One of the pleasures of the recent Aarhus festival was meeting and performing with some great folk. The singers at the gala were Sweden's Eva Dahlgren, who duetted with Simon Strömstedt, and the lovely Lisa Hannigan from Ireland. There was also a guitarist, Brian Lopez from Tuscon Arizona, who was moonlighting: as well as playing with Giant Sand he also has a solo career and has recently released moody little gem of an album 'Ultra' which you can read about on Di's page here: http://www.diholmesphotography.blogspot.co.uk Here is a video of Eva singing with Danish band 'Oktober'. The accordion player is Francisco Calí and the cellist is Ida Nørholm, both of whom played in the Aarhus 'Orchestra'. I've then posted a video of Lisa singing a campfire version of 'Home', the song that she did for the show. Young Simon is yet to record but I'll feature him when he does; he's a real talent... Speaking of talent; I'll try an track down some footage of the musicians in the 'Orchestra' and post later.
Don Maglashan's band The Mutton Birds were a fine unit; kind of REM meets The Chills meets Crowded House; literal and melodic. I particularly like their albums 'Envy of Angels' and 'Rain, Steam & Speed' but all of their releases contain undervalued gems. They are reforming for some shows. Why not come along to the Shepherd's Bush Empire on October 27th and meet up with Di and I for a birthday drink (Di's is on October 24th). And they are great live; along with about 40 other folk I once saw bits of them live at 'The 12 Bar Club' on Denmark Street in London. If you were downstairs you could see up to their necks; upstairs was heads only; the sound was great in both places. They played this cracker that night, after much heckling from yours truly; there are more obvious MB tunes than this but I love 'A Thing Well Made'; on the surface insightful lyrics about... taking care, but actually recount the true story of a NZ massacre. This live version is excellent; Tuba 'n' all.
McGlashan also writes soundtracks and produced a lovely melancholic solo release 'Warm Hands' from which this song 'I Will Not Let You Down' is taken.
If you've ever wondered about the power of song and the reasons that some of us are compelled to write, please read the following. It's McGlashan's speech made this year at theApra Silver Scroll Awardsin Auckland.
Don McGlashan's 2012 Apra Speech:
I want to talk about power.
There are a lot of times when musicians feel a bit powerless: at the testing station, hoping the car will pass one more warrant before it bio-degrades; at the supermarket, doing mental maths in the long seconds while the eftpos machine makes up its mind; at the bank, trying to get a loan, while the bank manager asks you what you do for a real job.
But tonight should be a night when that usual order of things gets well-and-truly turned upside down. Tonight we should celebrate the power of what we do.
There's cultural power. When you write a song or a piece of music, all your life and the lives of your ancestors, and everything you've ever heard or overhead or misheard is gathered together into a high strength concentrate. And that concentrate has become the fuel for this age we live in.
Songs and music are the animating spark of the world today. Without them, the world would be like a fairground before the power switch has been turned on, before the lights blaze and all the wheels and rides start whizzing around.
And people recognize that power. When songs work, people want to use them. Whether they're making a feature film, selling you a pair of jeans or a political party. Whether they're celebrating the closing of a deal, or the opening of the Olympics.
When songs work, they put down roots deep into culture. If someone from the next century wanted to know what life was like right here, right now, they'd go straight to the music that we're making and listening to, and the music would tell them. It's that cultural value and power that songs have that we come here every year to celebrate.
There's political power. The power of music and songs to change things.
During hard times, you often see a rise in the tendency to want to punish, to demonize, and to exclude.
I think we're living through a phase like that in this country at the moment. Ambiguities are getting removed, grey areas getting bleached out, leaving only black and white labels, like: "Beneficiary", "Overstayer", "Solo Mother", "Criminal". Whoever the enemy is this week, they'll get a thumping, and while that's going on, far-reaching changes can go on quietly in the background.
So where do we fit into that? How can we work on our rhyme schemes when there's so much injustice out there?
Well I believe at times like this it's even more important for people like us to stick to our work.
To describe our own corner in our own way. By just witnessing the world - faithfully and clearly - we help to colour it with ambiguities and complexities.
By telling our truth as we see it, that's our way of fighting against those who want to sell us their version of the truth, along with whatever hidden agendas they may have. By simply describing what it is to be human, we make it harder for those black-and-white labels to stick.
That sounds like a big claim to make for something as small and fragile as a song - but it's not.
