Vz6T9o0PUu6PBHyrXu5xKAFHbFOFXC/s2016/IMG_4902.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhSwwMDNeLsp9OSzrGTfT1dwlb8UU6qnUm8SD7pCUJ_hIIjsA7G9QmHkJakJt0PmcvO5obGC-ZkGxX9R73ji5Zb6mLlohi8CtUfDDwFUmmmzm6aYfgqa-eHhJdggyBYlKqfM0Wf6hXpVwEQ4Vuq5tms1ceevP94Vz6T9o0PUu6PBHyrXu5xKAFHbFOFXC/w392-h294/IMG_4902.JPG" width="392" /></a></div><p>I thought I'd tell you a little about the genesis of the songs on the album.<br />That title? <b>'East of Ely' </b>refers to the sense of a border. As I drive east towards Walberswick (M25/A12) I'm always aware of a fault-line, one that separates where I'm coming from, and where I'm going to. This boundary has become more pronounced since Marcus invested in his bolthole in North Norfolk. Our boltholes share the same border. </p><p>The <i>sense </i>of the album was essentially formulated in a fisherman's shack on the Suffolk coast. There is no concept. The songs aren't about driftwood and wild swimming. They do involve specific influence. But the ideas were gathered and considered here: east of Ely, in solitude: whilst in retreat. That offered me a clarity of thought. It's why I come here every year: to put my house in order. My room remains dishevelled. My cup runneth over and always needs refilling. Fortunately there's usually another bottle. If not, there are two pubs within staggering distance. <b>The Bell </b>is for the seafarers. <b>The Anchor</b> is for the farmers. Both parties used to meet Friday nights for a scrap on the adjoining village green. I try to keep both councils and emulate Jack London's 'Sailor on Horseback'. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUwMl_fcSH84NkbIDZ8Ecwr3ibXCLyrGURpqvYpqb09Y4ARiIRGXwDuwvlCSqL3hyaffQPPjLdm7pGGYqPw-GHQ7gqnFT7b11FHARqQQjxyopXbQJnIE-S87yILZAO91GYwkch2hFGBd-hL7E1f40cXfZJnUaic-0VDlcs1vfkKWIRf0PdmUByovDE6SL/s2016/IMG_3671.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUwMl_fcSH84NkbIDZ8Ecwr3ibXCLyrGURpqvYpqb09Y4ARiIRGXwDuwvlCSqL3hyaffQPPjLdm7pGGYqPw-GHQ7gqnFT7b11FHARqQQjxyopXbQJnIE-S87yILZAO91GYwkch2hFGBd-hL7E1f40cXfZJnUaic-0VDlcs1vfkKWIRf0PdmUByovDE6SL/w417-h235/IMG_3671.JPG" width="417" /></a></div><p>Marcus later invited me up to his abode in Happisburgh. Familiar coast. Different outlook. Same sightline: at the risk of ridicule let's call it <i>'bucolic bliss'. </i>I bought a guitar and songs. A mic was set up with The Scientist's directive:<i> 'Let's see what happens'. </i>The dogs <b>Willow</b> and <b>Charlie</b> took their places on the sofa, eyed us nervously and... we were off. The journey had no map, but we had a compass: a moral compass I guess. Our working relationship is defined by trust. And a little love. We both respect each other's skills and listen hard when the other speaks. We've never had a fall out: apparently that's not healthy for the creative process but it sure gets the bottle finished!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkpkg6z33jiZjLiW9ExoHNon3MPE_erBqux_xoOSroiLGtTI4zJ83cforTgLcUQRLgxk-41ga1O001bh0cQtDBU6AHOZCDdg94ylNha7wX44sqmo57gIUcchZdhyIbE1UDTvPpi8LnGR2-0nlwOZVQWRKuG-iJBouFueuD5UQv8AjBC7rI56gioyzXjMO/s3088/IMG_2688.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkpkg6z33jiZjLiW9ExoHNon3MPE_erBqux_xoOSroiLGtTI4zJ83cforTgLcUQRLgxk-41ga1O001bh0cQtDBU6AHOZCDdg94ylNha7wX44sqmo57gIUcchZdhyIbE1UDTvPpi8LnGR2-0nlwOZVQWRKuG-iJBouFueuD5UQv8AjBC7rI56gioyzXjMO/s320/IMG_2688.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Our songs will often originate with my busker's version. Ten thumbs and the truth. I'll offer them to Marcus who will point out shortcomings and add flesh to the ham-fisted bones. Sometimes he'll offer up a musical motif or instrumental piece. I'll later use it as the starting point for something. I love those moments: they are gifts. Marcus's musicality is different from mine. There's good reason that I refer to us as <i>'The Hunchback and The Scientist'! </i>The latter's finessed sketches are often in keys foreign to my fumbling fingers and beyond my vocal range. I'm forced into foreign territory: a peculiar pitch leads pulse and melody up unfamiliar paths. Lyrically the songs reflect what's orbiting my world. My universe has shrunk somewhat since retirement. Lockdown made us look inwards didn't it? What I thought would be a productive time creatively was a barren wasteland. I was rendered mush-brained: there's only so much inspiration to be found in porridge and duvets. But gradually, post COVID (<i>are we there yet?</i>) the effects became manifest and manifested themselves as songs. I never think I have an album's worth. But once Marcus hits <i>'Record' </i>on a new project the muse comes stumbling out of the cave: bleary eyed but willing. </p><p>Whilst he's in the frame, I want to mention Mr Cliffe. It's nearly always my words. Usually too many words. As the singer it's my voice that you'll hear: my name might be mentioned first. Singers and lyric writers are orally inclined by nature. Gobs on a stick. Guilty. As ever I'm concerned with truth. It's a hoary subject: previously pummelled to buggery by better men and women than I. But it remains central to my mithering. Should it be feared, endured or celebrated? I want to lead a good life. I need to articulate that intent: and am then compelled to communicate my ideas to others. I'm desperate for that connection to be kindly and authentic. That starts at home: with Di and family. But it inevitably extends to Marcus. <b>Miracle Mile</b> are a duo. My verbiage therefore needs to stand for both of us. Not the personal details per se, more<i> a sense of things </i>as they are, were, or should be. The vagaries of my lyrical form becomes <i>our </i>form. I take that responsibility seriously. I don't speak for Marcus but I'm confident that he stands behind my words. As we effectively share the same bed, <i>trust </i>is vital. As you can see below, he's <i>the style,</i> I'm <i>the culture! </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kV7t3uTrWnzZnB0DrR7239AyAUHLtpkwC_r55mP_1Dwk-Lz0c9yfY6cgFpeW-tZvwP4KEsvv7OpthwrLb9x_W14dBtS0zo6QA52XnPw-ffnkVAlZ0tqyTU4mAn8_mpnlmKghCZxIcwnhQ26FTH5KGyoiDPd2Oj4nYacCCH0pCrf6bObfIPJRUKkxDkz6/s1080/2043f975-a06f-4a89-91ef-753852e294b2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kV7t3uTrWnzZnB0DrR7239AyAUHLtpkwC_r55mP_1Dwk-Lz0c9yfY6cgFpeW-tZvwP4KEsvv7OpthwrLb9x_W14dBtS0zo6QA52XnPw-ffnkVAlZ0tqyTU4mAn8_mpnlmKghCZxIcwnhQ26FTH5KGyoiDPd2Oj4nYacCCH0pCrf6bObfIPJRUKkxDkz6/w450-h253/2043f975-a06f-4a89-91ef-753852e294b2.jpg" width="450" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I'll list the song titles below. And in the order they'll be offered. Perhaps with a word or two about their origin. Nowt about the music. That'll come later. I might even be able to squeeze a word or two from Marcus about that. In conclusion, here's another bedshot of the fellow, in his <i>'happy place' </i>with the adored and adoring Charlie.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9SBpGeBLz3-oXkJ1ow1y_rcOZZYRpDGax5cSHviE3WzYs7htT1PbioYHYXc26dhByCW-k-uEhtaI-gf6act9HYhjMoDLWugWmHDtNLatDZ8BustjUNvGyOp8Dx16H0bfOcpb1kY9TbqhGKipYPshX4E-LdyRwx_CE77DlxgvZx5Amjm9SfWMv_WAgdQx/s4032/IMG_2972.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9SBpGeBLz3-oXkJ1ow1y_rcOZZYRpDGax5cSHviE3WzYs7htT1PbioYHYXc26dhByCW-k-uEhtaI-gf6act9HYhjMoDLWugWmHDtNLatDZ8BustjUNvGyOp8Dx16H0bfOcpb1kY9TbqhGKipYPshX4E-LdyRwx_CE77DlxgvZx5Amjm9SfWMv_WAgdQx/w288-h384/IMG_2972.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>East of Ely's songs:</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Appletree: </b>The recognition and acceptance of influence. A song of gratitude.</div><br /><b>Shivering Boy:</b> Insecurity and vulnerability. The boy as father of the man etc.<br /><br /><b>Sparrows:</b> Betty's journey with dementia. My memory needs to be hers. I have a terrible memory.<br /><br /><b>Night Wedding:</b> Good things come to those who wait. But at what price?<br /><br /><b>Postcard from Happisburgh:</b> Marcus personifies 'Happisburgh' in a musical vignette. The album's happiest moment. I can smell 'Charlie's Field'.<br /><br /><b>Ocean of Song:</b> Resentments are toxic but abiding. Songs are my way of archiving hurt. <br /><br /><b>Shorebound:</b> Me, Marcus and Lucinda try to bottle the benefits of the bolthole.<br /><br /><b>Butterfly Brooch:</b> A lovesong for a butterfly.<br /><br /><b>Silent Sigh: </b>A confused moment in a Tesco aisle. The same aisle where I detached my retina.<br /><br /><b>Chapel Flower Morning: </b>A song about transience, celebration, growth and inevitable withering.<br /><br /><b>Come Morning:</b> A hymn to her. A gathering of gifts and a thanksgiving of sorts. <br /><br /><b>Postcard from Walberswick:</b> A note to someone who's forgotten how to read.<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order">Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.</a></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-65118212375131813312023-11-21T14:38:00.026+00:002023-11-22T14:13:41.072+00:00East of Ely: 4: Cover Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoT66lEoS2j2HMfsSUh9jgZbE8ACEaE1L5GCtVlMqyzH5iiCAZAjVnwBfbS3kotulKYiKsZYCXKIiNQSWzXJ6yjQRNANkvT3XSXDCZbExfoae43Gyr5z1BMkIvlDTsMWmnFjrSY0fFBadyiPiCemS8PWtyDPHp1F2FNfcAyKG-K3M-ZdV2JrH9RIEWm34G/s1400/East%20of%20Ely%20Cover.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoT66lEoS2j2HMfsSUh9jgZbE8ACEaE1L5GCtVlMqyzH5iiCAZAjVnwBfbS3kotulKYiKsZYCXKIiNQSWzXJ6yjQRNANkvT3XSXDCZbExfoae43Gyr5z1BMkIvlDTsMWmnFjrSY0fFBadyiPiCemS8PWtyDPHp1F2FNfcAyKG-K3M-ZdV2JrH9RIEWm34G/s320/East%20of%20Ely%20Cover.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><br /></div>An album's cover is important: effectively an acceptance of the project's billboard. It is fashioned as the timeless trousers you'll be sporting for years to come. It needs to reflect content; even if it is somehow <i>counter </i>to that content. Like a decent book jacket, it should encourage the idle viewer's eye to settle, linger and somehow consider<i> 'That's for me!' </i> When you're wearing someone else's trousers, you have to trust their sense of fashion. We've only ever used two designers for<b> Miracle Mile </b>and solo projects. The magnificently maverick <b>Nick Reddyhoff </b>created early album designs: beautifully rendered, with a popularist's playful gaze. <b>Barry Cross</b> has been our man since 2012's<i><b> 'In Cassidy's Care'</b></i>. He's also done the artwork for all of my solo albums. Likely because of his corporate background, Barry's work is clear eyed, functional yet always supremely artful. Barry is perfectly fitted selvedge denim. Nick wears a kilt!<div><div><br /></div><div>For <i><b>'East of Ely' </b></i>both Marcus and I wanted the presentation to suggest the ambience of the coastal environment that inspired much of the album's writing and recording. There's something peculiar about east-coast light: a luminous patina settles on this strip of Suffolk which always reminds me of <b>Andrew Wyeth</b>'s use of urinary light. It induces an oneiric, dreamlike state. Bright bleary mornings leach into afternoon bourbon skies and weeping, piss-amber sunsets. Days are indelibly mapped by a transient glow so unworldly yet cinematic that you'd swear <b>John Ford </b>was directing the lighting from above. </div></div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAo8b1F9-2boxmScv9fTsDSlrEDFAptcQ7Hl-UkKdQhly2fMs_uelrbviK4RMHc2UtDAs1Bjp6BcGI5fstpiKqZpPOwERw6T6NRi8cXHi8d_Li5bxjo7NvvvOlYjW4ODwXmzBYeJ6NUH5bSb22sLLwsOXjdEkc3WPf-kC6NnOIts_i2zGpeiNczCbeVHYP/s960/IMG_4883.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAo8b1F9-2boxmScv9fTsDSlrEDFAptcQ7Hl-UkKdQhly2fMs_uelrbviK4RMHc2UtDAs1Bjp6BcGI5fstpiKqZpPOwERw6T6NRi8cXHi8d_Li5bxjo7NvvvOlYjW4ODwXmzBYeJ6NUH5bSb22sLLwsOXjdEkc3WPf-kC6NnOIts_i2zGpeiNczCbeVHYP/w419-h314/IMG_4883.JPG" width="419" /></a></div><br /><div>Marcus and I sent Bazza photos: coastal candids that might catch his interest. As ever, he responded with too many excellent choices. For us both there was a clear winner. </div><div>One early morning in Walberswick I had walked the eighty odd steps from shack to shore. With my back to the Blythe (the river separates The Wick from Southwold) I looked south towards Dunwich. The light caught timbers in shadow, skeletal remains of the old south pier, revealed by a retreating sea and a sudden calm in the waves which produced an eerie, lagoon-like balm. I took this picture.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCWuiMCGPDdga7wVj0jXe2RmRVRCagmqYjTM0QLEt9T0Fq7DxJbDiBE0LmR-quN_eGW1u88caL4RdTJ5tQUDOEe-Z0v28bT9fh2abgLeF1Lsy999hSAQH0aFmDbaAPE5lW25dYJMeB2C2nsY7JcTSz1whk8v0ryWFoMVvjrUAo95qE5-mlCrmCam_ZQud6/s4032/IMG_4259.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCWuiMCGPDdga7wVj0jXe2RmRVRCagmqYjTM0QLEt9T0Fq7DxJbDiBE0LmR-quN_eGW1u88caL4RdTJ5tQUDOEe-Z0v28bT9fh2abgLeF1Lsy999hSAQH0aFmDbaAPE5lW25dYJMeB2C2nsY7JcTSz1whk8v0ryWFoMVvjrUAo95qE5-mlCrmCam_ZQud6/w437-h328/IMG_4259.jpg" width="437" /></a></div><br /><div>You can see from Barry's design at the top of the page that he put the vista on its side and reflected it. In doing so he created a strikingly abstract image. A guitar headstock? An audio waveform? A totem pole? Simplistic but brilliant. I love the mirror effect because it signifies the two boltholes that Marcus and I cherish: Suffolk coast reflecting Norfolk's. And vice-versa. Here's a strikingly similar shot of Marcus's, taken north of here, in Happisburgh. Different light, but the same line of sight.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFWg2jlQzHRpTCukCFF5CxqQq4GZDY6Yb3D0rCZLYw5MjX5jtS6wW7h3CEX_ce3Od7_q2PxqQNyMMgZ7rwB3dw_nUY2B4ytM2g2J_7tyqqB0KrXs8jAsENR3Fc41Ly3nhSKl8_ZzWQNrbndbTQk9uF3jyQ0y9iaxcg94y7nhXv7Md9rNpy4fQQPygX17C/s2000/81055ee2-5a88-404c-a50f-eed91e233b50.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="2000" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFWg2jlQzHRpTCukCFF5CxqQq4GZDY6Yb3D0rCZLYw5MjX5jtS6wW7h3CEX_ce3Od7_q2PxqQNyMMgZ7rwB3dw_nUY2B4ytM2g2J_7tyqqB0KrXs8jAsENR3Fc41Ly3nhSKl8_ZzWQNrbndbTQk9uF3jyQ0y9iaxcg94y7nhXv7Md9rNpy4fQQPygX17C/w535-h241/81055ee2-5a88-404c-a50f-eed91e233b50.JPG" width="535" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order">Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><div><br /><div> <br /><br /><br /></div></div></div></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-19465868728659705492023-11-18T13:03:00.004+00:002023-11-18T13:28:38.522+00:00East of Ely: 3: Shorebound<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPrCY44V_lS9ipnXuzcf2cpL-WHu9G-KtU64f9uoG3SZTV6E55l5D9woHrSzAdnaRq4tnpEniTC-Z8HSOCzTa9ogvsmd169vFuGSUmoeNj8zRBjUj2WBmBNGsPp0Z6N8eONFCHpFBM8ncraFFpIox8cKLKBZbwVQQUYtzbhQPfJhFG9U54F-DRQCKlmS0/s2000/01a0a956-2689-457f-a245-a3fda303e602.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPrCY44V_lS9ipnXuzcf2cpL-WHu9G-KtU64f9uoG3SZTV6E55l5D9woHrSzAdnaRq4tnpEniTC-Z8HSOCzTa9ogvsmd169vFuGSUmoeNj8zRBjUj2WBmBNGsPp0Z6N8eONFCHpFBM8ncraFFpIox8cKLKBZbwVQQUYtzbhQPfJhFG9U54F-DRQCKlmS0/s320/01a0a956-2689-457f-a245-a3fda303e602.JPG" width="144" /></a></div><b><div><b><br /></b></div>‘East of Ely’ </b>is Miracle Mile’s first album since 2012. <span style="text-align: center;">It was largely written in an old fisherman's netting shed on the Suffolk coast and later recorded between London and Norfolk. </span><span style="text-align: center;">Marcus and I had both found bucolic bliss in coastal retreat. That detachment informed the writing process and limited the palette to primary colours. The bare bones were gathered in Walberswick. Once I've given the songs form I usually present them to Marcus in his Norbury Brook studios in London. We had a slightly different approach this time. In the spring of 2022 Marcus invited me over to his bolthole - his </span><i style="text-align: center;">'happy place' - </i><span style="text-align: center;">on the North Eastern coast of Norfolk, in the aptly named hamlet of Happisburgh. </span><i style="text-align: center;">'Bring your guitar and songs.' </i><span style="text-align: center;">was his only instruction. He'd bought his bass, dampened the strings with loo paper, set up a mic in front of the obligatory creaky chair and... we were off. </span></div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiu4JSTW5NZVfSX-hVg1_n6X71nnwBPXVloyS6VhReeQjU1OC3xgjJ2kOxktr2H1YKnRntvSi8socgjJwK3DWtxH3NEZRVeA-5I3TuaQkP9xx9b96fczZZadQhnMjh_Ex0h7Upt38yJNLBExDEvSq3fccPcDFKkdTlNWrdL4h9qT9pA15ArlqtLsW0UZe/s4032/IMG_3858.