Sunday Morning Blue: Nick Drake: Five Leaves Left

I'm feeling a little fragile this morning; last night I celebrated with Ches, a good mate who's just become a granddad.
After too much toasting and Budvar I drove home (over the limit I'm sure) to be admonished by upety emailing mates who'd kept buying me that afore mentioned beer... I know, I'm a feckless pillock and could have knocked a pram pushing granny into oblivion but... the shackles of friendship. Home, contrite and chastened I just kept going, Di's away for the weekend so I was in bad company; myself and a bottle of 18 year old Glenlivet. This King of Tipples always gives poise and dignity to my dishevelment. I played cool jazz (Ketil Bornstad's balmy 'Floating') and then scanned the channels in search of something intense with subtitles. Last night it was 'Beat' Takeshi's 'Yatoichi', the story of a blind swordsman/masseur (I kid you not). Not the usual Yakuza blood fest; this had laugh out loud humour and... tap dancing. I then found Sergio Leon's 'For a Few Dollars More' and marvelled at its unbridled brutality. Tarantino eat your heart out... This has one of the great villains in El Indio and some dastardly henchmen; particularly Klaus Kinski whose face Lee Van Cleef keeps striking matches on. Klaus dares him to do it again to which Lee deadpans "I generally don't smoke 'til after I've eaten; why don't you come back in five minutes." Classic. Speaking of which, I then tentatively made my way up to an empty bed and lost consciousness to Classic FM; I can only sleep with the radio on when Di's away; a throwback to college days.
Anyway; this ramble leads me to sunday morning. Up early, the coffee's on and I'm looking for something to play; something easy that won't hurt too much. Lacking the will to think too hard I reach for the bleeding obvious; Joni Mitchell's 'Blue' and know immediately that I've made the right choice. 
Once I get over that initial irritating edit (who chopped the front off the first chord?) I'm immersed in Joni's "chords of inquiry." I pick up Michelle Mercer's 'Will You Take Me As I Am'; a dissection of Joni's 'Blue' period and I'm transported into the world of wonder and melancholy that this pioneer of songwriting has made home turf. The blackbirds outside are going bonkers; always come to life when Joni's on; maybe they recognise a kindred spirit in that flighty, unfettered voice...
But what to play next? 
This gets me thinking about the perfect sunday morning album. 
There's got to be gentle melancholy involved; no iPod shuffle allowed; this is a disc that must be played in sequence. Something not too challenging; the aural equivalent of sunday slippers; something that comfortably eases me into the day.
This'll be my sunday post for a while.
Why not listen with me? Then make one weekly recommendation yourself and I'll reciprocate...
So, this week's post 'Blue' album is... 
Nick Drake's 'Five Leaves Left'. 
I know that it's a bit obvious and will try to go more off piste with future choices, but on this particular morning I'm in need of a sure thing...
All of Drake's 3 albums are sublime; this is the one that resonates for me.
I'll post a track but try and hear the whole thing if you can; if you already own it you'll know that it's worth revisiting.
Calmed, my thoughts return to Ches and his (as yet unnamed) grandson.
It'll be christening presents next.
Bugger the teddy; he might not appreciate them for 16 years or so, but he's getting 'Five Leaves Left' and 'Blue'. I can't think of a better way to start his record collection; his sundays will be blessed.
Ah, 'River Man'; bliss. 
Bacon butty, another coffee, even the babbling blackbirds are silenced and listening...

Paul Buchanan: 'Mid Air' New 'Official' Videos & Reviews: Guardian/Border/Mojo

There's a great interview by Graeme Thomson of The Guardian that you can read in full here. In it PB admits that 'Mid Air' "isn't all singing and dancing" and talks revealingly about fellow ex bandmates Robert Bell and PJ Moore; "a group of real friends, truly democratic". 
They wanted their songs "to be better versions of us – of everything. We wanted to make pictures, so we tried to remove ourselves from the fabric of it, to get out of the way of the music." 
After the release of 'High' he noted that "some of the unfettered joy had gone. Some kind of magic had slipped away from us, and some of the hope that we started out with. " 
So was there a future for The Blue Nile?  
"It's not cut and dried. The right thing to do as people would be to get together again – even if we then say goodbye. That's my vague hope. It probably won't happen, but I know that contributing to that unit was me at  my best."
Of Mid Air he confesses " "At no point did I think I was making a record. It never occurred to me that anybody else would listen to it. Looking back, that was a great thing. That unselfconscious quality becomes more elusive as you go on making music, so it's nice to be brought back to that very simple expectation. It was almost like starting out again. I wasn't deliberately making a record of fulfilling a contract. There's a joy and innocence in that.... You work and work and work and have the life that you have, and once in a while, sometimes once in a decade, you see a few things you've got and think, yes, that's authentic. You try to stay true to that little moment whatever the costs.""


