The Wick: 4

The Wick: 4

21/4/2026

Builder wakes me. Chisel on brick. 7am. His name is Kevin. I offer Kevin tea. He'd prefer coffee. I'm out of coffee. Told Kevin 'I'll be back in 5'. Went up the road for coffee. Got 'artisan' coffee from The Black Dog Deli. £8! London prices. Tried a different home route. Got lost. Wrong bridleway. Lovely detour. No such thing as a wasted wander. Thought I'd write a song. Found a line and took it for a walk. Rhymed 'beautiful dreamer' with 'dutiful schemer'.  It's not exactly Sondheim is it? Two hours later found the river and kept it to my left. The Blyth's riverbank is a chaos of calm: so much going on, unseen. The marshland and reedbeds of the estuary is a haven for birds and biodiversity. Rarities such as marsh harriers and bitterns are nesting somewhere in the meadows. Butterflies, lizards and dragonflies abound. A seal accompanies me upriver for a while before pushing on ahead, seaward. I eventually reach the Bailey bridge. This was once the location of a Victorian railway swing bridge. In 1879, a narrow gauge railway opened between Halesworth and Southwold. There was a station at Walberswick. The line served holidaymakers and the fishing industry. A link was added to Southwold Harbour in 1914, but the decline of the fishing industry swiftly followed. Road transport was more efficient and the railway closed in 1929. After the Second World War the Bailey bridge replaced the railway swing bridge. This footbridge connects the Walberswick bank with Southwold's. The alternative is a looping twenty mile drive, back up to, and along the A12. Although frowned upon, villagers from The Wick occasionally tried to traverse the bridge in small cars; likely en-route to The Harbour pub Southwold side. Legend has it that in the 70s a youngster in a mini got halfway across before getting wedged, closing the bridge for days. There are now concrete steps that dissuade such folly. 

I crossed over onto the Southwold side, known as 'Blackshore'; a jumble of boatbuilders' sheds and wooden fisherman's hut, leaning woozily towards an uncertain future. The harbour-side is a confusion of jetties, fishing nets and boats in various stages of disrepair. Bought brunch from 'Mrs T's Fish & Chips'. Borrowed £2 from Mrs T for the ferry back to Walberswick. The ferryman only takes cash. Owe the ferryman 50p: he's put his prices up. 

Back home I set up a table and chair on the grass out front of the studio to eat my fish & chip breakfast: it was bright but breezy. Went back inside for ketchup. Came back out and my haddock was gone! Gull sat atop Richard Curtis's roof with an humungous haddock in its beak. Two or three gulps: gone! Kevin the builder walked past, glancing at me glancing at the gull. Ah Kevin! He'd skipped my mind. I offered him coffee. Kevin doesn't drink coffee after 10am. I made him a tea with two conciliatory Cadbury's Fingers. Back out front and now my chips had gone. Two slices of brown bread too. Curtis's gull looked down on me, cackling. Bothered? No. It's still morning: such a bright morning. As the poet said "if we're not supposed to dance, why all this music?"

To Be Alive

Gregory Orr

To be alive: not just the carcass
But the spark.
That’s crudely put, but…
If we’re not supposed to dance,
Why all this music?

The Wick: 3

The Wick: 3

20/4/2026

No wake up call from Morse the crow. This sunny morn it's Gary Davies coming at me through a builder's radio the size of Sizewell. It's a harsh blare. Next door is having new windows put in, putting my Victorian metal frames to shame. Installing double glazing in a fisherman's shack exemplifies the gentrification that the village is currently attempting to resist. Beyond my Crittal window the outside world is creeping in on 'The Wick'. Looking south down the coast Sizewell B looms large on the horizon. Sizewell C is well on its way. 1000 hectares of new 'infrastructure'. The benefits will be undeniable: low-carbon electricity for 6 million homes. The downside? It's going to take 9 to 12 years to construct. The railway crossing at drowsy Darsham usually signals 10 minutes from the Walberswick turnoff.  When I drove up on Friday that home run took me 50 minutes. A labyrinth of bypasses and roundabouts has reduced/elevated the sleepy A12 to a cauldron of chaos and concrete. What was once dozy is now buzzing.