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiu4JSTW5NZVfSX-hVg1_n6X71nnwBPXVloyS6VhReeQjU1OC3xgjJ2kOxktr2H1YKnRntvSi8socgjJwK3DWtxH3NEZRVeA-5I3TuaQkP9xx9b96fczZZadQhnMjh_Ex0h7Upt38yJNLBExDEvSq3fccPcDFKkdTlNWrdL4h9qT9pA15ArlqtLsW0UZe/w357-h268/IMG_3858.jpg" width="357" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVFU8xmA8wXVB9e6CKxCSLXn6hO9nQwKxpwdLHzOz1HeQHi-6rq4sX2YBbG9pPYAE7HKv7vFdydEp4frWJHExDc3OBPWjDPstCj3lqYxFRUWeGYjbeHNiuZqVQk1aKGNRCqiaE3fj8yqFvUk4Cv5ulWDeHGRQgeRjl-u3Ux94BNgbL_GUhbXZNKs_112M/s1600/83a55a96-9c81-4a0a-a387-d684b88206f0.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="467" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVFU8xmA8wXVB9e6CKxCSLXn6hO9nQwKxpwdLHzOz1HeQHi-6rq4sX2YBbG9pPYAE7HKv7vFdydEp4frWJHExDc3OBPWjDPstCj3lqYxFRUWeGYjbeHNiuZqVQk1aKGNRCqiaE3fj8yqFvUk4Cv5ulWDeHGRQgeRjl-u3Ux94BNgbL_GUhbXZNKs_112M/w263-h467/83a55a96-9c81-4a0a-a387-d684b88206f0.jpg" width="263" /></a><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div>These were happy days. We'd walk the dogs Willow and Charlie, swim the North Sea, and retire, teeth a chattering, to the village's only pub for warmth and sustenance. We fitted the recordings around these larks and before we knew it had the sense of an album. We later took the recorded sketches back to the more palatial Norbury Brook studios in London. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75j9wvX3vXPBErdvPLMnodZH2fLfI6aBg4m-ip48FN2yH3YMuTL7Lg2i89bRNBU-DnMepGEyqBv-dSalO7d-J19yUkhyzeyy3mF2NuqD6a8b4JS9hAO4cIqSNgPszvdbMl7SQALFRhLh1pAgThvQd8F6v77VPbM1EO5tXlAyQwIbsAReYNavjwxJH1gCT/s2000/2186a540-74cf-4244-ac62-94866a3d51fe.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="2000" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75j9wvX3vXPBErdvPLMnodZH2fLfI6aBg4m-ip48FN2yH3YMuTL7Lg2i89bRNBU-DnMepGEyqBv-dSalO7d-J19yUkhyzeyy3mF2NuqD6a8b4JS9hAO4cIqSNgPszvdbMl7SQALFRhLh1pAgThvQd8F6v77VPbM1EO5tXlAyQwIbsAReYNavjwxJH1gCT/w461-h259/2186a540-74cf-4244-ac62-94866a3d51fe.JPG" width="461" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>We decided to limit the musical palate to primary colours and resolved to doing most everything ourselves. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybnEcMYeJ-vg5s2vZRZWfQAg0abfKFccB87Gjmdhr96jzpyBN8kxdAqwgLib0s2AvM6kh3wUfsosv-uxXs_Us51u6RVULgewMHqv_zOfqn0Wg_Z7s5IOZvphp427yeeJZ1j7VShp6Q7g4IkDv0WymDhy_tjkwrddtg6bg24iD-dL0uOQOeOpYFrFsoW5O/s960/IMG_4762.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybnEcMYeJ-vg5s2vZRZWfQAg0abfKFccB87Gjmdhr96jzpyBN8kxdAqwgLib0s2AvM6kh3wUfsosv-uxXs_Us51u6RVULgewMHqv_zOfqn0Wg_Z7s5IOZvphp427yeeJZ1j7VShp6Q7g4IkDv0WymDhy_tjkwrddtg6bg24iD-dL0uOQOeOpYFrFsoW5O/w234-h416/IMG_4762.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2C6BoA25_dzBcPT2d15uravur7ovZ83brK1LDRrjQ3Ul9yWs9LL0Qxv2IYYxsXWgz8vMMGTfzoRCIjlngP2vpy_AffWKeozENU2aGy85DSNgxbYhPZJJUXArTUu1383YmOoyfyq9jQRNFFY0Wk4RtbAlnqwDxJT_fIvkGWqYlB0KQ5Iz0pLzLDGRLwtd/s960/Session%20Photo%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2C6BoA25_dzBcPT2d15uravur7ovZ83brK1LDRrjQ3Ul9yWs9LL0Qxv2IYYxsXWgz8vMMGTfzoRCIjlngP2vpy_AffWKeozENU2aGy85DSNgxbYhPZJJUXArTUu1383YmOoyfyq9jQRNFFY0Wk4RtbAlnqwDxJT_fIvkGWqYlB0KQ5Iz0pLzLDGRLwtd/w309-h412/Session%20Photo%202.jpeg" width="309" /></a></div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The only folk we invited into the cave were drummer Mike Pickering</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2eWoaHzqoO2syoyfYc_5z9G92FeV9dA4idsVSpAIMD-15vUgnxbCJw9lx4NNNrvHc3X0gqWC-FyF8efsb1vREEdkPtSlaOmzNgJWAy1MQ6Dj2aBL5BeP7d3qBF7KBp16L8xlmZ3F-iMRUBXBwnfd9iTJYunWCuNpr5fXrO8JdPr9CjJG_idiAZ4uCdOTG/s4032/Mike%20P.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2eWoaHzqoO2syoyfYc_5z9G92FeV9dA4idsVSpAIMD-15vUgnxbCJw9lx4NNNrvHc3X0gqWC-FyF8efsb1vREEdkPtSlaOmzNgJWAy1MQ6Dj2aBL5BeP7d3qBF7KBp16L8xlmZ3F-iMRUBXBwnfd9iTJYunWCuNpr5fXrO8JdPr9CjJG_idiAZ4uCdOTG/s320/Mike%20P.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Pedal Steel maestro Melvin Duffy </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYE-UXkQnkJPds8rr8XRLYu4V68gLMZV-tpcHDR8NZFN16uJfYwPhmUomZfJ2Vv48cmL52nK8ow5RmrFUkV322EP3RRqnQW5jOb226CnO2j8YBX67XbBCo4VxV2Mcki9kptGaJR2sGsWkLCcmX4Dpemjp3JKl7Tjc0gbpOwIMvq81Qwwldx6EVx81Mx4N/s2000/Melvin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="2000" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYE-UXkQnkJPds8rr8XRLYu4V68gLMZV-tpcHDR8NZFN16uJfYwPhmUomZfJ2Vv48cmL52nK8ow5RmrFUkV322EP3RRqnQW5jOb226CnO2j8YBX67XbBCo4VxV2Mcki9kptGaJR2sGsWkLCcmX4Dpemjp3JKl7Tjc0gbpOwIMvq81Qwwldx6EVx81Mx4N/w436-h245/Melvin.jpg" width="436" /></a></div><br /><div>and vocalist Lucinda Drayton.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7MWiFn0UA9RWWBPTokeox-Os_BhVhiizPl03PA1JeUhI0B3vzKQhop2p_vXdoxAZzm14G_1c2WY0gJ-zWRsIBHXh5RumXrABr6ezmLoSmR0Z9ZmDE17F5GYrq-8q4nj17qmdmvUa_aG40txDX6gzh9vzS7wihQTMednEmtnaOjDk6PuA4gbjIlTuzLbKj/s3648/Luce%20B%20and%20W.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7MWiFn0UA9RWWBPTokeox-Os_BhVhiizPl03PA1JeUhI0B3vzKQhop2p_vXdoxAZzm14G_1c2WY0gJ-zWRsIBHXh5RumXrABr6ezmLoSmR0Z9ZmDE17F5GYrq-8q4nj17qmdmvUa_aG40txDX6gzh9vzS7wihQTMednEmtnaOjDk6PuA4gbjIlTuzLbKj/w298-h397/Luce%20B%20and%20W.JPG" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>We added to the album over the course of the year and then Marcus beavered away on arrangements and production, whilst I worked on my tennis game.</div><div>Marcus and I are both pretty proud of this one. It wasn't pre-planned. It just kind of... evolved. There is no concept: other than a recognition of the benefits of <i>retreat.</i> I think that we'd both been a bit frazzled by the enforced withdrawal imposed upon us by lockdown. We regathered ourselves; learned to let the outside in. And then we took the coast roads. East of Ely. Shore bound. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order">'East of Ely' is available to pre-order here</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><br /></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-21582789991654048452023-11-17T15:34:00.003+00:002023-11-18T13:19:18.579+00:00East of Ely: 2: Boltholes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBW-aZAbE7pdn_WOEaFa9AVSRoHilOtPHWf9r31multz84mlteZj67irLgzfrYzpttHAWbBSBnmwTxGK-VVFjqEnK2YISEV2WZuw7fzPS8QZfcS6yShmu4WdgbPq9MHjzw_BJAkM3dTibJJjvMEg-G2KkuwBLiVbA_egqHKrteO24scGNGyhSvkPXteyVS/s2016/IMG_3664.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1120" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBW-aZAbE7pdn_WOEaFa9AVSRoHilOtPHWf9r31multz84mlteZj67irLgzfrYzpttHAWbBSBnmwTxGK-VVFjqEnK2YISEV2WZuw7fzPS8QZfcS6yShmu4WdgbPq9MHjzw_BJAkM3dTibJJjvMEg-G2KkuwBLiVbA_egqHKrteO24scGNGyhSvkPXteyVS/w263-h473/IMG_3664.JPG" width="263" /></a></div><div>Boltholes. Mine lies at the end of a road that leads only there: a fisherman’s netting shed on the Suffolk coast, couched between river and sea. There’s a wood burner, a kettle, a bed. It’s November. I’m obliged to do nothing. I wake to quiet cacophonies: the flutter of tacking sail, the mutter of migrating birds. I’m up early, onto coastal paths, mudflats, meadows and marshland. It’s easy to get lost. The moon usually leads me home.</div>I don’t crave isolation but have found myself sharper in seclusion. I get to sort loneliness from solitude and reacquaint myself with that revenant muse. It speaks of secret things. It helps shape the dust. Free of work I’m free to work. It’s easy labour: books my tools. Reading leads to wonder. Silence shapes the thought. Later, the rhythm of walking will reveal the song. And once I have songs I reach for Marcus. He recognises the benefit I’ve found in solitude. I don’t have to tell him: he’s a good listener. His dogs eventually dragged him east, to the Norfolk coast, and there he found his own safe harbour. <br /><b>Rilke </b>wrote <i>“I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other.” </i>Such was our silent pact. We regathered ourselves; learned to let the outside in. And then we took the coast roads. East of Ely. Shore bound. We shared secrets. Shaped dust. And in the silence we found sound.<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order">Pre-order 'East of Ely' here</a><br /><br /><br /></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-81739612942192562652023-11-14T11:16:00.065+00:002023-11-18T13:18:18.667+00:00East of Ely: 1: Why? Why Not?<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuclyeVY5knIoeBedkRMiyQUiOwVfk-5uQnsfESZAJj4FKwghz7IpxPmMrO1KG3rOPqHvNI2cuXCVOTN_kmpI3oe6_Mw_AkyXFputsbuGNe_VSK4-BF-RWqUdMCbnOak2xMPlZQ3Z05p8vcHSzA1Em81X5r0xe_5ViaX99SjWcj3ptnoM7nqMv-JDPVEo/s2048/15c0aac5-83ae-4d2a-9638-49e271471dff.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuclyeVY5knIoeBedkRMiyQUiOwVfk-5uQnsfESZAJj4FKwghz7IpxPmMrO1KG3rOPqHvNI2cuXCVOTN_kmpI3oe6_Mw_AkyXFputsbuGNe_VSK4-BF-RWqUdMCbnOak2xMPlZQ3Z05p8vcHSzA1Em81X5r0xe_5ViaX99SjWcj3ptnoM7nqMv-JDPVEo/s320/15c0aac5-83ae-4d2a-9638-49e271471dff.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><i>'Maybe the West's approach is right. After all, if you've got a massive fight in, say, a pub car park, the best way of solving it is clearly by standing back and randomly lobbing in fireworks. You can't get rid of an ideology by destroying its leaders. You'd think if there's anything Christian countries should know it’s that. Europe has rejected the death penalty on moral high grounds, and yet we relax this view when it comes to a group who want to be martyred. You can’t bomb ideas. If your kid shits on the carpet you can’t stop them by bombing the person who invented shit - though it would tidy up ITV's Saturday night schedule.'</i></div><div><b>Frankie Boyle </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Although he usually strikes me as smug and spiteful, this isn’t a bad effort by Frankie.</div><div>We are all desperately trying to nutshell fog aren't we? The world's in turmoil and struggling to understand how it got there. I tried by looking up the origins of <i>'hell in a hand cart'. </i>Apparently<i> </i>in the 19th century, the phrase was associated with the American gold rush of the 1840s, where men were lowered by hand in baskets down mining shafts to set explosives which could have deadly consequences. Avarice eh? The greed and need for material wealth or gain. Or land. Acquisition, regardless of the dangers of action, reaction or the horrors of their consequence. The Middle East is in calamitously unsolvable crisis. As resentment begets resentment, horror begets horror. Intransigent 'Leaders' are either stubbornly obdurate or ruthlessly rudderless: all seemingly virtueless. Forget foreign affairs; domestic politics have become less about the pursuit of noble ideals and more about the lobbing of fireworks at other folks' ideology; our worldview more informed by disbelief than belief. With the inevitability of an election looming I’m struggling with my choices. </div><div>Should I vote for a grey man or a buffoon? </div><div>I know that I will choose not to choose. </div><div>I'll choose to look to myself. </div><div><i>"To thine own self be true' </i>was my dad‘s mantra. </div><div>I concur, but decide that I need to be more active in the belief.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PVHiEHhYE5ib0WGi5IrP6A7XDnnIC6sCPYsNftWuhtwfQ6w6qEHtu-I_PwUvN3Z-JzaFEFYgSi3NlTfUEr-Ltsn6AXwcxfmvu_qGYCwqQKiVGL15iCNmwtrCeuMxGMbGlM5X3ZsNczsn4KNnU5n3sKVxEIDzMJlq4JRh9ilUMgg_G1I2P0wztlJCcmfZ/s2016/IMG_3665.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PVHiEHhYE5ib0WGi5IrP6A7XDnnIC6sCPYsNftWuhtwfQ6w6qEHtu-I_PwUvN3Z-JzaFEFYgSi3NlTfUEr-Ltsn6AXwcxfmvu_qGYCwqQKiVGL15iCNmwtrCeuMxGMbGlM5X3ZsNczsn4KNnU5n3sKVxEIDzMJlq4JRh9ilUMgg_G1I2P0wztlJCcmfZ/w415-h233/IMG_3665.JPG" width="415" /></a></div><br /><div>I’ve spent the last 35 years in the service of others. My music had become a sideshow, a sideline; something that I choose to commit to in my other, <i>better</i> life. A fool's folly then. I determine to look to myself and to take that part of myself more seriously. Is that self-indulgence or self-preservation? Surely the essence of creativity is self-indulgence? If I can't burn my own torch and make myself the drum banging hero of my own story then, what's the point in the reaching? Self-regard is unattractive in others I know but, what else can I do? If I want to invest in myself authentically I can only look inwards. With that avowed intent, perhaps my songs will better resonate with others: not just other kindred crusty geezers, but hopefully with anyone <i>unsure</i> of themselves. Sometimes loneliness is steeped in the belief that we are somehow <i>uniquely</i> isolated: that <i>the nature of things</i> does not apply to us. Or <i>only </i>to us. We are like pitiful polar bears, floating alone on melting lumps of ice, hoping that the thermodynamics of fusion won’t apply to us. Does that make us hopeful or hopeless? </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZRcoxgUPS5FuN225vz56ETsf4_CxL9DAcf3HHu3qZRuTXq7hT6_S0qin1N1z764VD8DyrgriE4xy3T1pTylqBMwFzPxJZlqgPCWWBbava-p90HvTYY0lTNUTa09e5ekHfX3V0uyz294S68iKl_wAK7QVMCMFahiiFUC9knbJioXqLKTbHJ0N0LVgDsS1/s4032/IMG_4259.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZRcoxgUPS5FuN225vz56ETsf4_CxL9DAcf3HHu3qZRuTXq7hT6_S0qin1N1z764VD8DyrgriE4xy3T1pTylqBMwFzPxJZlqgPCWWBbava-p90HvTYY0lTNUTa09e5ekHfX3V0uyz294S68iKl_wAK7QVMCMFahiiFUC9knbJioXqLKTbHJ0N0LVgDsS1/w425-h319/IMG_4259.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><br /><div>So here I am, again, lighting fires on the Suffolk coast: my annual, self-imposed retreat. But to what end? <i>Solitude</i> has its benefits. You arrive and... unpack. Unburdening is healthy, but <i>isolation </i>can lead to a re-burdening. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result. You don’t have to be Einstein to see the truth in that. And only a fool would deny doing it. </div><div>And that’s me: I’ve just thrown another soggy log on the fire, hoping that this one will burn. </div><div>But at least I'm trying. In retiring from daily duty I have recognised the need for a change of state: the need to reset, to dry my kindling and light a new fire. I have detached myself from distraction so that I can authentically <i>connect.</i> My first step was to step away from work to limit my choices and thus focus my intent. At my age, why wouldn’t I do that? At my age how could I not? </div><div>My little piece of brash ice will melt in time, but hopefully there is time enough.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order">Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtsk9bFe1JSWY7c5h2yG4slNoD5Cmcx9DgbO_plKgGPOpWKWVUwy_jbiPINyy1MWRgIcGDpNr3GnaLvQp0L8WuYqm7v_PTLuLPsS7JBsRpMjrNjgFOas-YYVgrRKD7rPRy1tPy2-OrYrCSXAlxt23fTD-PQ5NAlibtFKKfUwMlbvq6hjglOxm0eImNFxz/s1882/IMG_2790.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="1882" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtsk9bFe1JSWY7c5h2yG4slNoD5Cmcx9DgbO_plKgGPOpWKWVUwy_jbiPINyy1MWRgIcGDpNr3GnaLvQp0L8WuYqm7v_PTLuLPsS7JBsRpMjrNjgFOas-YYVgrRKD7rPRy1tPy2-OrYrCSXAlxt23fTD-PQ5NAlibtFKKfUwMlbvq6hjglOxm0eImNFxz/w424-h239/IMG_2790.JPG" width="424" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-58356482081145661702023-11-03T11:26:00.020+00:002023-11-03T12:00:27.024+00:00Love Song: Our Man in the Field: 'Gold on the Horizon'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghN741pCeCVrFd5i_iyfhyphenhyphensHGl-AyTOsgYPSdeaZd7sPO4yydKtpqJh7veFwSBVlmHGOF7Di07VDOWaJT3XTixVj8nGzxrJxfycgZsxkFnQF-fgms8dyQ7f40mSZUXzszQ4UIkJGHm1deOTe_3DhU5w_6mchjNh7E7oYttqvxExTrHJgOs5xCyuaXB7FOY/s730/Our-Man-In-The-Field-on-19-May-2023_245c93d8902371693a74b2e9f8e90c4c.