Here at the bottom of the page are two 'official videos for 'Mid Air' made by Bernard Rudden. 
If you go to Paul's official site here you can vote for the one you prefer.
Meanwhile, reading the Mojo interviewette (see what I did there?) at the bottom of the post and looking at his photo above, it seems that Paul's getting all emotional at the love fest:


“I might not be John Lennon or Mahler but that's okay; I have a modest life and I know the world won't care if I give up tomorrow. But once in a while someone will stop me in the street and say to me, “My wife and I got married to your song”- it’s tiny moments like that that resonate with me”.


Further afield, Sweden's 'Border' magazine have given 'Mid Air' a 10 out of 10 rating.

Thanks to Morten Hald for this translation…

“Painstakingly Beautiful. One should think it impossible to surpass the low key Glasgow-band The Blue Nile in making beautiful, sad pop music. But by releasing his first solo album in his 30 year career, the bands frontman Paul Buchanan manages to do just that and by applying much simpler measures. A lone voice, piano, the odd trumpet and strings. In such setting small things such as an extended accord or vocal intonations can make a big difference. Such small gestures are something Buchanan masters to its fullest. Simple, essential, everyday like. Painfully beautiful at times as only such things can be. Mid Air leaves no eye dry and you have to be made of diamond or granite to remain untouched and not cry. It is a set of short songs which the artist is even reluctant to call an album, rather he dubbed it a ‘recordette’. Any which way it is irresistible.”

Lovesong: Sweet Billy Pilgrim: Joyful Reunion

`Crown And Treaty' is the new album by Sweet Billy Pilgrim.
Tim Elsenburg's soundscapes have always intrigued but never connected quite so... movingly. The previous whiff of 'prog rock' now smells like your favourite button up cardy.
Elsenburg's admirable sonic ambition is tempered and tamed by his need to understand his own past (now there's a thought):


"I wanted to talk about history, and the idea that we're all chained to it; all our ideas, actions, wants, needs... everything, are tied to what's gone before. We might not see it consciously but everything we do is coloured by the past, for better or worse, and to be able to break away you have to recognise it and make your peace. You have to crown it. Make a pact with it, and move on. I've always wanted to make a record and throw practical considerations to the wind; to let my imagination run riot, and make music with all the stuff I can hear in my head, without having to worry about how we're going to play it live, or how it might be received after a previous record. And this time, I wanted to make it in bold strokes... less smudging... primary colours. Basically, I wanted to make a record that sounded like a million dollars for next to nothing. My physical view, from the window, had opened up. This record was going to have the same feeling."


I don't think that I've been as excited by an album as much since... maybe the last Elbow but one.
'Blood is Big Expense' and 'Blue Sky Falls' are the one's for me but this lead track works the waterworks as well. Come to think of it; not only am I getting the odor of new favourite jumper; I can taste a Mercury award...

In Cassidy's Care: 3. This Sunday (continued)

He stopped loving Amelia when she stopped loving him.

Tit for tat, just like that.

Was it that simple?

Sure, but no less real.

Cassidy got lazy, Amelia got sad.

She developed an edge, became less understanding, less forgiving. She withdrew all understanding and would now chastise him for his feckless nature, his prosaic platitudes. “Christ Pete, this isn’t art, this is life.”

And then, thirteen months ago, with the boys in deep sleep, she had prepared a meal to celebrate the ninth anniversary of that first meeting, a date that they valued more than their wedding anniversary for some reason. The Last Supper: a beautifully simple dish of linguine with Parmesan, pine nuts, butter and sage. Purple sage of such intense flavour that Cassidy had asked Amelia where it was from.

“It’s from a friend…” she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “A friend from work. Bill grows it himself in this tiny garden in Bayswater...” he lost her eye for a beat, and he knew.

Tiny garden.

Purple sage.

Bayswater Bill.

The Last Supper.

For Cassidy that was their moment of separation.

He couldn’t forgive her.

She had diminished him.

He demonized her.

Once he’d been a dragon slayer, now the dragon was burning his French fucking toast… For a while and “for the sake of the kids” they expertly avoided each other in the small basement apartment; their lives disconnected.

And then they just… separated.

So, life no was longer a travelogue of ‘picture postcard charms’ then.

Cassidy didn’t dream of 747s.

That was travel.

Cassidy wanted escape.