Artists have enormous power, just by doing what they do. So much so that every dictator in history has put suppressing or controlling his artists right up there at the top of his list - just under designing a fancy uniform.
There are new also kinds of power available to us, that spring from new ways of communicating our music. Download stores like Amplifier, Marbecks Mdigital, banditFM, Fishpond, and The Insong; Streaming services like Theaudience, Spotify, Deezer, Rdio, Rara, Mixtape, MusicUnlimited and Vevo; And the internet radio giant Pandora.
Many of these have just come onstream in New Zealand in the last months.
A lot of them have "If you liked this, you'll like that" features, which, over time, are really going to help new artists get noticed; and here's the thing: all of them are legal - ensuring that when music gets heard, artists get paid.
And finally, there's collective power, the power of music to bring us together as writers; to underline our sense of shared purpose.
That can be an unfamiliar concept for a songwriter, because our process is usually about solitude, not solidarity.
But when we write a song - often without even knowing it, we're talking to other writers, alive and dead, and they're talking to us, through all the songs we've loved over the years.
Tonight we can come out of our solitude for a little while, and revel in the fact that we're with a bunch of other people who have devoted their lives to writing songs and music, just like we have.
Our styles may be radically different - someone at table 31 might do a nice line in soft Country Ballads, while next door at table 28 lurk exponents of Swedish Death-Metal. But that doesn't matter. What matters is the choice we've all made with our lives - a hard choice - to follow this unpredictable, intoxicating calling of ours.
And being part of this community of writers should be something we're really proud of, no matter how much smoke our car emits, and no matter what the eftpos machine at the supermarket occasionally reveals about us.
Because what unites us is that we know what it feels like when we've written something good. When we get up and dance around the room and punch the air. Because all the power that I've been talking about is right there in that moment.
And it belongs to all of us in this room tonight.
I hope you all have a fantastic evening, and I hope, when you wake up tomorrow morning (or afternoon) that you start a new song.
My friend Jens Folmer Jepsen has been running the Aarhus Arts Festival in Denmark for the past few years. Folmer has been kindly inviting me to perform there for a while; but I've been unable to do so until this year. This makes me sad about all previous years missed; I had a blast.
Speaking of 'blasts', Di and I flew in late to Aarhus, after being held up at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, by the discovery of an unexploded WW2 bomb in the airport concourse.
At Aarhus we were picked up by the charming Ruth and Eric who directed us to our hotel then on to an evening spent at Folmer's homely pile. There we were introduced to the Aarhus World Orchestra and were fed in fine style by Folmer's lovely wife Anne who, it turned out, is a TV celebrity chef in Denmark; think Nigella with bells on... It was a wonderful welcome to us all; a grand start to our stay.
Next afternoon we met up with Folmer who guided us to meet with the 'orchestra' for rehearsals. The musicians had been gathered from around the world to perform at the opening gala, effectively the launch of the festival.
Rehearsals went well, despite my pipes being a bit rusty; I'd spent the summer hollering at kids in my other guise as summer camp director and also, well... it's been a while.
The players were all top notch, a true inspiration, reminding me how much I've missed hanging out with creative folk, the polite corridors of academia can get a little... dusty sometimes. The generosity and laughter was infectious; there was so much kindness and levity that both Di and I were rendered a bit giddy by it all.
Our musical maestro, director Diego Schissi from Argentina, played heavenly piano and did all arrangements.
Mexican, Francisco Victor Bringas Valdez played perfect percussion and sang amazing deep throat 'Overtone' vocals.
Our guitarist was laconic Brian C. Lopez,
the 'dog's bollocks' indeed; a real gent who hails from Tuscon, Arizona.
He's also a talented singer who has just released a fine album, 'Ultra'.
The rhythm section was rock solid; Thøger Tetens Lund (bass) and drummer Peter Dombernowsky who both come from Denmark but grace Howe Gelb's brilliant band, Giant Sand.
The sonic quirk came from the cello of Copenhagen's lovely Ida Nørholm and Italy's charming Francisco Calí who played accordion.
For me, their interplay was the real surprise musically; a lovely dynamic that
I'm hoping to tap into on future recordings.
There were three songs featured, all re-arranged by Diego: I had been asked to sing 'Hopeland', Lisa Hannigan would perform 'Home' from her recent 'Passengers' album (produced by one of my firm favorites; Joe Henry). Sweden's Eva Dahlgren would sing 'This is Our Time' with future star in the making, the young and beatifically piped Simon Strömstedt. The song was written especially for the occasion; indeed it is yet to be recorded, but is sure to haunt my iPod in future days. I bagged Eva and Simon for bvs before I was informed of Eva's stellar standing in the Swedish pop world; she and Simon very kindly elevated my mumblings with their sweet voices.