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="730" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghN741pCeCVrFd5i_iyfhyphenhyphensHGl-AyTOsgYPSdeaZd7sPO4yydKtpqJh7veFwSBVlmHGOF7Di07VDOWaJT3XTixVj8nGzxrJxfycgZsxkFnQF-fgms8dyQ7f40mSZUXzszQ4UIkJGHm1deOTe_3DhU5w_6mchjNh7E7oYttqvxExTrHJgOs5xCyuaXB7FOY/w402-h220/Our-Man-In-The-Field-on-19-May-2023_245c93d8902371693a74b2e9f8e90c4c.jpg" width="402" /></a></div><br /><div><b>Our Man in the Field </b>is essentially singer-songwriter <b>Alexander Ellis</b>, aided and abetted by a few talented amigos. The new album <i><b>‘Gold on the Horizon’ </b></i>is a lovingly crafted collection of heartfelt authenticity. Recorded in Oregon by feted American producer <b>Tucker Martine</b>, the album comes replete with weeping steel, harbouring horns and just enough intensity to rubber stamp Ellis’s intent. And that seems to be to deconstruct and then rebuild himself before our very eyes. That standard approach could become mournful in lesser hands, but Ellis’s conviction convinces. <i>"I’ve always been an outsider, so an outsider I’ll be."</i> he intones on <b>‘L’Estranger’</b>. His faith is in nothing but himself: <i>“I believe there’s nothing up there looking down on me.” </i>It’s that self-sufficiency that sustains and clearly moves him forward. The lyrics use familiar metaphor as lifeline but there’s enough personal insight offered as to make Ellis’s <i>rope-a-trope </i>authentic. He tethers his troubles to a soulful soundscape that evokes a youthful <b>Van Morrison</b>’s dreamier desires and <b>Ray LaMontagne</b>’s doe-eyed soul searching. Sure, it’s a conventional conceit, but our protagonist is utterly cogent in his cause. <b>Alex Ellis</b> has considered form, harvested homily and hued a sweet hymnal to hope. It’s apt that he offers up this wholesome set so close to Thanksgiving. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjve2Wl_d8-nLkFBu-jk0QMW14G84xUvDLcrIdJMgJO7IX_S9rteNJ22xlICrXvDVhbyC0KqMhrO_9fUgiHLkP_1cRIfRBTRmj-U_l0Q2Cr-czUE5sUB2xOxX8IHrIDdFzYILjIavWGhrxp6CQAPWL_vEmWVLNmFhy6cyV3GRxWc5TfXNQw0vFXY0pRaDUM" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjve2Wl_d8-nLkFBu-jk0QMW14G84xUvDLcrIdJMgJO7IX_S9rteNJ22xlICrXvDVhbyC0KqMhrO_9fUgiHLkP_1cRIfRBTRmj-U_l0Q2Cr-czUE5sUB2xOxX8IHrIDdFzYILjIavWGhrxp6CQAPWL_vEmWVLNmFhy6cyV3GRxWc5TfXNQw0vFXY0pRaDUM" width="240" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>This is confident Americana: honey-toned and virtuous. If you want to believe in bucolic benevolence, <b>Alex Ellis</b> is a convincer. <b>Our Man in the Field </b>has farmed and fermented a heady crop: woozy with wonder but firmly fixed on that golden horizon. </div><div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KbLMpHM5DEg" width="320" youtube-src-id="KbLMpHM5DEg"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-26648709576420446762023-10-18T10:11:00.079+01:002023-10-18T11:16:11.671+01:00Miracle Mile: A User's Guide: by Johnny Black<p> </p><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="widget-content"><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-Nf9MLphUG2V8UfB0QlTMaLoFhW_02WYOkp2KZdAM13SoKLdh8-qquro1UH3gQdgtUvFjOZtAwbFdQ7uHxdVXMY060c054QofVAKrgUSCz1qgdONPqi8JMnd0GKhaZ2HAkVh1b1hnJNJ1wPCZNaCCtUoOiZeI8Y69U7YFGbxrnZDTdDhridSsxzLDznm/s1772/MiracleMilePic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1329" data-original-width="1772" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-Nf9MLphUG2V8UfB0QlTMaLoFhW_02WYOkp2KZdAM13SoKLdh8-qquro1UH3gQdgtUvFjOZtAwbFdQ7uHxdVXMY060c054QofVAKrgUSCz1qgdONPqi8JMnd0GKhaZ2HAkVh1b1hnJNJ1wPCZNaCCtUoOiZeI8Y69U7YFGbxrnZDTdDhridSsxzLDznm/w423-h318/MiracleMilePic.jpg" width="423" /></a></div><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></div><br /><br /><i>“Trevor Jones finds the poetry in real life; Marcus Cliffe anchors it in the sweetest pop. Gorgeous as ever. You may cry.” </i><b>The Sunday Times</b></div><div class="widget-content"><br />Despite being based in a home studio in a rural backwater on the outskirts of West London, <b>Miracle Mile</b> chose to name themselves after a fictional gold rush main street half a world away where, according to adventure yarn spinner Jack London, ragged 49ers would blow their hard-won nuggets on booze and broads. They apply a similarly unorthodox approach to their career in general. The band’s core duo of singer/guitarist <b>Trevor Jones </b>and multi-instrumentalist/arranger/producer <b>Marcus Cliffe</b> have been relentless in their pursuit of the perfect song. Not the fastest, the gnarliest or the loudest, not even the most instantly commercial, but the song whose melody, lyrics, arrangement, performance and spirit might stand the test of time, giving pleasure to listeners not just for years but centuries.<br />They’d be the first to admit they haven’t yet found that perfect song and maybe never will, but I’d argue that their albums — the documentary evidence of that search — deserve a place alongside the best work of time-tested tunesmiths as elevated as <b>Randy Newman, Elvis Costello</b> or<b> Tom Waits.</b></div><br /><i>“Gorgeous melodies, hooks galore, intelligent lyrics that demand and repay careful listening, beautifully produced instrumentation, and an overall effect that combines poignancy and joy in equal measure. Music and words come together in a state as close to perfection as makes no difference, and leaves you with a delicious ache that makes you hug yourself with the sheer overwhelming joy of hearing such wonderful music. The beauty on offer here is enough to make you weep. It did me."</i><br /><b>Americana UK</b><div class="widget-content"><br /></div><div class="widget-content"><b>Marcus Cliffe</b> wasn’t yet on board when the first album, <b><i>Bicycle Thieves</i></b>, arrived in 1997 but already it was evident that frontman <b>Jones</b> didn’t fit in with the prevailing mode. There was no rage, bitterness or self-loathing in his songs and nothing at all turned up to eleven. Instead, he offered meticulously orchestrated slices of ordinary human life, transforming the mundane into the marvellous with carefully crafted lyrics sincerely delivered. Even here, though, the hypnotic sample-based <i>"Recycletwo"</i> revealed a willingness to experiment that marked <b>Jones </b>out as more than just a pop craftsman in the vein of <b>Crowded House </b>or <b>Aztec Camera</b>.</div><div class="widget-content"><br /></div><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3bihTLWTI-d2fD8elXSq4BaD-DGZK1BFrZ_h3FXxYH6KeOnvTFwhneM1DF8twJW_o6brAdR_QXaaN4uSCufFq6PfjUoB6JFXBuqhz-5BuLbfKCeahgOOHnZOBjL9299424-FA2WwEwy4-E6MTeAUOdeTM1avZGn55IwKoRBed4nne-g3QNCoKZvY8Bgy/s1400/BicycleThieves1400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3bihTLWTI-d2fD8elXSq4BaD-DGZK1BFrZ_h3FXxYH6KeOnvTFwhneM1DF8twJW_o6brAdR_QXaaN4uSCufFq6PfjUoB6JFXBuqhz-5BuLbfKCeahgOOHnZOBjL9299424-FA2WwEwy4-E6MTeAUOdeTM1avZGn55IwKoRBed4nne-g3QNCoKZvY8Bgy/s320/BicycleThieves1400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i> "Gentle enchantment. The loveliest melodies you've ever heard." </i><b>UNCUT</b><i><br /></i></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>“A melancholic ocean of poetry and sublime song-craft. Life is indeed worth living and all the richer for hearing this.” </i><b>Properganda</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;">What had started essentially as a recording project had become a five-piece live band by the time the follow-up, <i><b>Candids</b>,</i> was released in 1998. Loaded with nagging guitar hooks and dynamic vocal interplay, it included one particularly affecting piece, <b><i>"Small Ad"</i> </b>which featured just one line of lyric, the heart-rending couplet, <i>"For sale, baby’s shoes, never used."</i> With those six words, <b>Jones </b>conjured up a yawning abyss of grief that other writers might struggle to evoke in an entire album.</div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-QI8VrSpFwlFGn75z8mFpSGUrFH9Pgqz1-Zxs1nbF0iWxGGw7ysBKUjCq8m9SYTtseUKAjBhXKw_BHrA0X7J9rpsboCMMsHJt4lsH6A8D9gSDOVnzpK3B8KAqAggpXoC_b-N16H1LJhztS1piANGoRwAjG4Nhbfmol-Un3Dk7piYTeLT2a7SSA35A2kOJ/s1400/Candids1400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-QI8VrSpFwlFGn75z8mFpSGUrFH9Pgqz1-Zxs1nbF0iWxGGw7ysBKUjCq8m9SYTtseUKAjBhXKw_BHrA0X7J9rpsboCMMsHJt4lsH6A8D9gSDOVnzpK3B8KAqAggpXoC_b-N16H1LJhztS1piANGoRwAjG4Nhbfmol-Un3Dk7piYTeLT2a7SSA35A2kOJ/s320/Candids1400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"></div><i>“A little oasis illuminated by musical creativity, glimpsed like a lovely mirage. Intelligent tunefulness that doesn’t kowtow to passing trends has always been as rare as fish fingernails, but it’s here.” </i><b>Mojo</b><br /><br /><i>“How to write ‘Perfect Pop’ and still remain unknown. They are magic, charming, almost naïve in their perception of beauty.” </i><b>La Repubblica (Italy)</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><b>Jones</b> quickly realised that live performance was not his forte and retired to the womb of the studio for 1999’s third album, <b><i>Slow Fade</i>,</b> which also saw the birth of the partnership that would lift <b>Miracle Mile</b> higher still above the norm. <b>Marcus Cliffe,</b> in demand as a player for <b>Steve Earle, Emmylou Harris, Daniel Lanois, Mark Knopfler a</b>nd others, was drafted in on upright bass.<br />Immediately the music took a more intimate turn, with <b>Jones </b>exploring the little things that illuminate the big things. Almost every song offers up at least one unforgettable line, like <i>"I'd rather be ashes than dust"</i> in "<i><b>Everybody Loved You"</b></i> or the concept of filling the void left by his loss of faith <i>"with despair and metalware"</i> in <i><b>"Starwatching".</b></i><br /><i><b>Slow Fade</b> </i>was further enhanced by the delicately filigreed swirls and swoops of England’s finest steel guitar maestro, B<b>.J. Cole,</b> whose style sat so well with <b>Jone</b>s and <b>Cliffe </b>that he has become virtually a full-time member of the band.<br /><br /><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZpySW1AdLtUaW2WmzvaQuiovKwsR3OmgAg9ItHPVHwb9hAuGWqNMaJBQOdM3W4qlBAR0VLqy15lv5J5keJEiCy0muNj0E0J1BqHooRg2OHOPDjeGKa_4neYSbUDJfasW53XqSzMsR_5Iz4q8rBBuMJB4QADaSfbkE5096meqSlxJ7qspyaVoKTm0Dl9O/s1400/SlowFade1400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZpySW1AdLtUaW2WmzvaQuiovKwsR3OmgAg9ItHPVHwb9hAuGWqNMaJBQOdM3W4qlBAR0VLqy15lv5J5keJEiCy0muNj0E0J1BqHooRg2OHOPDjeGKa_4neYSbUDJfasW53XqSzMsR_5Iz4q8rBBuMJB4QADaSfbkE5096meqSlxJ7qspyaVoKTm0Dl9O/s320/SlowFade1400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><i>"Meticulously orchestrated, careful and complex, this is canny songwriting leavened by bona fide humanity." </i><b>Q</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>“A lush swoon of gorgeous pop. Genuinely life enhancing and life changing. Jones is in a class of one. Near-perfect explorations of the human heart.” </i><b>AmericanaUk</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;">And then, out of nowhere, catastrophe struck. <b>Trevor Jones</b>’ sister died in tragic circumstances. It’s typical of the man that, rather than wallowing in his grief as he had every right to do, he dealt with his loss in the quiet, honest dignity of <i><b>"Sister Song"</b></i>, the achingly lovely tribute that concludes the fourth album, <b><i>Alaska.</i></b> It can’t have been coincidence that the album, despite its meltingly beautiful musical landscape, was named for one of the coldest places on earth.</div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUJHdLdnrShJeclaBqvFfqgR4R6bMh5iM8iY00jpFe1oohevahbPrkTm2PuPSPZCVdQN7lws4zetfYrkhayZ8hqoeecc_X0ezjYguS2gQ8B5VlmD_h3q_aOAh14Bz1gTE6NA_eRmFyIw-dFGQ79SbX7AgrkVwN3dsK6tMmAW5DfH1NG20Yqrm2-ojMQYi/s827/Cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="738" data-original-width="827" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUJHdLdnrShJeclaBqvFfqgR4R6bMh5iM8iY00jpFe1oohevahbPrkTm2PuPSPZCVdQN7lws4zetfYrkhayZ8hqoeecc_X0ezjYguS2gQ8B5VlmD_h3q_aOAh14Bz1gTE6NA_eRmFyIw-dFGQ79SbX7AgrkVwN3dsK6tMmAW5DfH1NG20Yqrm2-ojMQYi/s320/Cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i>“Miracle Mile’s obscurity remains unfathomable. Perfect adult pop.” </i><b>The Sunday Times</b><br /><br /><i>“Moves you to tears and refreshes the soul. Scintillating.” </i><b style="font-style: italic;"> </b><b>Maverick</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;">By the time of <b><i>Stories We Could Tell</i> </b>in 2004, <b>Miracle Mile</b> were drawing critical plaudits in every significant British magazine and newspaper, along with comparisons to such pop perfectionists as <b>Prefab Sprout</b> and <b>The Blue Nile</b>. Critics were noting that <b>Miracle Mile </b>was fast becoming a repository of timelessly romantic music fueled by the same shamelessly emotional human concerns that inspired the great standards. More than this, it was being noticed that while most bands go into decline after two or three albums, <b>Miracle Mile</b> were getting better, perhaps because they’d avoided the trap of trying to be contemporary, and had no need to be more outrageous than the competition, largely because they didn’t see music as a competitor sport.</div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi919Y5X9ichQ-C0XbVHske9R0SYL-1HkxKyLo0GjeR-G3M7r_bJKk3y4jlO5hrqWY_72OT5DreQWMxqsWRUUHIsGo15eKEl5MxFQqmsJrOjvoy08ZmRAkx-RYGBRSkmZwwK3GDCRVz2hu422Qk0XdLQHFagsgoxgFHrSxkJWPreqjcTxW2_PGRRCywZLKI/s472/Stories%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="472" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi919Y5X9ichQ-C0XbVHske9R0SYL-1HkxKyLo0GjeR-G3M7r_bJKk3y4jlO5hrqWY_72OT5DreQWMxqsWRUUHIsGo15eKEl5MxFQqmsJrOjvoy08ZmRAkx-RYGBRSkmZwwK3GDCRVz2hu422Qk0XdLQHFagsgoxgFHrSxkJWPreqjcTxW2_PGRRCywZLKI/s320/Stories%20cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="widget-content"><br /></div><div class="widget-content"><i>“Classic songwriting, gorgeously realised.” </i><b>The Times</b><b style="font-style: italic;"><br /></b><br /><i>“A tender sadness. Songs that have universal resonance.” </i><b>NetRhythms</b></div><div class="widget-content"><i><br /></i></div><div class="widget-content"><i>“Achingly tender.” </i><b>Folk Radio UK</b><b><i><br /></i></b><br /></div><div class="widget-content">The sixth album, <b><i>Glow</i></b>, showed up in 2005 and found <b>Jones</b> and <b>Cliffe</b> further expanding their musical palette mixing Celtic folksiness with slow, semi-industrial percussion on the inspirational <i>"An Average Sadness",</i> blending Badalamenti guitars with Bacharach horns on <i>"What Kate Did Next"</i> and opening <i>"Strange Sympathy"</i> with a beautifully synthesised string orchestration before letting the song melt seamlessly into a laid-back country-rock rumination on the gap between aspiration and acquisition. <b><i>Glow</i></b> was also their most lavishly packaged disc, gorgeously presented at no small cost to themselves.<br /><br /></div><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbM7AoEfW8qVzP30CSVh04fGpjfPOu5drIpaPxQlOEnGSi1r_FGCZE11F0zSrkqrwwoDkmDmFXILh7QH175aKegBqcvRb_jBF94-zfPcXfr2QFkcfLvwcIUItmhkdz2hm-zPLM2mEZuBk-twho3-L8xYqT6J6SF1jiEXmQiErFPZGrmD9i0sgdRk0jYW-N/s1654/cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1476" data-original-width="1654" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbM7AoEfW8qVzP30CSVh04fGpjfPOu5drIpaPxQlOEnGSi1r_FGCZE11F0zSrkqrwwoDkmDmFXILh7QH175aKegBqcvRb_jBF94-zfPcXfr2QFkcfLvwcIUItmhkdz2hm-zPLM2mEZuBk-twho3-L8xYqT6J6SF1jiEXmQiErFPZGrmD9i0sgdRk0jYW-N/s320/cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i>“A gorgeous album that few will hear - unless there’s justice in the world.” </i> <b>The Wall Street Journal</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>“Jones has compiled possibly the finest catalogue of adult pop. Gently beautiful and genuinely moving.” </i><b>The Sunday Times</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>“You hug yourself with the sheer overwhelming joy of hearing such wonderful music. The beauty on offer here is enough to make you weep. It did me.”</i><b><i> </i>AmericanaUK</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;">Album No. 7, <i><b>Limbo</b>,</i> offered fifteen songs overflowing with sensitively wrought melodies and heart-fluttering lyricism. If it’s not a contradiction in terms, <b><i>Limbo</i> </b>was even more quietly passionate than usual, deliciously understated and, at times, devastatingly tear-jerking.