He’d got the urge for going.

Amelia beat him to it.

Time was a concertina; the essence of a failed marriage in the time it took Daniel to tie the laces of his brother’s boots. From “hello” to “goodbye”; vital edges to the arc of their love, a rise and fall that had brought him meandering back up this hill exactly nine years and thirteen months later. Back to the source, back to that bright moment, back to this park bench.

Archie fidgeted on Cassidy’s shoulders sending his glasses flying. Daniel picked them up and carefully wiped the lenses on his shorts before dutifully handing them back to his father.

“So, will Mayfair Mac still go to heaven, Dad?

Archie squeezed his knees together and Cassidy’s ears sang.

In Cassidy's Care: 2. This Sunday (continued)

Cassidy had always been at the centre of things, a dragon slayer, the master of his own destiny, but now his first waking thought would never be of himself again. With a young family in his care, lofty ambitions were grounded by duty; he took his parental responsibilities seriously and acquiesced willingly; the boys were in and of his blood.

Daniel and Archie.

D ‘n’ A.

Nice one Cassidy.

He was now in a world beyond himself, living in someone else’s film. No longer the protagonist, Cassidy now assumed the role of bit part player; his life became one of subsistence; father, provider, and protector. There were inevitable dramas; a litany of tiny victories, a derby of defeats, which Amelia took badly; they diminished her. Amelia liked order. Defeat came as second nature to ‘Punch Bag Pete’; what didn’t kill him made he and his family stronger: a peanut allergy, an orthodontic procedure gone wrong, a new air filter and wheel bearing needed for the ‘Cassidymobile’.

Defeats? He would laugh them off, sing in his thin reedy voice, “Amelia, it was just another false alarm”.

Cassidy paraded as ringmaster, knowing all the while that Amelia was the real master of ceremonies; mistress of emotional geometry; dynamic and well balanced; her slender grip sure and steady while his big clammy hands shook. How easily things slipped; they let go of their own imaginings and relaxed into a domestic bliss. And so began the gentle fall, a creeping shift towards contentment, a big circus of small dramas, which soon declined into drudgery, their intended life of surprises somehow became a trudge. There were heated arguments in the early years as salvage seemed possible, but then came recognition and disappointment. Daniel and Archie watched on bemused and bewildered as their parents’ passion diminished; two party clowns, too tired to fight, laughing wearily as they put their faces into each other’s pies. Maybe they sought humiliation to better rescue and reset themselves. Maybe this was a part of the process of adult survival. Maybe Cassidy thought too much, talked too much, still telling the story of his life, but now in the third (or fourth) person.

Was this vulnerability part of his charm?

Could you be charming and know it?

Didn’t that make the charm an affectation?

Wasn’t charm akin to innocence?

Once you recognized it as one of your virtues was it was not gone, the spell broken?

Cassidy knew now to keep these questions to himself. Once he and Amelia would lie naked and spent in silvery moonlight, discussing anything and laughing at everything. When the laughter stopped so, it seemed, did the care. There was no spite or unkindness, just an imperceptible removal of intimacy; they simply ceased to adore each other, merely endured as functioning parents; the boys the sole focus of any affection.

Still, there was always the refuge of music.

Cassidy loved music.

Sometimes you didn’t have to understand everything. You simply accepted an invitation to inhabit the world, the possibility, of a song.

“I wish this pain would just go away

I wish that dogs had wings”

Marc Jordan.

He wasn’t sure why the thought of flying dogs made his faltering heart swell, but Cassidy loved Marc Jordan.

In Cassidy's Care: 1. This Sunday

“I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists” Robert Browning

“We shall not cease from exploration


And the end of all our exploring


Will be to arrive where we started


And know the place for the first time”

Taken from ‘Little Gidding’ by T. S. Elliot

"Where some have found their paradise

Others just come to harm"

Taken from ‘Amelia’ by Joni Mitchell

This Sunday

Cassidy’s eyes stung.

His throat ached.

He could barely swallow.

Something had happened.

A memory briefly recognized and then moved beyond.

Behind him, and yet…

He stood like dawn, on the edge of something.

Reaching.

Searching for a word.

He pursed his lips.

Nothing.

“Will Mayfair Mac still go to heaven Dad?”