The 7 o'clock news interrupts Gary's breakfast show blather. Iran is resisting peace talks as the US attacks their cargo ships in the Strait of Hormuz. Meanwhile, in southern Lebanon, an Israeli soldier attacks a statue of Jesus Christ with a sledgehammer. Netanyahu reassures us that "Israel is the only place in the Middle East that adheres to freedom of worship for all." Perhaps that soldier mistook the statue for a Red Cross worker? It's easy to confuse Jesus with a doctor. 

I currently want for nowt but the world directly outside my Walberswick window. Even The Wick's parish pump politics can be intrusive. I came here for retreat. But it's hard to ignore America's advances. 

Trump's bellicose bravado is as nauseating as it is transparent: there's money to be made. And nothing distracts from domestic dilemma like a war on foreign soil. As Trump punches the air, his feverish followers continue to fall at his feet: supplicant believers become dumb disciples. He can do no wrong. Modern American 'politics' eh? Nothing seems rooted in reality: it reads like a fiction that you couldn’t make up, let alone believe. Debate has become more about abuse and mockery than open minded discourse and authentic argument. Now politicians shirk responsibility and point the finger of blame randomly, spitefully, whilst smugly lining their pockets. They don't’t even blanch when caught out: just shrug it off as though self-interest and mendacity was part of the game. Galbraith nailed it: “The modern conservative is engaged in one of man's oldest exercises in moral philosophy; that is, the search for a superior moral justification for selfishness.”

Where are the ‘strong and forceful voices’? It’s been a while since we have seen a youthful US politician of vision, integrity and charisma. Trump's support is bewildering mass myopia. Emboldened, he knows no shame and is thus shameless: his sins unquantifiable because they simply don’t count. If Donald is the answer then what on this flat earth is the question? Beyond a confirmation of their tribalism, beyond enabling his self serving adventurism, beyond mindlessly nailing their colours to his mast, what course are DT's cowing crew expecting him to plot? What’s in it for them? Trump has sold short the value of caution and care: politics aren’t meant to be dramatic, exciting, thrilling or emotional, but that’s the shit-show they’ve become, and Don the Con's your toothsome, loathsome host. Without coherent character he has no cogent conscience, and as such, he exists in a moralistic void. His vulgar vapidity has shrouded what was once bright and beautiful: an American independence of thought and vision that enabled and demanded genuine, authentic inclusivity. 'We the people' means everyone! Doesn't it? Trump has dulled his toadying tribe into reverent, slack-jawed acceptance: a blind faith that precludes logical assessment or judgment. And so it goes; he has effectively elevated himself above the regulations and restraints of law and truth; of dignity and duty. Regardless of those disdains, what does his popularity say about America’s moral compass? It's terrifying to know that his trembling pinkies hover over the Big Red Button. It is truly terrifying to recognise that the world's fragile world order is in Trump's sweaty hands, and his hands are shaking. He plays golf whilst we hold our breath. The Doomsday Clock is currently set to 85 seconds to midnight; that symbolic apocalypse has never been closer. Perhaps the 11th hour is perfect timing for derailing the orange juggernaut? Cometh the hour. But where’s yer man? Who will finally take up the mantle and challenge the madness? Meanwhile, above the law, effectively unchallenged, an unprincipled Donald J. Trump continues to live in his own little world, determined to make it ours. We couldn’t be dumb enough to let him. Could we?

"This constant lying is not aimed at making the people believe a lie, but at ensuring that no one believes anything anymore. A people that can no longer distinguish between truth and lies cannot distinguish between right and wrong. And such a people, deprived of the power to think and judge, is, without knowing and willing it, completely subjected to the rule of lies. With such a people, you can do whatever you want."