</div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXqt2aXHN8OUkEoA4S3kVy9vOXi3oB70GSajXyOQsKuxTMNOoliJr34IZb89tSDWYM3rtqRrztzruQASa6CwFPYycTABEdgivmgknAINAo2rbEwTCUQGM1MWeR5ikIR6w_5Mq-pqRy-_SGSZe7n-n9DpuiryNYtP5Pb8SIg9sVepvdYfStrAywMvfFfV5y/s836/LimboCover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="836" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXqt2aXHN8OUkEoA4S3kVy9vOXi3oB70GSajXyOQsKuxTMNOoliJr34IZb89tSDWYM3rtqRrztzruQASa6CwFPYycTABEdgivmgknAINAo2rbEwTCUQGM1MWeR5ikIR6w_5Mq-pqRy-_SGSZe7n-n9DpuiryNYtP5Pb8SIg9sVepvdYfStrAywMvfFfV5y/s320/LimboCover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i>“Trevor Jones finds the poetry in real life; Marcus Cliffe anchors it in the sweetest pop. Gorgeous as ever. You may cry.” </i><b>The Sunday Times</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>“Intellectually as well as emotionally engaging.” </i><b>Mojo</b></div><i>"Overflowing with sensitively wrought melodies and heart-fluttering lyricism. If it's possible, this is even more passionate than usual, deliciously understated and tear jerking." </i> <b>HiFi News</b><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>‘<b>In Cassidy’s Care</b>’ </i>followed in 2012 and received similar critical acclaim.</div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="widget-content" style="background-color: #333333; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #333333; clear: both; color: #cccccc; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxz7IYHPw0xwbRKSwJ1gsA-J-ay7eCir3p2NgURIo_1isDvzlo8y_M5kCq7OcHM_H2Iqjcw98YL5h8-xVxlJxQ172C-t-IyV7l_KLzF48lRq_NPb2C9evKvLUKBA1at7ahnFLtvhry88AWoCy-yBP4Nditgr5tIyQZrFkq57BziVhk24lL3Fs2FKhIIzEy/s1400/Cassidys%20Cover%201400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxz7IYHPw0xwbRKSwJ1gsA-J-ay7eCir3p2NgURIo_1isDvzlo8y_M5kCq7OcHM_H2Iqjcw98YL5h8-xVxlJxQ172C-t-IyV7l_KLzF48lRq_NPb2C9evKvLUKBA1at7ahnFLtvhry88AWoCy-yBP4Nditgr5tIyQZrFkq57BziVhk24lL3Fs2FKhIIzEy/s320/Cassidys%20Cover%201400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i>“Miracle Mile are pop’s most consistently excellent cottage industry.” </i><b>The Sunday Times</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>"Memorable tunes wrapped around emotionally involving lyrics."</i><b> HiFi News</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>"Truly outstanding. Another little masterpiece has been born." </i><b>AmericanaUk</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><i>“Masterpieces of subtlety and observation clothed in sumptuous, lush melodies.” </i><b>RnR</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><b>Miracle Mile</b> may just be too concerned with timeless quality for their own short-term commercial good. They’ll never sink a fang into the jugular when they can plant a whisper of a kiss on that sensitive spot at the nape of the neck and set off a tiny ripple that will, in the fullness of time, explode in the heart. I, for one, wouldn’t want it any other way.</div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><b>Johnny Black</b></div><div class="widget Text" data-version="1" id="Text3" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 30px 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcF0QNu0LZY2a_iYnIoVWXY_t38V4kH9Oeu1h3FZI6kDdthKwfuXp4VWiKraql2hhNCsYud83QBiqvrQ0fK8jriOd_cK3jRu5hJ_wOmhQucoKrcFTI7mTcPiR_Owz1xRAgsw5ELrkxyAbJD_il2mfJ1LNdZbzwXgmvZuqHoYousn0zZyoAi063uWgBqOYh/s5760/OK4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3840" data-original-width="5760" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcF0QNu0LZY2a_iYnIoVWXY_t38V4kH9Oeu1h3FZI6kDdthKwfuXp4VWiKraql2hhNCsYud83QBiqvrQ0fK8jriOd_cK3jRu5hJ_wOmhQucoKrcFTI7mTcPiR_Owz1xRAgsw5ELrkxyAbJD_il2mfJ1LNdZbzwXgmvZuqHoYousn0zZyoAi063uWgBqOYh/w578-h365/OK4.jpg" width="578" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-75546160975364878742023-10-17T10:17:00.010+01:002023-11-18T13:20:09.684+00:00Miracle Mile. New album 'East of Ely'<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJT9oLBuMnsLTlxj-SUQR9Fj2wFSR8peNPG5Uj56xOy-Ai3TJ3nUnLwfYTf4n2EmtqSydFFEs-8G5nBZaYoIzXIYMA2mW2di8uUfCd0gObj0f-7lBhN25EyNp_IYfc49EIHrPKFbhB_itoYXb5wvhPe1rX08NX7HgyymR6bKTxoVPv9SciYXImqWaM4UIt/s1400/East%20of%20Ely%20Cover1400.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJT9oLBuMnsLTlxj-SUQR9Fj2wFSR8peNPG5Uj56xOy-Ai3TJ3nUnLwfYTf4n2EmtqSydFFEs-8G5nBZaYoIzXIYMA2mW2di8uUfCd0gObj0f-7lBhN25EyNp_IYfc49EIHrPKFbhB_itoYXb5wvhPe1rX08NX7HgyymR6bKTxoVPv9SciYXImqWaM4UIt/s320/East%20of%20Ely%20Cover1400.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>'<b>East of Ely</b>' is <b>Miracle Mile</b>'s first new album since 2012's '<b>In Cassidy's Care</b>'. It was largely written on the Suffolk coast and later recorded between London and Norfolk. Both Marcus and I found bucolic bliss in coastal retreat. The detachment informed the writing process and limited the palette to anything but primary colours. You won't be dancing but we hope that the songs offer some kind of balmy relief to your day.<br /><br />'East of Ely' will be released by the <b>Last Night From Glasgow </b>Cartel in 2024. It will soon be available to pre-order on vinyl and CD.<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/miracle-mile-east-of-ely-pre-order">Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.</a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-33538212398960631892022-05-27T15:03:00.000+01:002022-05-27T15:03:00.990+01:00Lovesong: Boo Hewerdine: 'Understudy'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9IVtm_SrY2EwgfYNvppnrvYpga5QOJUCLe37rbCZftiDPe_wpo2rMpMPUKAXlvBDHYwn7IuheCrJl4Mhgx-1cE-vHcYZa4f6MbSfPXmoXuUU20HSCQkbbi0_yMgvi71bIW2mSZYJAGe29LUUD9bPcd_GgTIPQbP-nPxufkCiVubeGd_d-4m1g-cJ7g/s225/download-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9IVtm_SrY2EwgfYNvppnrvYpga5QOJUCLe37rbCZftiDPe_wpo2rMpMPUKAXlvBDHYwn7IuheCrJl4Mhgx-1cE-vHcYZa4f6MbSfPXmoXuUU20HSCQkbbi0_yMgvi71bIW2mSZYJAGe29LUUD9bPcd_GgTIPQbP-nPxufkCiVubeGd_d-4m1g-cJ7g/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://www.facebook.com/boo.hewerdine?__cft__[0]=AZWnSs1Ut1C0h6xkQUVzyLHmJK82TDL1TXYo5UsMa1t8iVoESEGmjs7IfMTgiZEn7FZkIQMBLDru1SRztBY7iKKhOP4cL5InzqTXX60GF7t7m9yoSrgO_bTkrBk4gqP1q14&__tn__=-]K-R">Boo Hewerdine</a> looks more like God everyday. <div>A God with glasses. </div><div>Or at least my vision of a God with glasses. </div><div>I digress. <div>Boo has just released his latest album <b>‘Understudy’</b>. There is undoubted divinity in these quiet passages: gorgeously rendered, wisely observed vignettes that are heart-swelling in their directness. Twelve tender epistles detail and celebrate the everyday. The subtleties are oddly… overwhelming. The benevolence in each offering is such calming balm that you wish they’d linger longer. He casts a kindly eye does Boo. There’s an almost childlike naïveté in the way that he totes his lot. The songs are understated; short but far from slight: a world of wonder within each modest miracle. Loss is palpable, but hope is the abiding, enduring aftertaste. And it tastes like medicine. Good medicine. I’d have entitled the offering <b>‘Specs Saver’ </b>or <b>‘Hymns from Him’ </b>but then I’m not him. He sits a cloud or two above. Goodness and graciousness is personified here. </div><div>But Boo as God? </div><div>Nope. </div><div>There is no God. </div><div>But, if there was, Boo’d make a worthy understudy.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/of6Sbg_WoxU" width="320" youtube-src-id="of6Sbg_WoxU"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></div></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-69914106253873653262022-02-11T19:27:00.164+00:002022-05-27T15:03:24.188+01:00Lovesong: Sinner's Shrine: Dean Owens<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixgWbZDUvfvibfn-rIgbob1_ykVu9G5OXfYBf-_5x6rB6vEJiM4XHgXjIqCDZqluQqxKxZviuU7bwS0RhRWizBxdvCBoxsO_dNJlDcPISaLOPEzkEeCZoEt_Y0DDYB76VRmkQY8-J3jtNZSRj0rXs_A6oBvmjOR-WmtON3s_CtlNACVhb3IlQ_EwOKLQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixgWbZDUvfvibfn-rIgbob1_ykVu9G5OXfYBf-_5x6rB6vEJiM4XHgXjIqCDZqluQqxKxZviuU7bwS0RhRWizBxdvCBoxsO_dNJlDcPISaLOPEzkEeCZoEt_Y0DDYB76VRmkQY8-J3jtNZSRj0rXs_A6oBvmjOR-WmtON3s_CtlNACVhb3IlQ_EwOKLQ" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: center;">Never meet your heroes they say: you're destined for disappointment or doomed to simply walk in their shoes. </span>Although Dean Owens’ boots are firmly rooted in Caledonia, it’s clear that his musical heart beats in, around and along the arterial song lines that connect the music of Arizona and its bordering states: <i>“a wire around the heart of everything that’s sacred”.</i> This is no cultural desert: Tex Mex and Mariachi boldly blend with Country and Folk to create a very particular brand of Americana. Owens had long been influenced by the weeping steel and aching feel that informs much of the area's music. He was particularly keen on Howe Gelb’s Giant Sand and, tellingly, its bastard offspring <b>Calexico</b>, whose masterful <b><i>‘Feast of Wire’</i></b> clearly whetted his appetite. He was thus drawn to the source: Tucson’s WaveLab studio, home of Calexico’s founding members Joey Burns and John Convertino. That wondrous duo's muscular rattle and hum underpins much of this adroitly understated album. He's a born storyteller is Dean, yet he ditches the narratives and goes straight to the heart of the matter: these are more cyphers than stories. Ghosts haunt the open roads, borderlands and dusty destinations. They are only ever glimpsed, but are omnipresent: displaced revenants whose whispers and moans tell of loss and longing: missed opportunities and broken promises. Dean cannily drops that syrupy brogue a tone or two and floats his beguiling melancholy over his compadres’ perfect rhythms. It occasionally feels perilously close to pastiche until you remember that, that is the point: Owens is there to tip a hat in homage to his hombres. The cumulative effect is one of gracious gratitude. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1ztcsM-8fV7GgVlYIj4BLgQdD0FHQIGhluSZ0ZJn9wvJD3-hRBwQ8Qi4HQhKjImMFAPqmq_XoDuSdc8RzZjkyaO8J1YbLvvVrlOmXH8xTbZciTlLu5lRcyNaqa0fuFWUx2nc3LzE7f_ZSWlaq57IM2eN8o99RutWPEsPQzo6qygnwhHubLTN1MzogYg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1ztcsM-8fV7GgVlYIj4BLgQdD0FHQIGhluSZ0ZJn9wvJD3-hRBwQ8Qi4HQhKjImMFAPqmq_XoDuSdc8RzZjkyaO8J1YbLvvVrlOmXH8xTbZciTlLu5lRcyNaqa0fuFWUx2nc3LzE7f_ZSWlaq57IM2eN8o99RutWPEsPQzo6qygnwhHubLTN1MzogYg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div>So: never meet your heroes? Dean takes Calexico's wistful template and gently melds and fashions it into something oblique yet unique: something fine. To highlight individual songs would do an injustice to the album’s artful ambience. It feels like an invitation to a gentle journey: you simply need to surrender. That the beatific finale <i><b>‘After the Rain’ </b></i>makes you want to retread your steps, only endorses Tom Wait’s wisdom: the obsession’s in the chasing and not the apprehending. Owen's intent is heartbreakingly direct and tender: <i>“Maybe the sun won’t always shine/And maybe the moon won’t always glow/But if there’s one thing that’s guaranteed it’s/ I’ll always be here for you.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJE4muLL7y-58E6uDc2qTJBcJYc8UEgMXyVD8_nb4r-hPC6wWTqnjW8rFi5MxKcuKizOk_Sx2KwG3yshHIFRCMB61Y46zPD7_Y3WwkDwF5LG4HQ1K3X6Re1XCv1ipWmPCIg_S07P8wvnoqBfgpOBw8WfrZ4SQLTQNKgZ400h9qh-H3P-yDHZmOjrjsaA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="310" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJE4muLL7y-58E6uDc2qTJBcJYc8UEgMXyVD8_nb4r-hPC6wWTqnjW8rFi5MxKcuKizOk_Sx2KwG3yshHIFRCMB61Y46zPD7_Y3WwkDwF5LG4HQ1K3X6Re1XCv1ipWmPCIg_S07P8wvnoqBfgpOBw8WfrZ4SQLTQNKgZ400h9qh-H3P-yDHZmOjrjsaA" width="320" /></a></div><i><br /></i><b>'Sinner's Shrine' </b>is not informed by wickedness or worship: Owen's benevolence seeks solace, perhaps even redemption, in the recognition and celebration of influence. That confluence is a river worth crying over. Dean’s dream may be wilfully woozy but it is perfectly realised: spectral yet specific. Before he left for New Mexico, he had told me of his plan: that he had no plan, just hope for a musical journey towards kinship; a yearning to find and befriend the source of his ennui and inspiration. It's an oblique map for a travelogue; but what a trip. Dean Owens left without a destination and, bugger me, he found a home.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/f6UTEKAwGgI" width="320" youtube-src-id="f6UTEKAwGgI"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oCD6lMb65QM" width="320" youtube-src-id="oCD6lMb65QM"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div>hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03147430231549162550noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-85814242437921127362021-05-23T11:47:00.059+01:002021-05-31T14:34:15.912+01:00LoveSong: Life on Mars: Bowie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hLvrERx-lOU/YKozrwKs-RI/AAAAAAAAKUU/RCy_bFdjGCECNdluehFEDtwT8Vc8JhOxQCLcBGAsYHQ/s227/Unknown.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="227" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hLvrERx-lOU/YKozrwKs-RI/AAAAAAAAKUU/RCy_bFdjGCECNdluehFEDtwT8Vc8JhOxQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div>So many songs, so little time.<br /><div>I woke up this morning thinking about <b>Bowie</b>. There'd been a boozy discussion about 'genius': which musicians the word might apply to. It's a conversation as potentially incendiary as a pub trawl over the values of 'Art'. You don't need to like something to appreciate its value. Prince anyone? Genius, but I don't reach for his albums often. Dylan? Indubitably. I play Bruce more. Miles? Yes. Joni? Yes. Macca? Lennon? Nope. I love them both, but their 'genius' was collective: with the Fab Four. Paddy? Possibly. Neil Hannon? Possibly. I don't reckon Paul Buchanan a genius but his music means more to me than Prince's and almost any other artist's. <br /><br /></div><div>I rate this particular song, on record, as one of <i>the </i>great modern productions: one of <i>the</i> great vocals. Apparently when Bowie recorded the version on <b>Hunky Dory</b>, he nailed it in one take and fell in a wrecked, wracked, weeping mess at its conclusion: genius made man at the recognition of his gift. That literary giant/midget Rimbaud said <i>“Genius is the recovery of childhood at will”</i> and perhaps that was Bowie's gift: that he could wilfully tap into past wonders: the mysteries and mischief of formative life. Ironic then that the song is apparently about a teenage girl's desire to escape her restrictive childhood. Also paradoxical that this otherworldly man, so often likened to an alien, could speak with a common tongue.<br /><br /></div><div>So: Bowie? Yes: without a shadow of a doubt. He dressed his genius up in the clothes of imaginary friends and yet... he still made the song his own. <br />And here he is, stripping it down to its undies. Even the Liberace piano stylings cannot undermine the power of this brilliant performance. <br />What a genius! <br />What an Artist! <br />What a man!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/nRnbuDvk7zM" width="320" youtube-src-id="nRnbuDvk7zM"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-1433802020164501942021-04-27T08:34:00.014+01:002021-04-30T08:29:20.972+01:00Distant Voices, Still Lives<div><br /></div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V7y9TEfxdOY/YIe9XILmySI/AAAAAAAAKTw/yDsxplb9NHs9HFB8LZ-HmQRj7ri94DMsQCLcBGAsYHQ/s300/Unknown.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V7y9TEfxdOY/YIe9XILmySI/AAAAAAAAKTw/yDsxplb9NHs9HFB8LZ-HmQRj7ri94DMsQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h224/Unknown.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><i>Sailing on no honeymoon</i></div></i><div><i>Just separate chairs in separate rooms<br />Jesus, please<br />Make us happy sometimes<br />No more shout<br />No more fight<br />Family life</i><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It's interesting how arrested many of us are by the <b>Blue Nile</b> song <i>'Family Life'.