Thankfully Archie was sitting on Cassidy's shoulders and was unable to see the single tear snaking down his father’s gaunt grimacing grin. Daniel, his eldest, caught his eye and tugged his hand. Cassidy tugged back and then, with Archie still on his shoulders, sat down on the park bench. This was now a part of their Sunday morning routine; Archie on Cassidy’s shoulders, skinny legs dangling like knotted rope. Cassidy sitting. Daniel ripping Velcro, pulling off his brother’s trainers, reaching into the rucksack for his cleats, his football boots; carefully sliding them onto Archie’s restless feet; pulling them on with the leather tongue; pulling tight before looping long laces under the sole and back; pulling tight again; making two loops, bunny ears, painstakingly concentrating on tying the perfect double knot. Cassidy loved the way that Daniel cared for his brother, admired his attention to the detail; a man after his own heart.

He and his boys had four hours before the three o’clock curfew.

Another two hundred and forty minutes in Cassidy’s care, then back to their mother in Bayswater.

He'd met Amelia right here.

Nine years and thirteen months ago, to the day.

Thirteen months since the ‘last supper’.

Thirteen months separated, including ten days divorced.

Cassidy had accounted for that.

“I love you, goodbye”, she had said, waving papers, stiffly shaking his hand. Civil, cordial even, but he knew that he was now on her list; things that she was better beyond: capers, clowns, Cassidy and his bloody cactus.

He couldn’t remember exactly when he had stopped loving her, or she him.

Had he ever really loved Amelia?

They first met in this park, on this very bench.

Nine years and thirteen months ago, to the day. 

Cassidy was new to London then. He’d recently taken a position at a large international school in the north of the city. Lower School computers. After ten lazy years in a sleepy Connecticut primary, he was hungry for advancement and adventure, keen to taste the wider world. He’d stay in London for two years, no longer. Appetite sated, he would move on, onwards and upwards. Cassidy was a creature of comfort and settled easily into city life; he started to feel at home; he’d even brought himself a cactus for company. After a successful first term he had returned to Cape Cod for a family Christmas and was now back and well into his second semester. 

At weekends his early morning jog took him out of his cramped basement flat in West Hampstead, up through Swiss Cottage and St Johns Wood, before he hit the northern slopes of Primrose Hill. He was learning to love the parks of London. That bright winter morning he followed the central path leading to the brow of the hill. From there amongst the dog walkers and kite flyers, he could look down upon the possibilities of the city. He always paused at the same park bench; leant against it to stretch and stare and reset himself for the return journey.

That February morning the bench was occupied, a lone figure silhouetted by the pallid sun as it rose over the distant marshes of East London. As she turned towards him he saw sun splashed pigtails and the grain of her hair, all burnt copper and straw. He thought of Andrew Wyeth’s studies of Helga, an impression reinforced as the keening sun kissed her pale broad features; large ochre eyes, wide set beneath heavy unkempt brows, high cruel cheekbones, a generous mouth, kind and vaguely amused. She simply said “Hello handsome” and that was that. Cassidy sat down beside her and followed her finger as she traced the eastern marshes, the Isle of Dogs, the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf, past the Post Office Tower and beyond towards the Houses of Parliament, her steady slender hand finally fluttering over the leafy hills of Hampstead, where they would meet later at the Holly Bush for a ploughman’s lunch and pints of real ale.

And her name was Amelia.

‘Amelia’ was Cassidy’s favourite Joni Mitchell song. How weird was that? He loved Joni. The song now assumed a new resonance and he sang the words to himself whenever he was troubled. 

‘So this I how I hide the hurt as the road leads cursed and charmed.’

He felt horny every time he thought about the Cactus Tree Motel’s ‘strange pillows of wonderlust’; Amelia crashing into his arms…

They married forty days later at a registry office in Holborn and within two years had two sons. 

In Cassidy's Care (Foreword)

After reposting the Corsican notes my attention is back on the Miracle Mile and our new album. 
'In Cassidy's Care' is coming on, slowly but surely; Marcus's new version of Norbury Brook studios is popular; we have to take the 'dead time' between the paying sessions. I thought that this might be a good time to reaquaint you with the thoughts behind the songs on the album:

A good friend of mine (let's call him 'Cassidy') was having problems. His life was as disheveled as his appearance; he was coming apart at the seams. He wanted to talk about this dishevelment but wasn't taking any advice. I tried to help (as did others) but was met with the blank stare of a man marinading in his misery. What to do? I thought about writing him a letter. No one writes letters these days so maybe that correspondence might resonate; he might take notice. I got lazy and the letter became an email. I then found myself writing his current story, detailing things as objectively as possible so that he might better see his predicament and move beyond it. I soon realized how patronizing that good intention might seem. But I kept writing; I had a title 'In Cassidy's Care', and soon the thing had its own momentum. What had started as a letter to a friend was becoming something else; a work of fiction. I used Cassidy's situation and personality as a foundation; a template for the fictional narrative and found him a great point of reference: what would Cassidy do here? He never let me down.