Hannah Arendt

As morning progresses, that builder's radio buzzes ever louder. Jeremy Vine's due, signalling high noon. So I set out, shore-bound. It's wild and windy, but a gloriously sunny spring day. As I saunter south, next the gunmetal grey of North Sea, the famous golf ball silhouette of Sizewell B beckons gloomily. Regardless of my admirable legwork, it seems to remain the same size; undiminishable: undeniable: ever-present. I refocus. My destination is The Ship in Dunwich. They do a decent Scotch Egg and pickle. Their chips are thrice cooked. I always seem to arrive minutes before the kitchen closes. Best look alive.

The Wick: 2

The Wick: 2

19/4/2026

Tappety tap-tap. Morse is back. 6:30am on the nose. He’s nothing but punctual. There’s something in his timing that’s too rhythmic to be random; it’s almost as though he’s conveying a coded message from up the coast, or perhaps from the past. Maybe Morse is a reborn carrier pigeon who just can’t deny his past life’s innate instincts? A crow in the know? I look forward to getting to know him.
Up. Porridge and coffee. Walk to the beach, find a spot and read. A routine in the offing. This morning it’s Wallace Stegner’s 'Crossing to Safety’. It’s a novel primarily about friendship, love, loyalty and the places that we hold dear. A sentence leaps out at me. “There it is, the place where during the best times of our lives friendship had its home and happiness its headquarters.”

Apart from home, The Wick is home to my happiness and is already resettling my bones. Some places can do that; find harbour in your heart and drop anchor. There’s a kind of reverberation that aligns itself with you and aligns you to it. Similar to enduring friendships, there’s something recognisable in the frisson of discovery. I’d consider myself ‘wordly’, so there’s sweet-relief in the recognition of new experience that isn’t filtered through an ‘all knowing’ prism. I can still see. I can still feel. It’s not always about adventure and movement. Sometimes a moment will find your static bones and nudge you towards enlightenment. But you have to pay attention; the epiphanies are fleeting; often caught on the edge of view, in plain sight but in the corner of your eye. Even if imagined, they’re worth studying. Here in The Wick the days are reduced to a slow parade of possibilities. I know that there are those who poo-poo ‘self regard’ as indulgence. Their loss. The unexamined life... etc. Self-regard is what I’m here for. I walk. I talk with strangers. I read. I reacquaint myself with the hope of hope. And that is hope enough.

Whole Day of Hope

With the moon on my back I follow my shadow
Towards the light of a better day
I try to resist the straight and the narrow
In search of the hip and hooray

You ask me ‘why’ and I say ‘because’
I think I’ve been lonely too long
I am what I am, I’m not what I was
Let me cast my bones in this song

Maybe I know that you know
But sometimes things have to be said
There’s a shadowland deep in my heart
Where I am too easily led

I once had a whole day of hope
Happiness came and was seated
I once had a whole day of hope
But the moon rose upon the defeated

Beautiful burden, solid and sure
Yours is the path I am choosing
Perish the truth, love will endure
But I can’t seem to win for the losing

The things that keep moving us forward
Are the things that keep holding us back
I want to be shaped by intention
But I’m shaped by the courage I lack

I once had a whole day of hope
Happiness came and was seated
I once had a whole day of hope
But the moon rose upon the defeated

The Wick: 1

The Wick: 1
18/4/2026


I woke with the lark. Or should I say, the crow. Its silhouette was ratatat-tapping on my window early doors: 6:30am. I’d forgotten to draw the studio bedroom curtains and my new corvine chum was clearly enamoured with his own reflection. Or he was seeing off the competition. I stumbled down ever steepening stairs to confront my own reflection. I recognise that smiling whilst brushing one’s teeth is an odd habit. It made me think of Dr Love, the long-gone father of a rugby teammate. He’d retired early to make violins, only coming out of his shed on Saturdays to watch his son Simon play. On one of those days, as I removed my gum shield to shake his congratulatory hand, he offered me this wisdom: “Folk don’t trust people who smile too much Trevor. Your teeth were too white.” This medical advice was clearly prescribed for a budding narcissist. That was nearly 50 years ago. And this morning I gurned a grey smile as I flossed. Too much coffee and red wine. I pushed my teeth into the back of a grimace and cursed Dr Love. After porridge, I took Raymond Carver’s ‘Cathedral’ to the sea, found a dune, sat and read.