Nervous? The gala was performed in front of the Queen of Denmark and 1600 silent citizens who were under orders not to applaud until the end of the show; I wish someone had told me as I was first up; exiting stage left with tumbleweed and the echo of a bloke coughing on row seven! All a bit disorienting until you got the 'concept'; an evening of debate, poetry (written and read by Josefine Klougart, a tall and very beautiful young acclaimed writer who was shortlisted in 2011 for best nordic fictionality), all interspersed with music and song; and compared with consummate ease by that fine Danish actor and fisherman Jesper Asholt, probably best known for his work in the first Dogme film by Søren Kragh-Jacobsen:Mifune. Lisa Hannigan turned up at the 11th hour, a little frazzled after being stranded at Munich airport and sang up a storm. Later Eva and Simon were just perfect together; surely the first of many such duets. A prominent part of the presentation were the designs in paper by Kathy Hinde; we actually flew back with her next day with a hundred paper birds in her suitcase. I was willing customs to stop and search her...
After the show the band got to meet the Queen and eat oysters from her table; all very surreal.
We somehow picked up the irascible Emilíana Torrini en route. Emiliana's album 'Fisherman's Woman' is a favourite in our house and she was in town to play a show with Giant Sand and Lisa Hannigan on Saturday night: a real disappointment that Di and I had to leave that day and miss two of our favourite singers on the same bill.
Emiliana is a hoot; no ice maiden sheand we are now firm whiskey buddies, as indeed is Eva Dahlgren who was very generous with her special bottle after the rigors of performance.
Apres Queen we were treated like Kings; Folmer whisked us off to Jimmy Holm's fantastic Spanish restaurant Can Blau for tapas and the finest Serrano Ham and acorn fedJamón Ibérico de Bellota that I have ever tasted; all washed down with lashings of sweet, sublime 'Tres Picos'.
We then went on to Bora Bora to cut the rug with the band and drink chocolate beer until 4.30 am; kicking out time.
Di and Super Simon were officially the last men standing...
If you'd like to see some pictures of the event please visit Di's site:
Be sure to leave a comment; she likes a chat does Di...
Thanks again to everyone for making it such a happy time; there was much work done behind the scenes; Micha and Mie are virtual friends that I wish I'd got to meet.
Thanks particularly to Folmer; like a Prospero on happy pills he pulled the thing together with no seeming effort. It was almost as if he'd done it before...
Just back from playing the festival in Aarhus (more of which later) followed by a week of recovery in Corsica.
I tried to catch up on some unfinished reading, though ended up gazing at mountains and navels...
I read Michelle Paver's 'Dark Matter'; a chilling ghost story set in the Arctic. Lots of stiff upper lips and shifting shadows.
I followed it of course with 'The Woman in Black'; predictable but effective fare; seems perfect for Harry Potter to stroll through.
I finally manage to finish Iris Murdoch's 'The Sea The Sea' which never seemed to end... the worst 'best book' that I've ever suffered (maybe just 2nd to Fowle's 'The Magus'.)
Currently set on finishing Russo's 'That Old Cape Magic', comfort food that has got me editing 'In Cassidy's Care'...
Next on the pile is 'The 100-Year-Old Man who Climbed out the Window and Disappeared', Sam Shepard's 'Motel Chronicles', William Maxwell's 'So Long, See you Tomorrow' and Richard Ford's 'Canada'.
This coming Friday I'm playing with the World Music Orchestra at the opening gala of the Aarhus Arts Festival in Denmark. The orchestra is a collaboration of invited musicians from around the world. Three songwriters have been asked to add their voices to the evening: Lisa Hannigan (solo artist who once sang with Damien Rice) will sing the title track from her Joe Henry produced album 'Home', Danish duo Eva Dahlgren + Simon Strömstedt will sing 'This is Our Time' whilst I've been requested to sing 'Hopeland'. The opening is in front of the Queen of Denmark and an audience of 1600... could be a tester; especially without Marcus there. Still; should be fun. I'll let you know how it all pans out; wish me well. Marcus and I were also commissioned to write a song for the festival's theme: 'Big - Size Matters'. We submitted a song that forms part of 'In Cassidy's Care', 'Big Circus'. It's a domestic drama that witnesses the results of Cassidy's small dramas. Apparently a film maker will make a 'short' for the recording. It may well inevitably end up as a clip on YouTube.... I return on Saturday then run for the Corsican hills for a week so will be off the radar for the next two weeks.