At the same time Marcus and I were talking about making a new Miracle Mile. It had been over five years since 'Limbo'. I'd recorded two solo albums in the interim (Hopeland and Keepers) but missed the active collaboration of Mr Cliffe. No surprise when I found myself writing songs that related directly to the predicaments of the Cassidy character that I'd created. Those songs have since become the substance of the new album 'In Cassidy's Care'. I'm going to publish the story here over the next few weeks. By the time it's told the album should be ready and maybe these words might lead you to the music.

In the meantime I'd like to thank Cassidy for letting me hang the fabric of this fiction so loosely on his bones. He's still disheveled but you'd find him a much happier man these days; in fact, if you knew where to look, you wouldn't recognise him at all...

Lovesong: Alabama Shakes: Hold On

I saw this on 'Later with Jools' and fell for the band.
I love:
the whiff of youth club presentation
the energy of the risings and the fallings...
the bass player's contented beam...
the guitarist's nervous riffing...
the piano player's simple jabbings...
the drummer's tea cosy and pushes... and
the singer's Joplinesque chutzpah...
"Bless my heart, bless my soul
Didn't think I'd make it
To 22 years old..."
I remember that...

Paul Buchanan: Knocking on Heaven's Door? Mid Air: Reviews: Uncut & Mojo

The first reviews of Paul Buchanan's  new album are in.
Uncut and Mojo give it a big, well manicured 'thumbs up'.
Is it just me or does PB seem to be chewing on a wasp in his recent promo shots? It might well be that he's having trouble suppressing a self-satisfied smile of contentment as it seems that he's just produced a marvel...
Looks like he's knocking on the door of true greatness...
Click on the reviews to enlarge and read.

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 24: A Cima

OK, this is the last post from the Corsican notes.
We're off back there in a couple of weeks but... things have changed. I won't elaborate here; more maybe later; suffice to say that our ten years in Montemaggiore have been the richest and sweetest of times. We grabbed it and made it ours; hardly surprising that others would want a piece of the paradise; sadly there's never quite enough to go around. 
Reading back I recognise the giddy joy in the unevenness of the writing; the ups and downs have been well chronicled here and in both 'Hopeland' and 'Keepers'. 
Those were done for me and Di. I think that we've both learnt a lot; enriched and open to adventure; yet gifted the perfect platform for recollection and self-regard; I think that we've both emerged... better.
Looking at photos from the past decade on the island I'm always fearful that we'll seem 'smug', but I only ever see 'happy'.
And yet, as Tom says, "the obsession's in the chasing and not the apprehending."
Onwards...


"There are in our existence spots of time,
Which with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating Virtue, whence,… our minds
Are nourished and invisibly repaired"

William Wordsworth
From The Prelude

I’ve lived the life, now I have the tools.
Where once I was misguided by wiseacre wisdom and boozy false dawns, I now understand that, in darker times, I had needed to see a light, even if it was a shadowy bliss.
I’m told that there is a point at which the pursuit of a dream can turn on itself and hope takes flight, when the youthful adventurer becomes the seasoned traveller and innocence is soured by bitter experience.
Wisdom warns of undercurrents, so we tread water.
All waters lead to the sea, but somehow this island has returned me to the waterfall and there I found the water fresh and sweet.
Refreshed, I began to write.
I wrote about my living day, the ‘dear ordinary’.
But, why the inherent need to write?
I write to join the dots and make sense of the past.
I write to protect myself from emotional inertia, to help myself ‘move on’.
I write to connect with myself.
But ultimately I write to remember and to be remembered.
From heart to head, from head to hand, I write to make marks on a page, to give myself shape and form, that form declaring ‘I am here’, and, like any cave painter, my hand is poised to leave a mark that declares: ‘I was here’.

And here, as I scribble in my small yellow note pad, I recognise safe harbour and liberty. I am ‘of the moment’ and at this moment there’s no place on earth I’d rather be. I’m learning to inhabit my world without resenting the past or fearing the future. Refreshed and heavy with hope I work hard at being remembered. Perhaps being childless is what continued to lead me so vividly back to my own childhood, a past that’s been altered and now fits me well. Whether half remembered or best forgotten, memories are filtered, the haze of a childhood that can never be reclaimed is where we all start and end. William Wordsworth wrote about ‘spots of time’, vivid memories that can be recalled at will and help trace a life’s journey, moments that resonate long after they came to be, giving clarity and new meaning to present circumstances. Visions that taste and smell of one's very fabric.