The first story ‘Feathers’ reminded me of peacocks. Which in turn reminded me of Betty. My mum loved peacocks; collected their feathers and fed their young. The rest of her village hated the things; they screeched like beaten babies; “mayawe, may-awe” their dawn chorus as they scratched and shat on everyone’s cars. My dad’s cherished Skoda ‘Octavia’ testified to that. Terry hated the peacocks too, but his children were sworn to secrecy. Apparently peacocks personify immortality and renewal; an irony likely not lost on Betty; even in her deepening dementia. I hope that she still dreams of their iridescent beauty.
A flash of turquoise as the sun found the offing; a young American couple with two baby twins sat close enough for me to sense the need for diaper-duty. Spell broken, like a blinking tail disappearing into the blue, I made my way to The Anchor for an early pub lunch. A minuscule battered loin of cod, with chips and broccoli was washed down with a half pint of alcohol free ‘Ghost Ship’. No amount of citrus and hops could atone for its mean spirit. Two elderly ladies on the next table were rattling: something about a ‘roving rector’ and asparagus. The more decrepit of the two had invited the rector back for dinner but had forgetfully duplicated her previous offering: “And didn’t he tell me so! Didn’t stop his moaning until he ran out of breath, and that took a while…” The offending crispy duck pancake (“with piquant plum sauce”) sounded tasty to me, but our picky parson simply wasn’t having it. “How was your cod?”, asked my waitress. “Poultry!” I replied a little too hastily. The decrepits glared: they’d clearly caught me listening in. “Get down Gus!” one of them barked as I offered their humungous dog a conciliatory chip. As I beat a retreat past their now sleeping wolfhound, apparently ‘Asparagus’, I pushed my tongue into the back of my teeth and gave them a smile that Dr Love wouldn’t have trusted, but would surely have understood. I shuffled back to the studio to write this blather and snooze, only to be awoken by, you’ve guessed it, the ratatat-tapper’s return. He’s out there now, scowling back at me like a roving rector who’s been offered one crispy duck too many. I’ve even named the upstart. ‘Morse’ of course.

From Across the Pond

"This constant lying is not aimed at making the people believe a lie, but at ensuring that no one believes anything anymore. A people that can no longer distinguish between truth and lies cannot distinguish between right and wrong. And such a people, deprived of the power to think and judge, is, without knowing and willing it, completely subjected to the rule of lies. With such a people, you can do whatever you want."
Hannah Arendt

Watching from across the pond. As Trump punches the air and wears his flesh wound like a stigmata, his feverish followers fall at his feet: supplicant believers become dumb disciples. He can do no wrong. Modern American 'politics' eh? Nothing seems rooted in reality: it reads like a fiction that you couldn’t make up, let alone believe. I do recognise that the UK’s political bar hasn’t exactly been set high of late. Debate has become more about abuse and mockery than open minded discourse and authentic argument. Our baleful blues shirked responsibility and pointed the tawdry Tory finger of blame randomly, spitefully, whilst smugly lining their pockets. They didn’t even blanch when caught out: just shrugged it off as though self interest was part of the game. Good riddance. Galbraith nailed it: “The modern conservative is engaged in one of man's oldest exercises in moral philosophy; that is, the search for a superior moral justification for selfishness.” 

Meanwhile, stateside, Biden stumbles on, seemingly oblivious of the crucial need for fresh blue blood. But where's the beef? I’m reading that, despite her smarts and fresh energy, Kamala Harris is liked rather than admired, and will lose the Dem’s votes simply because of her gender? Where are the ‘strong and forceful voices’? It’s been a while since we have seen a youthful US politician of vision, integrity and charisma. 