A few years ago I was made aware of Bill Fay by Paul, who runs our local CD shop 'Blue and Black' in Calvi, Corsica. I'm always interested in Italian and French songwriters; they love their chanteurs... and Paul recommended Piers Faccini, who sounds Italian, lives in Paris and turns out to a Brit. I told Paul that I was amazed that there was an English songwriter that good that I'd never heard of. This was obviously accepted as a challenge and Paul then handed me a copy of Bill Fay's self-titled debut from 1970. One play and I was captured; especially when I discovered that my mate Mike Gibbs had done the string arrangements. I also bought the 1971 follow up 'Time of the Last Persecution', played it to death then... forgot about Bill. I recently read that, in his late sixties, Fay had been contacted by American producer Joshua Henry (a long time fan courtesy of his parents record collection) to make an album. Henry then approached guitarist Matt Deighton (Oasis, Paul Weller, Mother Earth) who assembled a cast of backup musicians to bring out the songs' full potential; Tim Weller (who's played drums for everyone from Will Young to Noel Gallagher and Goldfrapp), and keyboardist Mikey Rowe (High Flying Birds, Stevie Nicks, etc). In addition, Bill is reunited on several tracks with Ray Russell and drummer Alan Rushton, who played on 'Time Of The Last Persecution'. 'Life is People' is already wrestling with 'Mid Air' as my 'album of the year'. It's a lovely thing, unfettered by cynicism, there's a sense of a man who's come to terms with his lot; the serenity and compassion is addictive. His beautifully imperfect voice reminds me of Ian Hunter, Peter Gabriel and Dylan, but has its own unique resonance. Fay recently commented "you can't make a comeback album unless you arrive in the first place. I'm getting a little bit worried that I'm coming close to arriving". This could be the perfect 'comeback album'. In fact, with it's calming religious undertones and big, humble heart, 'Life is People' could be the perfect 'Sunday Morning Blue'. It's amazing what you can do with two chords; let 'Cosmic Concerto' 'stir your soul'.
He entered the communal doorway and slid his key into the door of his flat.
Before he had the chance to turn the key the door swung open on fractured hinges.
Turmoil; upended furniture, broken glass, scattered papers, an aroma of stale sweat, the rustle of material, a shadowy movement, a punch to the ribs.
He didn’t feel much; a stinging pain as the knife entered his side, then just a dull ache that he knew to be deliverance. He dropped to his knees and gently lowered himself onto the carpet face down.
His eyes watered and he blinked away the tears. From his supine position his vision was limited and darkening with every shortening breath.
That run had taken it out of him.
He needed to breathe deeply to control his gasping. He tried humming, that would calm his ventilation. He blinked again and focused on ‘The Cassidys’, he and his brothers standing with Harry after that final gig. The photograph lay skew on the floor with the glass and frame shattered. Next to the picture were broken pieces of terra cotta pot and damp earth. His cactus lay flaccid, like a fish out of water. Or a limp dick thought Cassidy. Was that irony or symbolism, metaphor or simile? That was one for Archie’s next breakfast question time.
He could hear movement but couldn’t raise his head.
What a weird and wonderful week, he thought.
“Say what? What’s that? Say something?”
Cassidy recognized the lisp.
“Want some more, bitch?”
Claude knelt beside him and rifled his pockets roughly.
Cassidy stared at a Rolex with a crocodile strap; Monty’s watch on Claude’s wrist. He fixed on the frozen second hand as it twitched and pulsed with every second, ineffectively pushing against an unseen resistance, and he found himself breathing in time with that retarded tick. He needed to do something but couldn’t think what that might be. He’d just lie there a little longer until he felt… less tired.
As his breath shortened Cassidy was overwhelmed by a tremendous sense of calm. And he was filled with love; he loved his parents, his brothers, Daniel and Archie, Monty, Christ, he even loved Claude. The whole wide world was in his arms and it was no burden because Cassidy cared. He started humming again, and only then did he recognize the tune.
Joni.
He loved Joni Mitchell.
His fingertips caressed the carpet and he felt himself sink deeper.
“Amelia, it was just a false alarm”
The carpet rose to meet him.
“Amelia, it was just a false alarm”
The carpet absorbed him.