Early this spring morning we walked out of Montemaggiore towards the village cemetery; the Romanesque church of San Rinieru, and then up through a field of grazing cows under the protective gaze of a lacklustre bull, up as far as an ancient walled path lined with lavender, still used by shepherds to channel their flocks back down the valley. Following this route we traced the villages of the commune of Monte Grosso from above: Lunghignano, Cassano and eventually Zilia. In Zilia we refilled our plastic bottles with icy water at the roadside fountain and bought apricots at L’Epicerie from the toothless lady who always rants at us in Corsican, cackling hysterically at the end of each impenetrable yarn, her tired lips glad at the relief of not having to keep those ill fitting dentures in place. Understanding little, we couldn’t help but join in her laughter. As usual, the only part of this oft-repeated monologue that we comprehend is her age (now eighty two, she’s getting younger) and how much she loves the Irish. On our return we descended into Cassano as the heavens opened, taking relief in the tiny bar just off the star shaped village square, dunking small almond biscuits into our milky coffee until the storm passed. After the rain we retraced our steps back up the hill, homeward. Now, as we approach the cemetery we pause for rest, sitting on the grass roof of a shepherd’s hut, looking down at our village. In the heady midday heat, memories come fast to me, as if all previous experience is being funnelled from the eye of that stormy past, down into this vivid singular moment. Like the proverbial drowning man, images flicker and flash before me; here in the beating sun my heart races at the recognition:

I’m sitting on a swing. Over my sandaled feet I see Gareth, entranced by a pet chameleon, “his name is Peter” he lisps. Kate squints up at me from the dust, toothless and happy, while Mum twirls in a turquoise ball gown that seems made of paper.
“How do I look? Will I be the prettiest there?” she asks. On her wrist is the gaudy bangle I brought with Dad’s dollar from Changi market, her birthday present. My father stops singing and smiles down at me, his front teeth intact. Kerry shouts at me to be bolder so I stand tall on the swing “bend your knees, it’s easy”, she whispers, from behind me now. Soon I’m swinging my red knees high, well past the horizon, giddy with excitement.
The rusty squeal of that bright arc.
Two shadows that linger and then depart.
Blue sea, white dog, a red sand filled bucket, the tang of metal in my mouth, finally the vague but definite outline of a blue tractor, before the visions blend and blur and I blink to stop the dizziness.
When I open my eyes I’m back on the lustrous roof of this bergerie, clutching my yellow notepad.
I lean into the gentle breeze and open my mouth.
I can taste the sea.

Lovesong: July: Boy

I came across this on Scott Pack's meandmybigmouth blog.
Swiss and German they say.
Love the lyrics and the creaky chair...

The Glow Diaries: 4

Here's part four of 'The Glow Diaries' which details the thinking behind 'Strange Sympathy', 'Beads Without a Chain' and 'An Average Sadness'.
Interesting to see the Corsican effect kicking in...
As ever, click on the image below to enlarge.

A Hundred Homing Pigeons: Les Nemes: The Real Sessions: Part One

Les Nemes used to play bass with Miracle Mile in the original live band and featured on the first two albums 'Bicycle Thieves' and 'Candids'.
He's developing online coaching seminars for bass players.
After a couple of 'testers', here is the first 'proper' class... I give you 'The Real Sessions'.

Linn: Studio Master Downloads: Alaska

For many (well, a few) 'Alaska' and 'Limbo' are Miracle Mile's finest moments.

Both albums are being remastered for Linn's 'Studio Master Downloads Series'.

The downloads are pricey but Marcus (and remaster master Pete Beckmann) say that they sound 'fantastic'.
'Alaska' is ten years old and I got to hear its anniversary remaster this weekend.
I'm not one for banging drums but I'd forgotten how potent it is; there's a depth to the re-master that brings everything into startling focus.
It was an assault on the senses and, I've got to admit, all a bit overwhelming for Hilary, Di and I as we sat and listened.

If you are interested you can have a look here...

‘Alaska’, Miracle Mile’s 4^th album was released in 2002 to overwhelming critical acclaim:

"Gentle enchantment. The loveliest melodies you've ever heard."  UNCUT ****

“Timeless, adult pop; Miracle Mile’s obscurity remains unfathomable.”  The Sunday Times ****

“Blessed with a gorgeous voice, Trevor Jones must rank as one of this nation’s most criminally overlooked songwriters.”  Mojo ****

“Quite irresistible; a first class album; smart, original music, ideally played and beautifully recorded.” Maverick ****

“Perfect pop; complicated like Prefab Sprout, direct like Deacon Blue.” Q ****

“Lovely tunes with arrangements of quite astonishing beauty; Miracle Mile’s finest work yet” 

Hi-Fi News Rating: A1*

“Simply amazing. McAloon, Frame, Trevor Jones. That’s the way it should be. If you’ve not heard this there’s a gap in your life. Honest. 17 tracks and not a filler among them.” 