Trump's support is bewildering mass myopia. Emboldened, he knows no shame and is thus shameless: his sins unquantifiable because they simply don’t count. If Donald is the answer then what on this flat earth is the question? Beyond a confirmation of their tribalism, beyond enabling his self serving adventurism, beyond mindlessly nailing their colours to his mast, what course are DT's cowing crew expecting him to plot? What’s in it for them? 

Trump has sold short the value of caution and care: politics aren’t meant to be dramatic, exciting, thrilling or emotional, but that’s the shit-show they’ve become, and Don the Con's your toothsome, loathsome host. Without coherent character he has no cogent conscience, and as such, he exists in a moralistic void. His vulgar vapidity has shrouded what was once bright and beautiful: an American independence of thought and vision that enabled and demanded genuine, authentic inclusivity. 'We the people' means everyone!  Doesn't it? 

Trump has dulled his toadying tribe into reverent, slack-jawed acceptance: a blind faith that precludes logical assessment or judgment.  And so it goes; he has effectively elevated himself above the regulations and restraints of law and truth; of dignity and duty. Regardless of those disdains, what does his popularity say about America’s moral compass?

Sleepy Joe's innings is over and yet he is still pitching to be there for the next four and a half years. Surely his work is done? He is a good soul but his energies are spent. Well spent, but spent. Perhaps the 11th hour is perfect timing for derailing the orange juggernaut? Cometh the hour. But where’s yer man?

Meanwhile, above the law, effectively unchallenged, an unprincipled Donald J. Trump continues to live in his own little world, determined to make it ours. We couldn’t be dumb enough to let him. Could we?

Paul Auster: Gone

                                        “Stories only happen to those who are able to tell them.”

Paul Auster: gone. He likely wrote his own epitaph: “To leave the world a little better than you found it. That's the best a man can ever do.” More a Gillette ad than a eulogy, but apt. He's alongside Raymond Carver and Richard Ford as my 'go to' American writer. ‘Moon Palace’, ‘Book of Illusions’, ‘Music of Chance’. My favourite is always the one that I’m reading. His manner was lofty but worldly; a spidery intellect, wonky enough to be lovable. His style is impossible to bottle. This morning I’ll go for ‘wide-eyed and squinting!’ That'd be a poet’s eye: one that fuelled a forensic mind; and yet he clutched the inquisitiveness of childhood like a beloved balloon.

"If nothing else, the years have taught me this: if there’s a pencil in your pocket, there’s a good chance that one day you’ll feel tempted to start using it. As I like to tell my children, that’s how I became a writer."

Funny yet fathom deep, his playful tales are frequented by ‘chance’. And lost chances. Flighty thoughts imbue core truths. Auster’s observations are often so startlingly simple that you catch yourself rereading, just to be sure of their directness. “It was. It will never be again. Remember.” Strewth! And then he mangles meaning and encourages you to rebuild it: from cloud to clarity. We are offered cyphers and codes, mysteries and clues. And as we grapple for understanding, the blissful reconciliation of concept and conceit is the mischief that engages. Narratives bounce between impenetrable Kafkaesque fables (City of Glass) and rattling good yarns (Book of Illusions); the stumbling protagonists as unreliable as memory and the stories that carry them. He taught me much about the writing process: the compulsions and the contradictions. “We find ourselves only by looking at what we are not.” And what was he not? At 77 he seemed ageless: tireless in his pursuit. And what was that? Perhaps Paul put it best here: Why Write?