</i> I have always thought that it was something to do with the way that singer Paul Buchanan tremulously presents us with shards of personal memory that resonate as universal recognition. Everyone's family life is different, but we all hold moments of collective clan memory that equate to personal pain. That tussle to retain and release what pleases or injures is a mournful shuffle towards something... less. Even if it is a memory full of emptiness - that clumsy dance with the 'everyday' - the cruelties stay with us as a part of our personal history. Of course there's beauty too, but that is often ephemeral, idealised in retrospect. Scars are held as badges of family honour, a kinship of ritual that ties and binds. It's a strange loyalty that we have to the overwhelming burden of a past imperfect. Our fragility and strength are often bequeathed to us by a patriarchal parent: we remain tethered to, and haunted by the sound of their voices. Our past becomes us, as our past becomes us...</div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry to rattle on but... last night I watched <i>'Distant Voices, Still Lives'</i>, <b>Terence Davies'</b> impressionistic take on a working-class family's life in 1940s and 1950s Liverpool. It is based on Davies's family and is chillingly familiar. Everyone is hopeful for 'happier', but are happy with their lot. The tableau is masterfully held together by music: old familiar tunes, offered as mantras to soundtrack the misery and mirth. I reckon that <b>Paul Buchanan</b> might have watched it before penning his masterpiece. Give it a go: you'll know exactly what I mean.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IdlslMb3KJY" width="320" youtube-src-id="IdlslMb3KJY"></iframe></div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-60365059692403745532021-02-09T12:21:00.015+00:002021-05-31T14:38:19.682+01:00Bruce Springsteen: Stuck in 'The Middle': With Who?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m0i6ImygtU0/YCJ8dHHt4RI/AAAAAAAAKSM/qWI0qrl10jYQcei-XRQ7S2D0gaKsJzxBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s300/download-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="207" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m0i6ImygtU0/YCJ8dHHt4RI/AAAAAAAAKSM/qWI0qrl10jYQcei-XRQ7S2D0gaKsJzxBgCLcBGAsYHQ/w370-h207/download-2.jpg" width="370" /></a></div><br /><b>Bruce Springsteen</b> has finally made an ad: a film in fact: <b>'The Middle'</b>, to help celebrate Jeep's 80th year. And he's getting pelters for it:<div><br /><div><i>"Christian Nationalism! There's no middle with someone who wears a ‘Camp Auschwitz’ shirt or who walks a Confederate flag through the US Capitol. There's no middle with insurrectionists. There's no middle with fascists. There's no middle with anyone who harasses a school shooting survivor.”</i><br /><div><br /><i>“I believe what the Jeep ad was telling us is that if we just set aside our differences with the fascists who want us silenced or dead, Bruce Springsteen will bring us each a Jeep we can use when we eventually have to flee to Canada.”</i><br /><br />Bruce himself dedicates the film <i>“To the ReUnited States of America.” and says “It’s no secret … The middle has been a hard place to get to lately. Between red and blue. Between servant and citizen. Between our freedom and our fear. Now, fear has never been the best of who we are. And as for freedom, it’s not the property of just the fortunate few; it belongs to us all.”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zhVy9w4K8kc/YCJ9pSs3jAI/AAAAAAAAKSk/pWPh4foxM8kKaQnNO4D3mLM0aFrgxzA8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s300/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="253" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zhVy9w4K8kc/YCJ9pSs3jAI/AAAAAAAAKSk/pWPh4foxM8kKaQnNO4D3mLM0aFrgxzA8QCLcBGAsYHQ/w451-h253/images.jpg" width="451" /></a></div><br />Regardless of any fee taken or paid - he is a working man after all - the message seems like a fairly simplistic attempt to unify to me. I’m guessing that Bruce sees it as his job. His blue collar popularism has always appealed across the board. ‘Jeep’ is a nuts and bolts brand aimed at the working man. As is religion. He’s gone to the heart of the country. He’s put on a stetson and gone for the buckle of the Bible Belt. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZThkzMiNY2w/YCJ87YPIEZI/AAAAAAAAKSU/9SvbRvCg8i0HNy77KsrRvoR16PIvjr6_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s275/download-1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZThkzMiNY2w/YCJ87YPIEZI/AAAAAAAAKSU/9SvbRvCg8i0HNy77KsrRvoR16PIvjr6_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/download-1.jpg" /></a></div><div>Bases loaded and covered then. But, this seems more of a bunt than a home run. Perhaps Bruce is taking stock before a reset and a big swing? Despite his recent public alignment with Democratic politics, Bruce has always stood solid on common ground. Trouble is, the sands have shifted so much recently that Americans are either unsure of their footing or more entrenched than ever. Now, more than ever, the promised land seems more of an American pipe dream than a reality. It’ll be interesting to see how Bruce pitches his next delivery. I don’t anticipate a curve ball but I reckon there’ll be some bile in a heavy delivery. A spit ball then.</div><div>What Bruce is trying to endorse with the film is unclear. That’s if his hands were on the wheel. Other than a vague intent to unite, the mystic message is middling, muddled. But is taking a stand for common ground really legitimatising extremism? And wtf is ‘Emotional Terrorism’? At worst Bruce’s message is naive: at least it is well intentioned. Ultimately I hear a simple message: a plea for unity, forgiveness, perhaps even contrition.<br /><br /></div><div>The other main criticism seems to be that finally Bruce seems available for sale or rent. It’s not really Bruce trying to sell a car, more a brand trying to ally itself to his. It doesn’t make me want to buy a Jeep. Or a bible. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_OwAj3rQxSc/YCJ9VSHxOPI/AAAAAAAAKSc/PNCEGmAmvcYLXRwZw7_3wjZMhlfu8OungCLcBGAsYHQ/s275/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="258" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_OwAj3rQxSc/YCJ9VSHxOPI/AAAAAAAAKSc/PNCEGmAmvcYLXRwZw7_3wjZMhlfu8OungCLcBGAsYHQ/w388-h258/download.jpg" width="388" /></a></div><br />Take a look. Do you see Christian Nationalism in the homilies? Do you hear resignation and acceptance of extremism in the call to "meet in the middle"? I just hear a tired, elderly man, keen on unity. Oh, and that sponsor's fee. At least Bruce didn’t give Jeep a song: a hymn: a slogan. Apt that the music he offered was ethereal; impressionistic: there’s nothing more undeniably American, or beautifully vague, than a gently weeping peddle steel guitar.<div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/D2XYH-IEvhI" width="320" youtube-src-id="D2XYH-IEvhI"></iframe></div><br /></div></div>Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-8837154989817616642020-12-11T13:18:00.118+00:002020-12-13T14:18:48.797+00:00Lovesong: Jack Henderson: Where's the Revolution<p><i><br /></i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DgvmniVaJ2I/X9Nt-72MPwI/AAAAAAAAKQ0/bcDIKDw8QSEDO-6ONcakR5-QiI_j2JbjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s310/Unknown.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="310" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DgvmniVaJ2I/X9Nt-72MPwI/AAAAAAAAKQ0/bcDIKDw8QSEDO-6ONcakR5-QiI_j2JbjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><br /><b>'Where's the Revolution'. </b><br />Where's the question mark? <br />Perhaps it's missing because, as ever, there are more questions than answers.<div><br /></div><div><i>"Doesn't matter what you lose… it only matters what you choose"</i><br /> <div><i>'Conviction'</i> is the word that comes to mind when I consider Jack. A few years back Di and I were invited to a New Year's Eve party at the now defunct Convent in Stroud. Enthusiastically run by maverick eccentric Matt Roberts, within minutes of arrival we were promoted from guests to Stage Manager (me) and Number 1 Cameraman (Di). It was quite a night: particularly considering Matt's generous gift of a free bar. During the soundcheck my ear was taken by a fashionably disheveled gent crouched over the piano, wrenching a beautifully baleful ballad from the ivories. There was a whiff of Tom Waits in the grainy delivery. The injury was clear, the conviction compelling. Later at the bar I was introduced to the performer as Jack Henderson. It turned out that Jack and I had something in common: he and my musical partner Marcus Cliffe had previously worked together on a project or two.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RzKi_TARIkQ/X9NuLqDQyAI/AAAAAAAAKQ4/fR_lDCAM2nIVLZyJu9Dj1oSP561efCQCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s329/Unknown-2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="153" data-original-width="329" height="149" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RzKi_TARIkQ/X9NuLqDQyAI/AAAAAAAAKQ4/fR_lDCAM2nIVLZyJu9Dj1oSP561efCQCgCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h149/Unknown-2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Jack and I stayed in touch and, last year, I was offered a chance to hear new songs as <i>work in progress.</i> The sketches were incomplete but fascinating. I offered vague encouragement and moved on. And then early this year a package dropped on my doorstep: Jack in a box! His newly completed album<b> 'Where's the Revolution' </b>sat atop my <i>'to listen to'</i> pile and... somehow got buried. </p><p>In the meantime I'd read about Jack's need to make this a homespun album.<i> </i>It was clear that here was a man in command of his craft, but one who was guided as much by budget as by instinct. </p><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pm7XxAB2ySU/X9NucomBosI/AAAAAAAAKRA/y9wKkcTCAmUCKL8ts_bmMUxnOadpnnSTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s225/Unknown-4.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pm7XxAB2ySU/X9NucomBosI/AAAAAAAAKRA/y9wKkcTCAmUCKL8ts_bmMUxnOadpnnSTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Unknown-4.jpeg" /></a></div>“If necessity is the mother of invention then 'Where’s The Revolution' is largely the result of that confluence of necessity and invention. Sometimes limitations can be liberating and for this album I wanted to explore what would happen if I recorded, produced and more or less played everything myself whilst embracing those limitations, both physical and financial, head-on. There was no overarching manifesto and I wanted to let the songs dictate their own course and allow the imposed imperfections to constitute the very soul of the record.”</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Months later, this morning I dug out the album and finally got around to breaking the seal. First impressions are that the soundscape has been vastly improved from what I'd previously heard. The production has pushed Jack's voice to the fore, but there is a musical muscularity that belies the domestic source and more than matches the muse. The arrangements are traditional songwriter fare: piano and electric guitar the primary colors. A wobbly mellotron wanders into the room occasionally to reinforce a woozy sensibility. Comparisons can be odious so let's get them out of the way early. I can hear 70s Bowie floating in the high register; Joseph Arthur lurks in the mid shadows; whilst Waits and Dylan haunt the bottom end. And yet Jack's timbre has a unique, genuinely engaging quality in its quivering delivery. As he earnestly totes the mundanities, again, <i>'conviction'</i> is the byword here. You believe that Jack believes everything he's singing about.<i> </i>And whilst he's got nothing particularly revolutionary to say, he says it with such conviction that you can't help but buy into these passionate paeans of disillusion. I've got <i>'imaginatively familiar in his melancholy'</i> scribbled down here. Jack says it so much better: </div><div><br /></div><div><i>“We’re often acutely aware of our own failings. We all have the capacity for occasional acts of selfishness, anger or jealousy, but those need not be what define us. We are all capable of acts of incredible kindness and self-sacrifice too. Perhaps we begin caring for each other by forgiving and being kind to ourselves first and recognising our shared human condition. We are so much better than we think we are and if we devote our energies to building the world we want to live in and pass on to generations that follow us we become the hope that truly remains.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HCfxXHJaZqg/X9Nu4vRwY1I/AAAAAAAAKRI/At9WTdqsqnY8dBm41b3JutCC9pp-xOgdgCLcBGAsYHQ/s290/Unknown-3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" height="208" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HCfxXHJaZqg/X9Nu4vRwY1I/AAAAAAAAKRI/At9WTdqsqnY8dBm41b3JutCC9pp-xOgdgCLcBGAsYHQ/w348-h208/Unknown-3.jpeg" width="348" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Ever hopeful then, but you can tell from the title track that Jack's not a happy bunny: <i>“I'm sick of these clockwork clowns and their silly little paper crowns. Reckless disaffection, constant disconnection, squeeze you till you’re almost sick, We don’t have to take this shit, Oh my dear, where’s the revolution now”.</i> Thankfully, we are talking a gentle revolution here. Jack's not breaking windows; it's your heart he's after. There's compassion in abundance. <b>'Stars'</b> is a beatific hymn to hope. He's too smart to tell us that he's looking up from the gutter, but you kind of get that his boots are well worn and muddy as he gazes at the heavens: a journeyman considering the journey <i>and</i> the journey's end.<i> </i><i>'We are castaways: so good, so far... </i><i>We are the conscious light that lingers on: a hope that will remain when we have gone." </i></div><div><b>'It's only Rain'</b><i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i>completes the set contemplatively, reinforcing the compelling image of the slightly crumpled, flesh wounded Everyman.</div><div><i>'Don't be afraid, it's only rain. Nothing we haven't seen before'.</i><i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i></div><div>Indeed. </div><div>And yet... there's something charming in Henderson's wide-eyed injury, in the way that he catches and caresses the quotidian as 'penny drop' moments. </div><div>His is a true heart, a familiar flight, a journey worth sharing. </div><div>How could you not want for the company of a man who leaves the room thus: </div><div><i>"Every dying star leaves a trail across the universe. Every weary pilgrim goes on believing, and every broken heart goes on beating."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1HEE_JEhXiY" width="320" youtube-src-id="1HEE_JEhXiY"></iframe></div><br /><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div></div></div>Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-34313284712415521922020-09-11T12:26:00.128+01:002020-09-12T09:42:28.671+01:00Lovesong: Paul Armfield: Domestic<br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FxjRDYdw3J0/X1tdEzgdQrI/AAAAAAAAKPE/4QZ7QrCwNV8oHrFW5sJRyoh5fiVk7N9LACLcBGAsYHQ/s226/Unknown.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="226" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FxjRDYdw3J0/X1tdEzgdQrI/AAAAAAAAKPE/4QZ7QrCwNV8oHrFW5sJRyoh5fiVk7N9LACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div><br />I'm struggling, in search of a leading line.</div><div>Perhaps I'll let do Paul do the talking:</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"My eyes are ringing and my eyes are sore</i></div><div><i>There's things out there that I can't ignore</i></div><div><i>So draw the curtains and lock the door</i></div><i>I've no appetite for more"</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HXKllS9Sen4/X1tdUtxosNI/AAAAAAAAKPQ/_kBGgZ-SYqsTTe2jadOJfuM2qTwj4sZmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s275/Unknown-4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HXKllS9Sen4/X1tdUtxosNI/AAAAAAAAKPQ/_kBGgZ-SYqsTTe2jadOJfuM2qTwj4sZmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Unknown-4.