NetRhythms Top Ten albums of 2003

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 23: Saudade

Every day I sit down with my guitar.
I take the time to reflect.
Time and a guitar; a comfort blanket and a dream catcher.
Songs are coming easily, but is the first thought necessarily the best, or is that lazy thinking?
I'd like to think of myself as an original thinker, but have come to know that I'm not, something that each new song confirms.
So I cut my cloth accordingly and work within myself, attempting to illuminate the mundane stuff that colours my everyday life, and hopefully present it in such a way that it connects and resonates with others, perhaps as a 'penny drop' moment.

Sometimes we don't notice the obvious.

The artist’s hope of presenting a singular vision has distorted many a creative talent, affectation parading as individuality. Sometimes individuality can get compromised in order to acquiesce to some third party’s sense of genre; others can too easily define our lives for us.
I do what I do because I’m inspired to write and am able to do so in my own sweet time; it makes me happy that I can produce something from nothing and on my own terms. This ‘gladness’ is a bi product of my labour and a rare pleasure.
It makes me mindful.

Genuine delight seems an uncommon commodity these days. Somewhere along the line ‘happiness’ has become seen as a human right rather than an unexpected serendipitous gift. It’s become an expectation, as materialistic a demand as soap or shoes. TV shows us life’s possibilities, easy credit offers untold opportunity, but there is no labour involved in the acquisition, no pride in achievement or respect for the achievement of others, no real aspiration and ambition, just envy and frustration. Somewhere along the line it seems that we have diminished the ‘delight’ of flighty folly and have forgotten the pleasures to be gained from passing things on, handing them down.
Possessions were once cherished, and then bequeathed.
These objects connected us to the past.
They told stories.
Their inheritance invested them with unspoken worth, a silent reminder of those who went before.
The potency of these objects cannot be underestimated; solid markers in an ephemeral landscape, they mapped out our journey and reminded us where we had come from.
We kept these treasures in a biscuit tin under our beds; the pleasure of treasure…
Now, fashions come and go. Labels change. Things break, we don't fix them, we replace them; it’s no surprise then that we’ve forgotten how to value things. As children, with uniforms and chants of prayer, we were educated to conform. Now as self-defined ‘free spirits’ we find that we have painted ourselves into a corner, isolated and yearning for a past where we once ‘belonged’. We look under our beds and find nothing but dust, so we compromise our past imperfections by conjuring substance from the shadows.

And so the rosy glow of nostalgia colours and becomes us; our personalities are redefined.
Without the currency of 'developed' character, true individuality is fabricated not fostered.
You can have too many options, too much choice. Choice begets change. Change begets loss, but change and development are vital for survival, moving forward. Maybe we lament the things that we miss because we did indeed miss them, or worse, we didn't notice them at all.
And so we become wistful about the past, and fearful of the future; we don't live in the moment, we wrestle with the possibilities of what's beyond the moment.
There is a Portuguese word 'saudade' which is defined as 'a terrible yearning for a past that never existed.' Nostalgia is really a yearning to reclaim lost lives or missed opportunity, hence our sentimental connection to the things that have shaped us; our parents, our childhood, lost friends, music, books, TV and films of a particular era.

There is nothing quite as sweet as the grey warbling of a bird near extinction. We push things towards extinction, and only when we're fearful of their loss, do we cherish them. Why do we need to make things rare, when we should celebrate the common place?
Meanwhile as we respond to ever increasing stimuli we don’t necessarily relate to it. We see the shape of things, but not their texture. We know everything, but is there a genuine understanding? With so much data in the files we seem to have difficulty apportioning genuine value to things.
We are in danger of becoming sensually deprived; we don't know nature, our own nature, ourselves.
The common ‘buzz’ of the 24/7 communications age has rendered us over-stimulated, our touchstones have become mobile phones and laptops; we have to keep checking for messages to see if we are valued.
It’s a bit like looking in a mirror to see if we are still there.
Maybe we’ve become too distracted to be happy as ‘happiness’ depends on us being present, in and of the moment. I think that we need to simply disconnect and learn to be alone again, to reconnect with our imaginations, to re-engage with our sense of wonder.