East of Ely: 10: The First Ad

 

East of Ely: 9: The Fatea Review

EAST OF ELY, is Miracle Mile's first album since 2012. Songwriter Trevor Jones has used the seclusion offered by the Suffolk coast to arrive at some insights about the human condition. There is a strong theme of love and deep connection, both personal and universal running through the album. The silence and space of the Suffolk and Norfolk coasts informs both Jones’ lyrics and Marcus Cliffe’s music, occasionally in the atmospheric snatches between tracks, the keyboard sounds and the two instrumental postcards, the space itself gets onto the tape. Jones himself says in a very poetic way, ‘In the silence we found sound’, you could almost put that in brackets after the title.

"Appletree" is a soft, gloriously languid love song, reflective vocals and atmospheric pedal steel. This isn't music to dance to, but Trevor's vocals and Marcus' music leave you with a kind of Blue Nile warm glow. “Shivering Boy” carries on the warm love songs with some great lyrical imagery ‘You taught me how to dance like no-one else was there I came as Eric Morecambe but left as Fred Astaire’. “Sparrows” adds another voice to the warm lush sound. “Night Wedding” is a bruised, jaded song about dreams and making do. In feel its a Country song with ethereal electronic backing. With pastoral atmospherics and Trevor’s acoustic guitar “Postcard From Happisburgh” is a jazzy Floydian interlude. “Ocean Of Song” keeps the nimble guitar going, lightening the mood, contrasting the melancholic but poetic lyrics. ‘Well, I’m a shallow man Complete in my incompleteness I am what I am what I am.’ “Shorebound” mixes spoken poetry and sung lyrics. There is a real sense of place and of a moment, created by the imagery and the arrangement. Light and atmospheric “Shorebound” is a stand out track with its lyrics titling the album. “Butterfly Broach” is a very english pastoral love song with a dark edge like the best of Boo Hewerdine. “Silent Sigh” is another electronic Country song, weary delivery with some superb lyrics about the slow drift apart. ‘Now love is whiskey, love is wine I know I’m fading but I’m fine’. “Come Morning” with its light touch, electronic drums and reflective vocal has a touch of The Blue Nile. The wave like keyboards and pastoral imagery are followed by “Postcard From Walberswick” a final sea shore interlude that closes this thoughtful and delicate album.

Marc Higgins

East of Ely: 8: The Paul Woodgate Review

Miracle Mile released 'In Cassidy’s Care', their last full-length recording, in 2013. It was the year Taylor Swift released her fourth long player, 'Red'. 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 Miracle Mile went quiet, but it seemed possible to those of us who cared that they were never ever (ever!) getting back together. 

A lot can happen in 11 years. Music has succumbed to the digital diktat of corporate streaming services where it is now described as ‘product’ 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?

Perhaps you need Miracle Mile more than you thought.

And what of our heroes? Marcus Cliffe, multi-instrumentalist, studio owner, all round melodic marvel has, amongst other things, toured on and off with Manfred Man, released solo LPs and worked on a musical with Mark Knopfler. Trevor Jones, 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 'Carver’s Law', which have allowed him to step outside the ‘band’ ethos and explore a gentler, more introspective journey.

That tilt towards introspection continues here. It will be no surprise to long-term fans of Jones and Cliffe, and can be measured in rough correlation with the decreasing number of ‘official’ band members over the years. From the fizzing pop of 'Bicycle Thieves' 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.

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 Miracle Mile’s oxygen.

Opener 'Appletree' reads like a reintroduction to Miracle Mile's manifesto. Over a typically gorgeous piano and string melody Jones reassures all those who wondered at their absence that ‘It's from me, just for you..’, recognising the relationship between the artist and listener, between influencer and influenced; ‘..you wouldn’t be you without me / but I wouldn't be me without you.’ The re-connection is, I'm happy to report, instant.

'Sparrows' unwinds delicate memories - ‘Home holds your scent, and whispers your name / He scratched it there on the back window-frame’. 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.

No-one’s Walking John Wayne here, but there’s no less drama. 'Night Wedding' opens like one of Carver's short stories. There’s no disguising the storytelling craft in ‘Well she walked down the aisle with a Scotch in her hand / She was only really there for the wedding band’. The beautiful strings in the middle-eight could have soundtracked Brief Encounter. I don’t have a favourite, but I keep coming back to see how the girl got on.