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div><b style="text-align: center;"><br /></b></div><div><b style="text-align: center;">'Domestic'</b><span style="text-align: center;"> is clearly rooted in the idea of </span><i style="text-align: center;">'home'.</i><span style="text-align: center;"> Armfield apparently gave up on work and decided to hibernate. It seems that he'd been over stimulated by worldy affairs and was intent on retreat: </span><div><i>"There's nothing being said that I want to hear. And if anybody wants me I'm not here."</i></div><div>His ambitions had become more wholly humble.</div><div><i>"January first. My new year's resolution is to learn the second verse of Auld Lang Syne'. </i></div><div>I know, I know: comparisons are odious but I'm getting Jake and Jaques with a slight aftertaste of Leonard. Wait, there's a bit of Waits in there too. The ghosts of Thackery, Brel and Cohen are fine spirits to marinate your fledgling <i>chanson</i> in. Perhaps more than anyone, Armfield shares a muse of the mews with Essex folk singer Chris Wood, whose keen eye and dry wit similarly details the familial and the tribal. They occupy common ground as they focus on the solid state of things: the <i>actual </i>world rather than a <i>virtual</i> one. Paul ponders, but his touch is light, coherent, heartfelt and true. His treacley tenor has a calming timbre: perfectly pitched as he sings of the mundanities; toting and detailing the dots that join our everyday. He raises the drawbridge to consider the quotidian and occasionally peers out to squint at the connections outdoors. But how to truly retreat if you are genuinely compassionate and concerned? Paul's looking in to better look out: you can sense the curtains twitching. And in that refined worldview, beyond the sweet ennui, there's a worldly recognition of the bitter divisions that Brexit has elicited; particularly the platform afforded to those with concerns about national identity. Ironic then that Armfield lives on a tiny island anchored to a larger one. From his home on the Isle of Wight he questions the entitlement of belonging. In <b>'Flagbearers'</b> his kindly gaze drifts from navel fluff to naval flags. <i>'Washed up on the shore, just a mongrel like yourself... Is that a medal of honour or just a badly drawn drawn bulldog tattoo? </i>He wearily concludes <i>"We are all just strangers." </i>It is perhaps that disheartened sense of dislocation that has ushered him towards the sanctuary and protection of his own threshold. And there there is family. There there is love: <i>"And for the briefest perfect moment I am absolutely yours and you are absolutely mine". </i>Paul considers the empty nest of a newly child free home in <b>'Fledglings'</b>: "<i>The roost is tidier, every room is cleaner, quieter, wider. Less housework yes but much less homely... I still leave the door unlocked." </i>His attention ultimately settles on his life partner, his beloved wife whom he clearly and cleverly eulogises in <b>'You'</b>. It's a lovesong so artfully, heartfully stuffed with love that you want to hug the both of them: <i>"My heart's a purse that's full to bursting, but the only thing of any worth is a faded crumpled photograph of you."</i> </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1rZTV6Vro50/X1tdotJXzvI/AAAAAAAAKPY/_IIAWGqGHEMwh4xF3B8RUXG42a6vIY-YQCLcBGAsYHQ/s275/Unknown-2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="229" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1rZTV6Vro50/X1tdotJXzvI/AAAAAAAAKPY/_IIAWGqGHEMwh4xF3B8RUXG42a6vIY-YQCLcBGAsYHQ/w344-h229/Unknown-2.jpeg" width="344" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>It is the rarest of things: a work of quiet, considered beauty: one that takes its own sweet time to reveal itself. With an album so lyrically rich it is easy to overlook the musical content. It's jazz, it's folk, it's lovely. Interestingly Paul chose to record these homely homilies abroad in Stuttgart with European musicians. At the core are Giulio Cantore on guitars and cavaquinho, drummer Johann Polzer and producer Max Braun on bass. Their gentle strums and sophisticated proddings provide the perfect patchwork for what could be the perfect <i>'duvet album'.</i> And yet, although this album fits like a pair of well loved slippers, Paul's mischief keeps a pebble playfully placed, just in case you should get too comfortable. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xy0Qs8i7Ko0/X1td5I0hWKI/AAAAAAAAKPk/A-i9Zhvkqm4n3ZQBUpKGlAc6TrhkLRP5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s293/Unknown-3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="293" height="269" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xy0Qs8i7Ko0/X1td5I0hWKI/AAAAAAAAKPk/A-i9Zhvkqm4n3ZQBUpKGlAc6TrhkLRP5ACLcBGAsYHQ/w458-h269/Unknown-3.jpeg" width="458" /></a></div><br /><div>This is ultimately an album written by a man in love with words. His concept is nuanced with caution and care: if there's a more finessed, lyrically astute album released this year I'll eat my Thesaurus. Profound and scintillatingly droll, Paul Armfield is a master of the <i>bon mot</i> and the vinegary vagary. I could flick the artfully printed lyric cards at you and let you find faith in the familiarities. But I can only quote Paul so much, so will leave you with the last lines of the final song: a summation of <b>Domestic's </b>canny conceit: that, although home is where the heart is, we're all home alone.<b> </b>Armfield's search for a sense of home has no cozy conclusion. He settles for <i>'a lighter darkness'.</i><b><i> </i> 'Alone'</b> recognizes the loves and losses that make this sweet, ordinary life such an extraordinary wonder. And appropriately enough, there, finally, is my leading line: <i>This sweet, ordinary album is an extraordinary wonder.</i> </div><div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Rain flicks the leaves and the wind whips through the trees</i></div><div><i>And a lighter darkness spills out across the sky</i></div><div><i>The headlights of the cars lead us back to where we started from</i></div><div><i>We buckle up and drive ourselves back home</i></div><div><i>In silence, together but alone"</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BV-B3nWh33s" width="320" youtube-src-id="BV-B3nWh33s"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jON6Z8maMgk" width="320" youtube-src-id="jON6Z8maMgk"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BH9CLZuMx64" width="320" youtube-src-id="BH9CLZuMx64"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-18530643045490168292020-09-04T13:14:00.094+01:002020-09-04T16:18:59.179+01:00Lovesong: Sylvie Simmons: Blue on Blue<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0VJXtySKHMk/X1IuDpBzxlI/AAAAAAAAKN8/vqueI--Irpw1LCfkaoDSujGtJwaJQqutgCLcBGAsYHQ/s240/Unknown.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0VJXtySKHMk/X1IuDpBzxlI/AAAAAAAAKN8/vqueI--Irpw1LCfkaoDSujGtJwaJQqutgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div><i><p><i>“I’d always thought of the uke as a toy … a little handful of happiness. But not anymore. From the </i><i>moment I picked it up, I fell in love. A ukulele has a sad, fractured sweetness, like a broken harp. And a modesty. It doesn’t try to impress you, it almost apologizes for being there.”</i></p></i><p></p><p>So spoke Sylvie. <i>'Fractured sweetness' </i>pretty much sums up the appeal of this delicate offering. It's quite an achievement that an album birthed in hurt is steeped in such serenity. The portents weren't good. Simmons had recorded her 2014 debut <i>'Sylvie' </i>in Arizona with the grandaddy of Americana, Howe Gelb. She returned to Gelb's favoured Tucson studio <i>WaveLab</i> in 2017 to start work on the follow up. However, whilst out walking in the desert after the first day's recording, a stumble led to serious injury; particularly a badly broken left hand. That hurt not only halted the recordings and challenged Simmons' future uke skills, but actually threatened the loss of a limb. Sylvie retreated to her home in San Fransisco to recover and reconsider. Time told. Wounds eventually healed. With itching scars still smarting, she gamely returned to the source of the hurt. Hurt and recovery are major themes here. <b>'Blue on Blue' </b>a perfect title then. You get the feeling that Sylvie's world is hurtful, hopeful and homely. That she managed to recreate that feeling so far from home is credit to the company she chose to keep for these recordings.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XrfvRxd-Jv8/X1IuRfAWinI/AAAAAAAAKOA/oPSgs_7lSBYrO4c9ghF1HbNfdLx2pwLIQCLcBGAsYHQ/s720/11207287_10154167964914377_3134179327606064829_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XrfvRxd-Jv8/X1IuRfAWinI/AAAAAAAAKOA/oPSgs_7lSBYrO4c9ghF1HbNfdLx2pwLIQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/11207287_10154167964914377_3134179327606064829_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Producer <b>Howe Gelb </b>famously sees rehearsal as <i>'the enemy'. </i>He gathered a trusty crew of Tucsonan musicians to come play his ruleless game: familiars who recognized the virtues of spontaneity. Gelb kept things suitably understated throughout: there's plenty of space left for nuance, finesse, and the wonder that is Sylvie's breathy delivery. Her ukulele, that <i>'broken harp', </i>laconically leads, keyboards whisper, a bass occasionally wanders into the spartan room, guitars gently conspire to caress the silence. There are whistles and bells (yup) but they are playfully placed to unsettle any possibility of ennui. The lack of drums and percussion lend a faltering uncertainty which adds to the woozy, indolent charm. And charm is central to the success of this album. There is vulnerability in Sylvie's gentle voice: a quivering quaver that speaks of hard earned heartache. And what of the songs? Given the preceding trauma, you anticipate bitter darkness: you are gifted sweetness and light. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vka0VLmEDRA/X1IvJug0wtI/AAAAAAAAKOg/ZK4UZuy6gZYl1JxDoorWvGkOboOVjhSWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s225/Unknown-2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vka0VLmEDRA/X1IvJug0wtI/AAAAAAAAKOg/ZK4UZuy6gZYl1JxDoorWvGkOboOVjhSWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Unknown-2.jpeg" /></a></div><p>Her style is classic Laurel Canyon 70s song-smithery, and Sylvie references that influence with a calm, quiet confidence. It is clear that she has spent a lifetime marinating in music. Her journalistic career has required her to consider and critique the successes and failures of others. Gamekeeper turned poacher then? More like poacher turned sitting duck: a courageous step away from the relative comfort of disinterested editorials, towards the faltering uncertainties of a life as troubadour.<i> </i>And Sylvie surely leads with her chin. You feel the kindred influence of Nico in the loose limbed, quotidian appraisals. You sense the presence of Leonard Cohen in the lyrical conceits, in the way that Sylvie catches and caresses the mundanities with her poets' eye: <i>“ladybugs climb up the blade of grass and balance on top of a dewdrop, swaying in the breeze like they were floating on a fish eye.” </i>You hear Neil Young in most every fragile melody. This does not confer Simmons a copyist. How could a life in music not influence her creativity? What's fascinating is that, because she has left it so late in the day to write these songs, she's too worldly to play the <i>ingénue. </i>She presents herself as she is, not as what she wants to become. And yet this awareness is not a cocky strut. It's a gentle, breezy dance: a composed, rear mirror recognition of where her life has beached her. And that Sylvie chooses to keep dancing, with no shoes on, amid the broken glass and dog shit, renders her tender songs as mischievous, elegant courtship. It's that heady mix of knowing and naivety that makes <b>'Blue on Blue'</b> simply irresistible.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3tNF-gn0g5k" width="320" youtube-src-id="3tNF-gn0g5k"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p></p>Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-51681812717129767472020-08-15T13:10:00.565+01:002021-04-15T09:04:13.250+01:00Lovesong: The Bathers: The Marina Trilogy<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5VY4H15YZGE/XzfLqDOzilI/AAAAAAAAKM0/hVs6e8Rn92YcTEywnYu0N5DbSMbJU0LVwCLcBGAsYHQ/s259/Unknown-3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5VY4H15YZGE/XzfLqDOzilI/AAAAAAAAKM0/hVs6e8Rn92YcTEywnYu0N5DbSMbJU0LVwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Unknown-3.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><b><div><b>The Bathers: The Marina Trilogy</b></div></b><div><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></b></div>Lagoon Blues · Sunpowder · Kelvingrove Baby<div><b><b><b><br /></b></b></b></div><b>A re-issue of the three, long out of print albums that Chris Thomson's band The Bathers released in the 90s on the German label Marina.<br />Vinyl & CD: Released 23 October, 2020</b><div><b><br /></b><div><b><a href="https://www.marinarecords.com/produkt-schlagwort/the-bathers/">Available to pre-order here</a></b><b><br /></b><br /><i><b>I have followed Chris Thomson's music from the off. Friends Again's 'Trapped and Unwrapped' (1984) was a fine debut. It mined a similar vein to Roddy Frame's Aztec Camera and that was good enough for me. When they split in 1985 I'd heard that Chris had formed a band as a vehicle for his idiosyncratic stylings. I remember buying the first album 'Unusual Places to Die' in 1987 and was intrigued, although a little unsure of the ramshackle musicality. 1990s 'Sweet Deceit' was a step in the right direction for me, but I was still not overwhelmed. And then the band signed to German label Marina and the stars seemed to align. </b></i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"A heightened sense of romanticism was part and parcel of those songs and recordings. At times the lines became blurred, as they tend to do. T</i><i>hat exploration of those shadowy regions yields much beauty."