“Amelia, it was just a false alarm”
He stared in wonder as the detailed patterns merged into a glorious golden brown.
“Amelia…”
Cassidy closed his eyes and she turned towards him.
He saw sun splashed pigtails and the grain of her hair, all burnt copper and straw.
She simply said “Hello handsome” and that was that.
***
“What’s that son?”
Harry leant closer this time.
Cassidy could smell Old Spice and modeling glue.
“Nothing Pops, just… thinking out loud.”
His mother’s voice sang out from within the beach house, “Suppers nearly ready you two. Up to the table in five minutes.”
Cassidy squinted and fixed on his cactus, searching for a word.
Harry reached down and gently slid the turquoise pot out of their creeping shadow and into the softening light.
“Some things can’t be fixed Pete, some things are beyond repair, but it’s good that you care son; there can be a blessing to burden.” He rubbed his forehead and then rocked back into his chair, crossing his heavy hands against his chest as if nursing an injured bird.
Cassidy did the self same thing.
There was much that he needed to let go of, but not this.
He needed to hold this close, and wondered if he would.
The sun was sinking over the salt marshes and a bourbon sky gently backlit his father, ancient and immortal.
He looked into that steady eye, then down at his own shaking, outsized hands, and Cassidy realized, with some relief, that his fate was sealed.
The Olympic closing ceremony was brilliantly bonkers; our good mate Kim Gavin choreographed the whole thing.
My two favorite musical moments were from the old guard; Eric Idle and Ray Davis; it's easy to forget what a potent song Waterloo Sunset is; Ray performed it with an élan that belied his years.
I once sat next to him and a scruffy woman in a Crouch End curry house. The woman turned out to be Chrissy Hynde; disappointed to relate that Ray is a Chicken Tikka Masala man; I expected more of him...
A suitably mundane interview (thankfully brief) to explain the mundanities that inform Ray's writing.
Then... what a song; a real love song to London.
I think that Jimmy Nail tried to achieve a similar gravitas for Newcastle with 'Big River'.
Not even close but... oddly affecting.
I really like the song; whenever I play it Di looks at me as if I'm Dave Lee Travis...
There is a video of Jimmy and Mark Knopfler made for MTV which put me right off my corn flakes, so I've found a clip with just the audio...
He returned the boys to Amelia bang on time. He even got a wave and a smile from the doorway seven steps up. From Bayswater he stepped with a spring, up through Hyde Park to Marble Arch and then along Oxford Street. At Oxford Circus he turned north up Regents Street and entered Regents Park at its southern end. Without thinking he broke into a steady jog. He passed the boating lake and the bandstand and at the northern edge he turned east on the outer circle until he reached the zoo. He then turned north towards the southern slopes of Primrose Hill, following the now familiar path to the brow of the hill. As he surged up the slope Cassidy was giddy with hope; for the first time in an age he felt that he was running towards something. An elderly man feeding fish and chips to a scruffy mongrel occupied the bench. As Cassidy approached he recognized the slippers on the man’s feet.
“Monty, what are you doing here? Fancy the chances…”
‘Ah Pete, how are you doing old boy. Not such a coincidence really; you’ve rattled on about this bench so many times that I thought I’d come and see what all the fuss was about. It’s quite a setting.” Monty nodded southward “What a city?”
Cassidy stretched and eyed the view. “How’s the healing Monty?”
“Oh, fine, fine, though gently does it; weeping wounds… As you can see I’ve become more discerning about the company I keep.” He patted the dog. “My new best friend. I’ve decided to call him Claude.”
“To protect you from his namesake?”
“No, that particular son of a bitch is long gone. I decided that I needed some reliable company; I took at trip down to the dog’s home in Battersea. I never could resist a pathetic stray. Our eyes met and I think that we both recognized a kindred spirit. He’s a good egg. We’re well suited; we’ll stop each other from wandering."
“Speaking of which,” said Cassidy jogging on the spot “I’ve got to keep moving or I’ll seize up. See you back at the ranch Monty.”
“Indeed. Cheerio old boy.”
Cassidy patted Claude, helped himself to a chip from the greasy paper bag and then turned back down the slope, exiting the park at Elsworthy Terrace. Picking up the pace he crossed the Finchley Road at Swiss Cottage and was soon at the front door of his apartment block in West Hampstead.
He gave a strangled, euphoric yelp and then he laughed out, long and loud, clapping his hands at the recognition.
‘Red Pops’. That was it, the name of his blue tailed kite.