'Shorebound', a title track of sorts, continues Jones’ penchant for the spoken word in song, in this instance joining with both Marcus and Lucinda Drayton (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.

If I were to choose a song for the first 7” - ah, those were the days! - it would be 'Chapel Flower Morning'. It’s the most immediate track on the album and reminiscent of 'Limbo' and 'Glow'-era Miracle Mile, 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?

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, 'Postcard from Happisburgh', is a wonderful guitar piece from Cliffe that leaves you envious for his having found a place that makes him so happy. 'Postcard from Walberswick', 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.

Over eight studio albums and a compilation, Miracle Mile 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 Miracle Mile are here at all. 'East of Ely' is bullseye number nine. Hit the coast roads and rejoice; our happy/sad place is found again.

Paul Woodgate   27/1/2024

Pre-order 'East of Ely' here

'East of Ely': 7: A Good Egg

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 facts of life. It is encouraging then to hear when 'specific' translates as 'universal'. 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 'connection' can be overwhelmingly gratifying: particularly when your moment of clarity has been born from confusion. 

A few years ago Di and I were at a Case Harding gig in Soho. The Borderline 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 Mark Eitzel's brilliant live album 'Songs of Love' was recorded. I saw Ron Sexsmith there on his first UK tour: a young Sheryl Crowe 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 Pete Gow and Jim Maving strut their stuff as Case Harding. The next morning I received a FB message asking me if I was at the gig and was I the singer with Miracle Mile? 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 'Slow Fade' and was an admirer of Miracle Mile. 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; The Unthanks 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 AmericanaUk. The reviews were always positive but, more importantly, perceptive: on the nose in terms of understanding and deciphering the thing that I do with Marcus Cliffe. 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 'East of Ely'. 

It'll be my next post. 

Thanks to Paul for his kindly words: both elevating and humbling: he really is a good egg!

I hope that his insight whets your appetite and perhaps might move you to pre-order the album. 

Pre-Order 'East of Ely' here.

East of Ely: 6: Light Enough

December 1st, 2023. A year ago today was the final full day of a three week stay in Walberswick. 

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.

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.

Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.

East of Ely: 5: Songs and Serendipity

I thought I'd tell you a little about the genesis of the songs on the album.
That title? 'East of Ely' 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. 

The sense 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. The Bell is for the seafarers. The Anchor 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'. 

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 'bucolic bliss'. I bought a guitar and songs. A mic was set up with The Scientist's directive: 'Let's see what happens'. The dogs Willow and Charlie 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!

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 'The Hunchback and The Scientist'! 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 (are we there yet?) the effects became manifest and manifested themselves as songs. I never think I have an album's worth. But once Marcus hits 'Record' on a new project the muse comes stumbling out of the cave: bleary eyed but willing. 

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. Miracle Mile are a duo. My verbiage therefore needs to stand for both of us. Not the personal details per se, more a sense of things as they are, were, or should be. The vagaries of my lyrical form becomes our 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, trust is vital. As you can see below, he's the style, I'm the culture! 

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 'happy place' with the adored and adoring Charlie.

East of Ely's songs:

Appletree: The recognition and acceptance of influence. A song of gratitude.

Shivering Boy: Insecurity and vulnerability. The boy as father of the man etc.

Sparrows: Betty's journey with dementia. My memory needs to be hers. I have a terrible memory.

Night Wedding: Good things come to those who wait. But at what price?

Postcard from Happisburgh: Marcus personifies 'Happisburgh' in a musical vignette. The album's happiest moment. I can smell 'Charlie's Field'.

Ocean of Song: Resentments are toxic but abiding. Songs are my way of archiving hurt. 

Shorebound: Me, Marcus and Lucinda try to bottle the benefits of the bolthole.

Butterfly Brooch: A lovesong for a butterfly.

Silent Sigh: A confused moment in a Tesco aisle. The same aisle where I detached my retina.