</i> </div><div><i><b>Chris Thomson August 2020</b></i></div><div><div><br /></div><div>Listening to Chris Thomson’s music can be a little overwhelming. It is an investment for sure, but there’s labour involved. It’s a journey that you are required to surrender to. It has to be a personal engagement: you have to take Chris on. His is a dizzy dance: one moment stately, jittery the next, but one that leaves you breathlessly elated. You are often reduced to mirroring uncertain, fragmented steps. My reactions are abstract, emotional. I try to find meaning in the vague reverie but, as I struggle to focus, I'm moved along apace. It’s a bit like jogging through the rooms of a lofty art gallery whilst wearing your Mum’s glasses: the eye never quite settles. It’s a gentle pace for sure: the music is dark and strangely exotic, otherworldly. It’s all about love of course: a lush, intoxicating romanticism that elicits a giddy reaction, as you voyeuristically view half-revealed moments. Thomson’s muse is cinematic, operatic, impressionistic: you are challenged to decipher the opulent imagery, the fanciful conceits, the half whispered, unfinished sentences. It evokes rather than details, although sometimes the details are telling. But telling what? You are reduced to grasping at fleeting glimpses, sneaking snatched impressions: of the torment of unrequited love, of kisses un-kissed, of the musty musk of yesterday’s sheets; of the veiled promise of a moonlit tryst. There’s lots of movement, often towards gothic destinations, usually on the wings of desire, despair, or an old love song. These are not confessionals though: there's mischief afoot. It is clear that Thomson has created a persona to inhabit the lush, theatrical backdrops that couch his concerns. There is however a sure sense of 'self' in the flesh that he puts on his hero's bones. Lines blur between fact and fiction: Chris is surely investing the script with his own hard earned wisdom. His champion becomes ours: an exemplar of romantic virtue. We are swept along, essentially taken for a ride. That you commit unquestioningly to his journey is a sure sign of a confident craftsmen: so convincingly does he inhabit his imagined world. The man himself admits that <i>"... a heightened sense of romanticism was part and parcel of those songs and recordings. At times the lines became blurred, as they tend to do." </i>We come to see 'the artist' as the man: a further indication that Thomson plays his part well. And so it becomes almost impossible to listen to the songs without accepting them at face value: and that face is Thomson's. And you can't help but root for him </div><div><br /></div><div>Our protagonist is dissolute; potentially profligate, certainly rakish. Pleasured, pained, frustrated and seldom satiated. Heroic but unenviable, erudite but seemingly unbalanced: found yet flailing; giddy and unsettled by his adventures. You find yourself lost in a hinterland of what's real and imagined. But what wondrous perplexity! When it comes to brow furrowed romantic rumination, even stumbling, Thomson is virtually peerless. And his peers? Tom Waits’ lust is earthier, Leonard Cohen’s more grounded. For me Thomson shares much of Nick Cave’s libertinism. Cave’s desires are more tangible, flesh made real; potential conquests caught confidently in his cross hairs. His challenges are rationalized, his impulses controlled. Thomson seems less confident of his quest, intent on serenity but less sure of the source of desire. And yet that flailing intensifies his adventure: the ardor increases, triggering a desperate pursuit for more of that elusive pleasure… Desire and fulfillment are seldom happy bedfellows. Perhaps that’s the crux of Thomson’s dilemma: the unfulfilled hope, the unrealized ambition. It’s familiar fodder for songwriters. Tom Waits famously told us that <i>“The obsession's in the chasing and not the apprehending. The pursuit, you see, and never the arrest.”</i></div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hSnhOGicurI/XzfM6O3Xr1I/AAAAAAAAKNc/RbGHDRNV32YCvJ6bMrykvnnX8uat59t-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s200/Unknown-5.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="200" height="229" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hSnhOGicurI/XzfM6O3Xr1I/AAAAAAAAKNc/RbGHDRNV32YCvJ6bMrykvnnX8uat59t-ACLcBGAsYHQ/w250-h229/Unknown-5.jpeg" width="250" /></a></div><div>Back footed and reticent, Thomson’s plight is less harmonious, more beguiling, shrouded by uncertainty. I listen hard, desperate to understand but destined to be kept in the dark. I’m reminded of when, as a child, I read by torchlight under sheets. The words seemed weightier, their meaning more intense. That sensory overload added to the giddy appreciation, but didn’t necessarily result in understanding. Whether this is pretension or artful ambition depends upon your mood or your appetite. This intoxicating music renders me drowsy, makes me taste dark, bitter chocolate. That Thomson’s reach exceeds his grasp speaks volumes of his unfettered ambition. His vision remains singular, untethered to the lexicon of rock and roll. Strewth! I hope you’re still with me? Apologies if this seems over-written. Writing about The Bathers is about as challenging as listening to them. </div><div><br />And so, to the albums. <b>‘The Marina Trilogy’.</b> </div><div>The three, long out of print albums that The Bathers released under the patronage of German label <b>Marina </b>during the 1990s. It’s unfathomable that this is their first ever printing on vinyl. This music seems conceived, created and designed for that format. I’m happy to report that the platters are flat, noiseless and beautifully syrupy. </div><div>Trying to describe the music is a challenge: one that might be beyond me but I'm keen to give it a go. I think it best to initially consider Thomson's broad intention for his musical escapades. He recently told me <i>"that exploration of those shadowy regions yields much beauty."</i> And it surely does. It's a thrilling adventure, one that I'm happy to join him on.</div><div>Dim the lights, fill my glass, I’m going in…<br /><br /><b>Lagoon Blues (1993)</b><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n3VtyoklsEo/XzfL59x2LBI/AAAAAAAAKNA/qtrbexl0wXYyP09BFJVCzDvUOhDd6LIvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s225/Unknown-2.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n3VtyoklsEo/XzfL59x2LBI/AAAAAAAAKNA/qtrbexl0wXYyP09BFJVCzDvUOhDd6LIvQCLcBGAsYHQ/w180-h180/Unknown-2.jpeg" width="180" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Interestingly, this album was completed as <i>'a speculative venture' </i>before Marina became involved. Once they had heard the mixes they were convinced to put their weight behind the album. This is a definite development from the first two Bathers albums. With all of the building blocks now in place, there is a sense of the flexing of muscles: an excitement at the possibilities of this new format. The woozy, languid arrangements are sumptuosly velveteen: the cryptic narratives strangely unsettling; the fragmented montages almost Brechtian in spirit. And yet you are swept along, because it would seem indecent to break the spell. The songs are informed by the sweet and sweaty perfume of passion. The arrangements bewilderingly baroque, loose, almost adlibbed. There’s not a whiff of Caledonia. The songs are awash with European reference: Mahler, Bergman, sultry Italian summers, Grand Hotels, French gowns. Cupid takes aim, misses, takes aim again. And again. Unrequited love abounds. The indulgence is almost indecent. Christ knows what Marina's commercial expectations were. The most radio friendly cut <b>‘Ave the Leopards’</b> proclaims: <i>“Ave Little Mamma, meet me at the fountain tonight. Bring your Egyptian pistols and blast them in the cool of the night… Mind me when mischief finds me, from the cruel and the vain.” </i>A call to arms as such, but a call that I’m not sure Radio 1 would’ve returned.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>Sunpowder (1995)</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VrahgvOugSs/XzfML0CSK9I/AAAAAAAAKNI/mExQUNlZhBQy4POWvGHdhRap71am3fANwCLcBGAsYHQ/s226/Unknown-1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="223" height="181" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VrahgvOugSs/XzfML0CSK9I/AAAAAAAAKNI/mExQUNlZhBQy4POWvGHdhRap71am3fANwCLcBGAsYHQ/w178-h181/Unknown-1.jpeg" width="178" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Co-produced by Thomson with Keith Mitchell, a newly formed band endorsed the Bathers’ sophisticated formula: a unique blend: let’s call it ‘chamber jazz folk’. The burgeoning relationship with Marina had given the band a fresh confidence. This was a step forward: ever ambitious but musically more assured, likely because the line-up had become more established. Guest vocals from ex Cocteau Twin Liz Frazer added an ethereal foil for Thomson’s tormented, earthier concerns: fixing on <i>‘love’s power’</i>, the church chords always seem to lead to the boudoir. <i>‘Tonight we have nothing left to prove… to feel love, to feel alive… and to know that once again we will surrender to love.” </i>The accumulative lushness is akin to taking a mouthful of pear drops and, 5 minutes later washing them down with a healthy dose of Channel No 5. Yet another sensual overload then. ‘DelFt’ is a song so delicately fragile that I daren’t breath until, at the death, Thomson tellingly murmured <i>“If I could just be the one”.</i> The details are delicious. His beloved is faithless, nameless, shameless, unchained. And she holds <i>‘a little black book on jazz’. </i>One minute stage centre, the next whispering with the chorus downstage, laconic, yet intent, Thomson brings a Prospero like mischief to the proceedings. Love' rough magic: he still cannot quantify its baseless fabric: the object of his love remains lost or just out of reach; the malaise and cure perfectly captured in an unusually direct line from <b>‘For Saskia’:</b> <i>“I couldn’t keep you for too long, but I can keep you in a song, forever young… forever in a dream.”</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Even though adrift, Chris seems closer to ‘home’, the injuries more local, he remains disoriented, loss and loneliness still inform the songs. In <b>‘Weem Rock Muse</b>’ he’s <i>“... lost in the Scottish mountains. Alone in the Scottish mists”.</i> He’s haunted by the <i>‘lost brown eyed Scottish girl’</i> of <b>‘She’s Gone Forever’.</b> And finally, devastatingly, he’s cast astray in the desolate conclusion of <b>‘The Dutch Venus’:</b> <i>‘There’s nothing left to trust. Everything is lost.” </i>Champion or chump? Thomson's gallant hero might be a fool for love, forever putting his face to the pie, doomed to repeat the same mistakes, but has the arc of despair ever been rendered quite so beautifully?<br /><br /><b>Kelvingrove Baby (1997)</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x7ptu0cEVqg/XzfMeaQ6vLI/AAAAAAAAKNQ/qfbfgDxa6ik77rIFC8V5COeMX-82FCrVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s226/Unknown.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="226" height="178" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x7ptu0cEVqg/XzfMeaQ6vLI/AAAAAAAAKNQ/qfbfgDxa6ik77rIFC8V5COeMX-82FCrVgCLcBGAsYHQ/w181-h178/Unknown.jpeg" width="181" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The expanded band line up that shaped <b>‘Sunpowder’ </b>reconvened to make what would be The Bathers’ final record with Marina. The rhythm section was still unresolved: duties shared between bassists Sam Loup, Douglas MacIntyre and Ken McHugh vied with drummers Hazel Morrison and James Locke. Guitarist Colin McIlroy was joined by accordionist, pianist Carlo Scattini, organist Fermina Haze, augmented by the strings of Ian White and Mark Wilson. Love and Money’s James Grant and Del Amitri’s Justin Currie fleshed out the backing vocals.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Our man is still world weary, troubled, but here he seems more focussed on his foibles. We are offered snapshots rather than fleeting images. He catches things square on, rather than from the corner of his eye. It is all the more engaging for that. Our capture and commitment makes for an easier engagement than previously. Thomson's foil appears to have resolved a few of his issues, although he's forever fated to struggle with detailing, let alone defining, love’s mysteries. Less impressionistic: more assured, where love was once unrequited, there was now a girlfriend: something that initially gives the album an almost celebratory feel. <br /><i>“Isn’t she fine? Positively the sweetest of her kind.” </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">In that moment, you kind of want to throw your hat in the air and give the guy a great big hug. He remains hopeful of retaining that love in what might be his most beloved song, ‘If Love Could Last Forever’. But for me the highpoint of the album is the title track. <b>‘Kelvingrove Baby’. </b>Unsurprisingly it is unashamedly romantic: <i>“If I could reach you I would walk all night to hold you in the racing dawn”.</i><br />And then, line of lines, moment of moments, as the song rushes towards its thrilling climax, Thomson asserts: <br /><i>When you girl looks at you<br />Yes when she sighs<br />When she moves beside you<br />You want the moment<br />Touched with magic<br />And immortality <br />You want rain<br />You want soft music<br />And the last words to be about love.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i>It is a transcendent, celebratory, chicken skin moment that I’d recommend to the hardest heart. The intoxicating vagaries of desire distilled into a single beat. It reminds us why we love music: it takes the mundane and somehow, miraculously renders it holy. The holy held: the unobtainable grasped. It is more than just a <i>‘connection’,</i> it feels more like a communion. A joyous, hopeful moment to remind us that we are all connected: as much by our defeats as by our victories, and that, however fleeting, that moment needs to be marked. That generosity is positively elevating. The finale of this song alone made me love the album. 'Kelvingrove Baby' feels like the conclusion of the record but only ends side 1. Flipside there’s a more prosaic joy in <b>‘Dial’.<i> </i></b><i>“There’s nothing quite as sweet, kicking off your shoes in the sand”. </i>But then, as the album slips gracefully towards conclusion, you feel a mournful sense of slippage, as though a spell has been broken. The Keatsian conceit is that beauty is transient. Similarly, Thomson is recognising the impermanence of acquisition: reminded that defeat follows victory as surely as night follows day. You begin to wonder whether the ‘girlfriend’ is flesh or fantasy, a figment of a hopeful heart. Our principal is laid bare, vulnerable, earthbound; languorously concluding<i> ‘I was not born to fly’. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">The album concludes with ‘Twelve’. <br /><i>Yes I love you<br />Until the orchids<br />Forget to bloom<br />Yes I love you<br />Until the roses<br />Lose their perfume<br />Yes I love you<br />Until the poets<br />Run out of rhyme<br />Yes I love you<br />Until the twelfth of never<br />And, baby, you know that’s<br />Such a long, long time</i><br /><br />In lesser hands the sentiment could be sweet, saccharine, valentine card trite. As a sign-off from an artist who is more often lost than found, the effect is heart-swellingly moving. Thomson lays himself open: his dignified croon straining, struggling. It speaks more about the healing powers of love than the injuries of loss. Victories and defeats are our daily bread. Somehow, miraculously, Thomson serves them up as manna from heaven. <br /><br /><b>‘Kelvingrove Baby’ </b>is certainly The Bathers' most coherent album to date. One that many consider Chris Thomson’s masterpiece. I can but agree. It deserves to be held in the same esteem as The Blue Nile's 'Hats'. I can't think of a higher compliment. I can also confidently attest to the accumulative effect of the music on these three albums. With each release, The Bathers got better. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b> The Marina Trilogy</b> deserves to sit atop the highest pedestal. Like much worthy art, it often willfully disguises intention, challenging you to find meaning. Perhaps ‘understanding’ is not pivotal here. Why try to demystify? Why sacrifice magic for meaning? Maybe all that’s required is willing. You do have to be up for the challenge. Best not to look too long or think too hard. Best not to attempt to decode the veiled messages: they’re often too lateral to be taken literally. Best to surrender to Thomson’s vulnerable charms and admire his ambitious devotion, then douse yourself in the vagaries of his intent. Best to steep yourself in the kindred sorrows and, dare I say, wallow in the recognitions. Better; to celebrate the brief sojourns and then marinade in the melancholy of their loss. Better still, to simply immerse yourself in Chris Thomson’s brave, bold and beautiful quest for betterment. But please, don’t just dip your toe, this is music to bathe in.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-HwEWns06jo" width="320" youtube-src-id="-HwEWns06jo"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div>Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-16999064913511959512020-08-13T17:24:00.011+01:002020-08-13T17:36:44.537+01:00Lovesong: Blue Rose Code: With Healings of the Deepest Kind<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gx-QcbCI0Ck/XzVoNpI0xSI/AAAAAAAAKMU/udDF0IScGMkJBAKl0dheeTT1bsziPlx9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s369/download-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="136" data-original-width="369" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gx-QcbCI0Ck/XzVoNpI0xSI/AAAAAAAAKMU/udDF0IScGMkJBAKl0dheeTT1bsziPlx9ACLcBGAsYHQ/w576-h213/download-2.jpg" width="576" /></a></div><p></p>A new album from Blue Rose Code is always something to celebrate. The title 'With Healings of the Deepest Kind' kind of gives the game away. There are fresh wounds, there is healing: gratitude follows. It might be a familiar path but it's trodden with such grace and fortitude that you cannot help but cheer Ross Wilson on. His is a vulnerable heart: music quite clearly his salvation. He may be worried but he's not weary. One minute fragile, the next bold, ever hopeful. He sings of boundaries and horizons: of stumbling and correction, with a coltish enthusiasm that keeps him sticking his chin out, brow furrowed, yet keenly coming back for more. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VNkvjCgC5iQ/XzVpDzYILPI/AAAAAAAAKMk/TQNx3rZ4w1Y1cCI_aIztCszibJmQjBNfACLcBGAsYHQ/s266/images-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="266" height="236" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VNkvjCgC5iQ/XzVpDzYILPI/AAAAAAAAKMk/TQNx3rZ4w1Y1cCI_aIztCszibJmQjBNfACLcBGAsYHQ/w333-h236/images-1.jpg" width="333" /></a></div><p></p>There is a palpable, almost elemental sense of place: of sea, of sky, of home: the music deeply rooted in its Celtic connections. The Caledonian riffing and loose, but pitch perfect jazz tinged arrangements, tip the hat to Van the Man, but Wilson seems a more compassionate, generous spirit: he gives of himself and we receive him as ours. Folk music then. And this is 'folk' music of the highest order and of the deepest kind.<br /><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ArTNhh7HUpQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="ArTNhh7HUpQ"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><p></p>Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-72231766837822164282020-07-20T13:39:00.000+01:002020-07-20T13:39:19.885+01:00Lovesong: God Only Knows: Brian Wilson: <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A while back I was involved in an interesting discussion with a mate (Tim Patrick) regarding Brian Wilson. Tim recently reminded me of the conversation and pointed me towards the unadorned but beautiful version of <b>'God Only Knows' </b>that that's hosted at the base of this post. So, Tim's question was: has Brian Wilson's mental state cut short his creativity?<div>