Christ, the banality; his very own ‘Rosebud’ moment.
He loved Citizen Kane; and Orson Wells; what a man; all of that early promise; and, and jeez… Red Pops…
Both Daniel and Archie were looking up at him quizzically, and he in turn squinted up into the blue and breathed in deeply; he loved the parks of North London in early springtime.
Up there with the jousting kites, a confusion of gulls stalked the skies, noisily claiming territory. Cassidy craned his neck and watched as one bird caught another by the wing. After an initial fitful fluttering, their bodies stiffened and froze, perhaps out of fear, or perhaps in dazed deference to the gravity of the unfamiliar moment, a moment that lasted fully twenty seconds, as they looped and twirled in silent dance, a feathery boomerang skimming the sky, before better nature caused them to release and break their arcing descent. The two gulls, seemingly chastened, flew briefly in stunned formation before resuming their raucous rivalry.
“Jeeezus, did you see that boys?”
“Mom says that you shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“She’s quite right Daniel. I am sorry, but… did you see that?”
“And she says that God loves me and Archie more than almost anyone” Cassidy let that one slide. His boys were due some special attention. In four days time they’d be in Massachusetts, scattering their Grandpa’s ashes into the bay. He wanted them to believe that there was purpose to that particular parade. He’d spoken to his mother the night before. She was rock solid.
“I’m staying put. Why wouldn’t I? The beach house is my home. Your dad always jokes about it being built on sand but… don’t fret about me Pickle.”
Pickle.
She hadn’t called him that in years.
“I’ve always taken care of myself while you boys were off doing your things. Besides tending to your dad’s shrubs there won’t be too much to adjust to. Still be talking to myself, there’ll just be more potatoes left over is all…”
Cassidy saw then what he’d known all along: he wanted to go home. Back to the cape, back to the beach house, back to what he was before he wanted to be something else. What prevented his return was that which he loved the most. His sons needed their mother and she was bound to London. And although Amelia might be beyond capers, clowns and Cassidy, she sure as hell needed his benefits: school fees were waived for all faculty kids. That would keep him here for the next ten years at least. He felt sick, dizzy with resentment; he’d be in his mid fifties before he would be free to return home to live, to abide. By that time Annie might have followed Harry and the beach house could have fallen into the sea…
Cassidy rubbed his brow and stumbled, there was a rushing cacophony, a crescendo as blood seemed to flood his brain, what seemed like the snapping of a twig and then just a staggering, bright silence. Cassidy worked his jaw, shook his head, tried to make his ears pop, but the silence remained. He looked to the sky again, beyond the squabbling birds, beyond the carnival of kites, out beyond the blue and, with a jolt, Cassidy saw. He saw that there was much to be held and nothing to be kept. He felt unburdened; an abrupt sense of liberation and release; suddenly everything seemed clear. Cassidy shook his head in wonder; this was his morning for epiphanies.
The noises of the park gradually returned to him and he tested the air.
“The obsession’s in the chasing and not the apprehending”, he quietly sang.
Tom Waits.
He loved Tom Waits.
His eyes stung and his throat ached. Cassidy paused, a hand on each son’s shoulder. He softly squeezed, and then gently pushed the boys into the breeze, towards the football pitch. A group of kids were clapping and noisily cheering Johnny, their maverick coach, who balanced a ball on his head like a performing seal.
You should throw that man a fish.
The young brothers turned back towards their father, both gave a puzzled shrug, rolled their eyes and sighed in unison “a fish?”
Cassidy swallowed hard.
“See you guys in a couple of hours. Love you both”
And don’t take any shit from that Johnny, he thought.
“Dad”, howled Archie, “you did it again.”
Life, thought Cassidy, placing a cautionary hand over his mouth, is fucking killing me.
I keep reading that 'Mid Air' is a disappointment.
I disagree.
I now know it inside out.
A bit like Raymond Carver's stories; there's comfort in the revisiting; a fresh nuance suggests itself with every exposure; because everything is so raw and revealing you actually get to focus on what lies within.
Every listen endorses what a brave and emotional revelation the album is. Its emotional landscape isn't always easy to navigate but that is surely part of the engagement.
It's easy to regard this as late night fodder; taken with the obligatory glass of single malt.
It also works well on Sunday mornings with a contemplative cup of coffee....
I just found this performance of the title track from BBC 2's 'Review Show'. TOTP2 it aint...
One of the pleasures of the recent Aarhus festival was meeting and performing with some great folk.