Chapel Flower Morning: A song about transience, celebration, growth and inevitable withering.

Come Morning: A hymn to her. A gathering of gifts and a thanksgiving of sorts. 

Postcard from Walberswick: A note to someone who's forgotten how to read.

Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.

East of Ely: 4: Cover Story

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 counter to that content. Like a decent book jacket, it should encourage the idle viewer's eye to settle, linger and somehow consider 'That's for me!'  When you're wearing someone else's trousers, you have to trust their sense of fashion. We've only ever used two designers for Miracle Mile and solo projects. The magnificently maverick Nick Reddyhoff created early album designs: beautifully rendered, with a popularist's playful gaze. Barry Cross has been our man since 2012's 'In Cassidy's Care'. 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!

For 'East of Ely' 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 Andrew Wyeth'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 John Ford was directing the lighting from above. 

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. 

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.

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.

Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.

 

East of Ely: 3: Shorebound

‘East of Ely’ is Miracle Mile’s first album since 2012. It was largely written in an old fisherman's netting shed on the Suffolk coast and later recorded between London and Norfolk. 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 'happy place' - on the North Eastern coast of Norfolk, in the aptly named hamlet of Happisburgh. 'Bring your guitar and songs.' was his only instruction. He'd brought his bass, dampened the strings with loo paper, set up a mic in front of the obligatory creaky chair and... we were off. 

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. 

We decided to limit the musical palate to primary colours and resolved to doing most everything ourselves. 

The only folk we invited into the cave were drummer Mike Pickering

Pedal Steel maestro Melvin Duffy 

and vocalist Lucinda Drayton.

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.

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 retreat. 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.

'East of Ely' is available to pre-order here

East of Ely: 2: Boltholes

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.

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.
Rilke wrote “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.” 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.

Pre-order 'East of Ely' here

East of Ely: 1: Why? Why Not?

'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.'

Frankie Boyle 

Although he usually strikes me as smug and spiteful, this isn’t a bad effort by Frankie.

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 'hell in a hand cart'. Apparently 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. 

Should I vote for a grey man or a buffoon? 

I know that I will choose not to choose. 

I'll choose to look to myself. 

"To thine own self be true' was my dad‘s mantra. 

I concur, but decide that I need to be more active in the belief.

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, better 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 unsure of themselves. Sometimes loneliness is steeped in the belief that we are somehow uniquely isolated: that the nature of things does not apply to us. Or only 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? 

So here I am, again, lighting fires on the Suffolk coast: my annual, self-imposed retreat. But to what end? Solitude has its benefits. You arrive and... unpack. Unburdening is healthy, but isolation 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. 

And that’s me: I’ve just thrown another soggy log on the fire, hoping that this one will burn. 

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 connect. 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? 

My little piece of brash ice will melt in time, but hopefully there is time enough.

Pre-order 'East of Ely' here.

Love Song: Our Man in the Field: 'Gold on the Horizon'

Our Man in the Field is essentially singer-songwriter Alexander Ellis, aided and abetted by a few talented amigos. The new album ‘Gold on the Horizon’ is a lovingly crafted collection of heartfelt authenticity. Recorded in Oregon by feted American producer Tucker Martine, 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’ve always been an outsider, so an outsider I’ll be." he intones on ‘L’Estranger’. His faith is in nothing but himself: “I believe there’s nothing up there looking down on me.” 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 rope-a-trope authentic. He tethers his troubles to a soulful soundscape that evokes a youthful Van Morrison’s dreamier desires and Ray LaMontagne’s doe-eyed soul searching. Sure, it’s a conventional conceit, but our protagonist is utterly cogent in his cause. Alex Ellis 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. 

This is confident Americana: honey-toned and virtuous. If you want to believe in bucolic benevolence, Alex Ellis is a convincer. Our Man in the Field has farmed and fermented a heady crop: woozy with wonder but firmly fixed on that golden horizon.