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It's that eccentricity that led him to the outlandish notions, melodies, arrangements that others could never conceive. It was Brian's brain, the one that created <b>'Surf's Up', </b>that also put him in the sandpit. There's a childlike, manic naivety that marks many a creative 'genius'. Mozart anyone? Those ecstatic demons surely take fated talents to different places than the rest of us. Our demons have hiding places, or at least boxes that we create for their storage. Even if Brian could banish his demons they still continue to send postcards. Our angels and demons often wear the same shoes; shoes that make us dance or hobble us horribly; dependent upon... God only knows. Imagine the frustration of soaring, elevated, only to find yourself earthbound the next moment. It's a fascinating subject: The Muse. It inevitably takes as much as it gives; often breaks what it builds; reducing building blocks to... sand. And, from my experience, there are a limited number of bricks; only so much water in the well. <div>
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Lucky for us that Wilson was able to capture his best juice as elixir rater than the diluted stuff that most of us muster. Interesting that genius is often associated with youth. Could it be that as we get older we learn how to control and suppress the demons/angels that previously caused havoc, but were an essential element of our creativity? Perhaps experience teaches us to rein in our creativity because the very randomness of the muse's visitations might render us unstable and vulnerable? Perhaps Wilson has disassociated himself from the challenges of creativity with the simple recognition, and acceptance, that he just wasn't made for these times. Maybe that explains the weeping middle aged men at his concerts: a gaggle of gurning geezers recognizing their under-achievements; all to the glorious soundtrack of the ultimate underachiever. So many questions that, for most of us, will remain unanswered. Brian knows there's an answer, one that's seemingly, frustratingly only just out of his reach. However, if the question is: "What could a 'sane' Brian Wilson have achieved?" there is only one answer...</div>
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Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-1008861114970646592020-07-14T14:24:00.006+01:002020-07-14T22:23:12.781+01:00Lovesong: Sufjan Stevens: America<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MJsHYg8y36o/Xw2xOYSfDkI/AAAAAAAAKLk/b92yh4_oo-055PPpj1_vgVJOXn9TbCk7QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MJsHYg8y36o/Xw2xOYSfDkI/AAAAAAAAKLk/b92yh4_oo-055PPpj1_vgVJOXn9TbCk7QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a><b>Sufjan Stevens </b>makes brave and challenging music. 'America' is no exception. No easy listen: it's one for you to decipher yourself. For me it is not dissimilar in intent to <b>Dylan</b>’s recent <b>‘Murder Most Foul’. </b>Another sprawling montage: another bold auteur in despair at America’s political and cultural decline. This is less specific, more notional than Dylan’s ribald diatribe. It is similarly ambitious and no less lofty. Clocking in at 12 minutes plus you might wonder at the wonder boy’s focus but, after a few listens, the penny drops. I reckon that, after the personal angst that informed his last album, 2017s <b>‘Carrie and Lowell’,</b> he is now addressing his nation’s mass misery. That is too broad a subject to go into here. Suffice to say that, after the initial hushed hymnal reverence, the beauty and discord that informs the final third of this prolonged piece surely exemplifies the dissonance and distress that I know most of my American friends feel at the disintegration of their country. Their horror and embarrassment often renders them muted. You can’t speak for others, let alone a nation, but Sufjan does his best:<i> “I’m ashamed to admit I no longer believe,”</i> he confesses.<i> “Don’t do to me what you did to America.”</i></div>
Given the impressionistic vibe what are the abiding impressions? Image is everything but meaning is lost: ‘truth’ rendered spectral. The colour’s turned up but the sound is turned down: we risk becoming detached, disinterested, deafened: immune to the contradictions and deceit that currently colour the ‘everyday’. The message will remain unclear but the revolution will, most certainly, be televised.<div>
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In the spirit of the folk singer, Stevens once set out to release an album as a signifier for each State of his nation. He gave up after two (<b>'Illinois'</b> and <b>'Michigan'</b>), daunted at the prospect. Ironic then that he has released a single to detail the state of his nation. It seems as much informed by uncertainty as certainty. Ain’t that a sign of the times? And the times they are a changing.</div>
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Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-42502179241860155522020-07-10T11:08:00.005+01:002020-07-10T11:29:41.646+01:00Lovesong: False Native: Satan Salad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A few years back, when Di and I were involved in the Arizona music scene, we encountered a willowy young man, <b>Daniel Vildosola</b>. Dan, a Tucson native, was living in London, looking for some kind of angle. When we were introduced one Soho summer evening, he held a charming, angelic girlfriend and a beautiful blue guitar. He was in town to play at the legendary, but now defunct 12 Bar Club on Denmark Street. His gig: to accompany fellow Tusconian Brian Lopez, who was hustling for a solo career. Dan’s semi-acoustic jazz chordings and smart musicality seemed slightly out of kilter with the sawdust setting into which he’d been thrust. His sweet, callow nature, courtly manners and cherubic features set him apart from the regular shuffle. Here was a fledgling talent in search of a loftier stage.<br /><br />Fast forward to last week: I got a call from Daniel. He had been playing guitar in <b>HÆLOS</b>, a 4 piece band, but wondered if I’d take a listen to a new musical project that he was working on with his cousin Aris Schwabe.<b> ‘False Native’</b> was their moniker, <b>‘Satan Salad’ </b>the beguiling title of their first single. The press release warned that we’d be <i>“transported to a bad dream brimming with all that is sinister in the human condition”</i>. I looked at the accompanying photo to see that Daniel’s wide-eyed gaze had been finessed to a steely stare. Seemed that he’d found his attitude. I wondered if a <b>Giant Sand/Calexico</b> hybrid was inevitable. I was promised <i>“Tom Waits caught in a Mexican standoff with Nick Cave deep in the Sonoran Desert”</i> and considered hiding under the bed, but instead fronted up the speakers and pressed ‘play’. I expected darkness but got light. No gothic rumble, but a light acoustic shuffle, the sweet, ghostly shimmer of pedal steel, sound-tracks a half-spoken vocal detailing the<i> “anti-conformist ways of a troubled man”</i>. What could have been sardonic is rendered satirical by the oblique lyric’s smart, crooked smile. They are detailing a rocky road but their hands are firmly on the wheel. The deftness of touch initially belies the subject matter, but there is a controlled knowingness that renders that dark tale authentic and alluring. ‘False Native’ suggests displacement, but they surely inhabit their world. Their idiosyncratic narratives and nimble arrangements, married to a parochial sense of place, reminds me more of fellow southerner Jim White than the more worldly Waits or Cave.<br /><br />I’m intrigued to hear how this musical landscape will be developed into the promised <b>‘Rodeo Nights’ </b>album. I suspect a rough concept will dovetail more dark tales. I’m in though: this is a beguiling debut that offers more light than darkness. Skillfully sourced, beautifully produced and perfectly rendered, ‘Satan Salad’ is sure to whet the appetite: focussed and succinct: perhaps promising more than it delivers but, in doing so, leaving us wanting more. This salad the perfect entrée then. <div>
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<a href="mailto:falsenative@gmail.com">falsenative@gmail.com</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.falsenative.com/">www.falsenative.com </a><br /><br /><div>
<a href="https://open.spotify.com/album/0BqndUDAvPW7teCNPEhY8d?si=6i9pUa6FQN-BJTqaszWmdw">https://open.spotify.com/album/0BqndUDAvPW7teCNPEhY8d?si=6i9pUa6FQN-BJTqaszWmdw</a></div>
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Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2703706690625306888.post-45697624906074735272020-04-01T14:24:00.001+01:002020-04-01T14:24:24.021+01:00Lovesong: Jackson Browne: Sleep's Dark and Silent Gate<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>“Get up and do it again, Amen.” </i><br />Another day in isolation. I'm intrigued by the music that I am reaching for. It seems that comfort is paramount. It suggests that the 'middle ground' isn't a bad place to be in such times: perhaps the excitement of 'the edges' are a currently a little unreliable...<br /><br />So, today I'll be trying to work out just why I love Jackson Browne's words (mainly) and music so much. To many he represents everything bland, smug and staid about the singer/songwriter tradition. Not for me: there is a poetic vision rooted in his 'everyman' akin to Springsteen's. But while Bruce often walks the streets head down, Browne's view is loftier, although his brow remains mainly furrowed, always <i>'one day way from where I want to be'.</i> His was always an old soul in an ever youthful skin. Maybe that's the nub of my attraction: in his naivety he's a kind of kindred spirit. His sagely confused, yet almost adolescently formless gaze remains heaven bound, 'in search of truth and bound for glory' and yet... his lofty philosophy is grounded daily: <i>'nothing survives but the way we live our lives'.</i> I'm unsure whether this duality is deliberate, but Browne’s daily struggle with that contradiction is what makes him so compelling: he’s fuelled by a false dichotomy: and I recognise that familiar struggle with the heavenly and the homily. Although the demons are an uncomfortable distraction, perhaps you can have too many angels?<div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hL4KG1Xy5UE/XoSVUgSst_I/AAAAAAAAKJg/jvRePSesnHwtq7AKAcYGhYd1wlytuOJUACEwYBhgLKs4DAMBZVoCDlDoI_CRrg6eTjOoRLSsjoDTHeixVgl0X6wQEyk2nGi0GBB1GUh1kXPaAe0XnXIVphnq-EfiT4uZS8J72c2nOohpo0lBg0LRRZvfsJqHV4uX4mDJ1zwGPkP3Jk87ndxe7ENIW7Zs1WisjjGBimCckIqsUlucGRzl1fhwRqi4t6UqinteS8Y26CTS6uczWrDpCOPlCYssA2Q9IL2fIUo1NYzYBs9vHZEVIZlw7fozsnugZpMJ7ujL24f8e-iSXHKRecZ6BC8qZ6dVLs_ZSLQUOWPYnrND2JMYTyTH8LKC4zqq8SzebB0S3Oyqfh5-A8wADmtLCo359PdrJZoet0JAbhCEJuudKXLGQn1KOfs71Rm-8611KKq3ZQCoSbEQPW8NGinJGu2F41_BHpb3lNtdCfqwfVzxDGio7o65ksOU1EI7q_wV5Oz1A4cCJkBOEufjbqipa401bkf4iiwpbajsnjWhxW9byFnKCr504hNcAEtX618rMSIumWvXAAGnWa_GQqTSeYabcUVVBXqb3kSVE9OkprDnY8uSaQwh0a1-AqEjjZUZe0-yUgtaiwUaW6VgW95vIKPDzZCgr5LsRPsItdUvEA2SeeDN9MOuvkvQF/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="254" height="249" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hL4KG1Xy5UE/XoSVUgSst_I/AAAAAAAAKJg/jvRePSesnHwtq7AKAcYGhYd1wlytuOJUACEwYBhgLKs4DAMBZVoCDlDoI_CRrg6eTjOoRLSsjoDTHeixVgl0X6wQEyk2nGi0GBB1GUh1kXPaAe0XnXIVphnq-EfiT4uZS8J72c2nOohpo0lBg0LRRZvfsJqHV4uX4mDJ1zwGPkP3Jk87ndxe7ENIW7Zs1WisjjGBimCckIqsUlucGRzl1fhwRqi4t6UqinteS8Y26CTS6uczWrDpCOPlCYssA2Q9IL2fIUo1NYzYBs9vHZEVIZlw7fozsnugZpMJ7ujL24f8e-iSXHKRecZ6BC8qZ6dVLs_ZSLQUOWPYnrND2JMYTyTH8LKC4zqq8SzebB0S3Oyqfh5-A8wADmtLCo359PdrJZoet0JAbhCEJuudKXLGQn1KOfs71Rm-8611KKq3ZQCoSbEQPW8NGinJGu2F41_BHpb3lNtdCfqwfVzxDGio7o65ksOU1EI7q_wV5Oz1A4cCJkBOEufjbqipa401bkf4iiwpbajsnjWhxW9byFnKCr504hNcAEtX618rMSIumWvXAAGnWa_GQqTSeYabcUVVBXqb3kSVE9OkprDnY8uSaQwh0a1-AqEjjZUZe0-yUgtaiwUaW6VgW95vIKPDzZCgr5LsRPsItdUvEA2SeeDN9MOuvkvQF/s320/images.jpeg" width="320" /></a><b>'Late for the Sky' </b>remains my favourite of his albums: the title track my favourite of his songs. However, this morning I reached for <b>'The Pretender' </b>and it transported me back to the summer of 78, when I left school, working a dreary factory job, living in a crappy caravan that smelt of rotting apples. I can smell them apples as this plays. I remember being particularly miserable, besides my limited cassette collection in the caravan, the only refuge was sleep: hence the resonance of the song <b>'Sleep's Dark and Silent Gate'.</b></div>
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The whole album is a prayer for<b> 'The Pretender'</b>, all of us <i>“who started out so young and strong, only to surrender.”</i> It is a prayer to mundanity, for every man and woman who get up every morning to face the exact same challenges, 'while the ships bearing their dreams sail out of sight'. Repeating this cycle, which defines and defies humanity, we are left with very little but the reliability of routine. And yet, particularly in these extraordinary days when the importance of a 'locked in' daily cycle is vivid, is there not something a little heroic in that daily dance, however familiar the steps? And I am, once again, finding refuge in sleep, actually sleeping better than ever: my prelude to... all of this.<br /><br />Can I suggest that you listen to the title track of <b>'The Pretender' </b>this morning but, before you do that, why not try and get through the album version of <b>'Sleep's Dark and Silent Gate'</b> dry eyed. It's only 2:35 and well worth your attention.<br />Dare I say that only the blind would see it as bland?<div>
Meanwhile, here is a live performance of the song.</div>
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Hissyfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06865300919319235353noreply@blogger.com0