Someone once wrote "Wear your life loosely, it fits better that way."
The past is the authentic fabric from which we are made; we define ourselves by how we cut that cloth. The filtering of memories enables us to come to terms with what we have become, how we have tailored ourselves.
I feel an increasing sense of emotional isolation. I internalize and only really release through song.
I sense that we’re all increasingly looking inwards, taking pride in ourselves but lacking any sense of ‘place’, essentially denying ourselves the benefits of community.
The currency that keeps us vital is life itself, and our vital perception not just of life as it happens, but of our processing of that experience. Our value is not just what we could be, but what we are, what we have become. The further we grow away from our histories, the more obvious their influence becomes, and the more we idealise and cherish that influence.
Reviewed and rewritten, our past becomes us.
With this benefit of hindsight, how can we be disappointed?
These fleeting cherry blossom moments in Corsica have taught me to cherish the past, accept and recognise its vitality, but not to live there.
When it comes to ranting about the transient joys of all things bright and beautiful, Keats got there long before me, but I believe that William Blake nailed it best when he wrote:


He who binds himself to joy
Doth the Winged life destroy
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise

Corsica has gifted me a perfect day in the sun, now I need to live beyond that day without corrupting or resenting the memory of it.

TORONTO TIM SAYS: THROUGH THE CRACKS: HONEYCHURCH: CHANCERY LANE

Here I hand the page over to Tim Patrick whose enthusiasm is contagious:

TT says: HONEYCHURCH... through the cracks, but 'caught' by a lucky few...

Spring cleaning... that time of the year again. 

Last year, I unloaded all of my VHS tapes, cassettes, most of my vinyl, a bunch of CD's and loads of books. 

This year I'm thinning out my stack of old music magazines. 

I happened to be um, let's just say I was on the "throne" thumbing through an August '04 issue of "Paste" magazine. 

I spotted a tiny ad from an indie mail-order company, describing a band going by the moniker 'Honeychurch' with an album 'Makes Me Feel Better'. 

The little blurb used a seductive pitch... 

"A rapturous effort, melding undulating pop with indie-folk dreaminess. Ferried by a variety of guitars, strings and organ, these are romantic, blissfully transcendent songs." 

Hmmm... totally obscure, but worthy of inquiry!

'HONEYCHURCH'... I began by "fishing" at Youtube, and a couple of audio clips came up. The first tune I punched was the elegantly British-sounding 'CHANCERY LANE'... I was hooked! All I could do was listen to it over and over. The blurb was right on the money. This track is lushly arranged chamber pop. Sweet harmonies, incandescent strings, a wisp of oboe after the lovely bridge, and the clincher... a yearning pedal steel guitar accenting the entire piece... 5:06 minutes of sheer beauty!

Eventually, I listened to the other clips... 'Fields On Fire', 'Welcome Home Spacegirl', 'Miko II' are all splendid. More of an 'americana' vibe, not as immediate as 'Chancery' but definite growers. I hate pigeon-holing, since there is an amalgam of styles here; but the closest comparison that comes to mind is Hem and Mojave 3, and with that combo of superb songs and ubiquitous pedal steel maybe a little Miracle Mile!

As far as a bio of the band, there isn't a lot of info. Based out of Bucks County, Pennsylvania the core consists of husband and wife Shilough and Larissa Hopwood, with guitar whiz Tim Kratz and Doncaster, England native Greg Millward on drums. Honeychurch's albums were released with the help of a local independent record store, Siren Records in Doylestown, PA. Mostly regionally appreciated, this is a band playing "for the love of it." When I received my CD, Larissa sent along a hand-written card of greeting and thanks which was special. 

If you like what you hear, Honeychurch have three official albums 'Calling Me Home' (2001), 'Makes Me Feel Better' (2004), both deleted and almost impossible to find. I managed to pick up a used copy of the 2nd album from Amazon.com for a fair price, but most copies are about $40. The band have recently issued a compilation "Early Times 2001-2004" which misses a couple of great tracks, but works fine. Also, this March 2012 they released their 3rd album 'Will You Be There With Me' which may not have a knock-out tune, but is consistently gorgeous; I'm falling more in love with each listen. This one will surely make my Top 10 of 2012!

You can LISTEN to or purchase both of the latter CD's at: http://honeychurch.bandcamp.com 

Other recommended video links:

FIELDS ON FIRE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ciFkG0QDHQc

MIKO II: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vU1TbmI9t7g

THE DREAM IS OVER: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d6mL6eFK4Uk

THE WINTER PART II:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZO8g9s1aIM

BEFORE YOU LEAVE - (LIVE): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZwm8GBqrWA&feature=relmfu