This Weekend

I know, I know.
It's been a while since I've put pen to paper and written something meaningful.
I know that you're all desperate for some fresh revelation or at least the odd bon mot...
I've been away.
Not exactly away, more absent than present I guess.
The writing and recording process can do that to you.
You rattle your sabers and find that you have feck all to say...
'To the Bone' will be available to you all soon.
I hope that you'll like its... slightness.
Meanwhile, Di's away with family so I have a weekend to plan for myself.
I intend to:
- Drink too much coffee.
- Eye the whiskey bottle and resist.
- Discover the joys of the 'Mood' playlists on 'Spotify'. I currently cannot get past 'Coffeehouse'. It seems that everyone wants to be Bon Ivor at the moment. I'd rather that than Oasis but, with so many towels on the beach I'm wondering where I'm going to sit...
Ah, here's Paul Simon; 'Bookends' succinct genius breaks that whispering spell.
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you

That's the song. 

Brilliant!
- Finally finish reading Ron Rash's wonderful, 'The Cove' (raw and terribly beautiful) so that I can reach for the next on the shelf: Willy Vlautin's 'Lean on Me Pete'.
- That'll lead me on to reassessing Richmond Fontaines back catalogue; inevitably lingering long on 'Post to Wire'.
- Finish watching the Ray LaMontagne concert on Sky Arts and wonder why such a beautiful singer leaves me so cold as a performer...
- Lose a £10 bet on the England v Ireland match to a fuzzy faced Paddy sailor who doesn't need the cash and already has too much of mine.
- Wonder at how Swansea City can play such technically beautiful football without putting it in the onion net.
- Watch that second new 'Star Trek' movie knowing I'll resent the loss of the 90 minutes.
- Rewatch 'The Master' and 'Before the Devil Knows You're Dead' in deference to the late great Philip Seymour Hoffman.
- Fill in the metadata and PRS spreadsheets (hate 'em) in preparation for the release of 'To the Bone'.
- Relisten to the final mixes and mither.
- Wonder why I am compelled to secretly dress like the bastard son of Billy the Fish and Jesus Christ. And you thought him a virgin?
Why not write to me here and tell me how your weekend's going; give me an idea or two beyond reshaping my facial hair and wondering what three curries in a row will do for my digestion.

Still Here

There will be news of the release 'To the Bone' soon.
Meanwhile... this made me chuckle...

Jones: To The Bone: Update

The album has been lovingly mastered by Peter Beckmann. 
Pete has pressed the 'stardust' button and has duly worked his wonders. 
One or two minor adjustments will see the the album off for production early next week.

Here's the running order with a tantalizing quote from each song:

Phil the Hat: Let's raise a glass to our younger selves

Dream Horses: Seven lonely satellites, circling my desire

Pardon Me: The love and the lust and the longing will always end up in our songs

Some Kind of Surrender: I reach out to you, reaching back at me

Books to Bed: When all hope is gone, we all grasp at straws

Man Behind the Moon: I could be beloved as I hide behind the moon

Angelicana: I know that in my blood I choose my words for sound

Cabin Fever: A question is forming. A knot is unravelling

The Fullness of Time: We danced as Dusty Springfield sang

Fireworks: It's magic we crave, explosions of wonder

Glimpsed and Gone: What does that mean?

To the Bone: If you're never awake you're never alone

Somewhere North of Here: Kindness is a kind of love and love it is a kind of fear

Row: I pray that the day will deliver all that's outstanding to me


Here below is what your CD will look like.
Makes me wish that we'd gone for the vinyl version...

Lovesong: Johnny Coppin: Homeward

"Strong clear vocals and songs of substance" says The Daily Telegraph whilst Q Magazine heralds him "One of the finest voices in his field."
I'm talking of Johnny Coppin, folk singer and broadcaster.
I first heard from Johnny when he responded to a mailout that I did upon the release of my debut solo album 'Hopeland'. Johnny had a show with BBC Radio Gloucester, really liked the album and wanted to play some tracks. He has since been a great supporter of my solo stuff and the quieter moments (there are many) of Miracle Mile. Then a couple of years ago Johnny informed me that he was enjoying singing one of my songs 'Homeward' in his lives shows; wanted to share with me that the response was always fantastic.

And now... Johnny has recorded that song for his new album 'Borderland'. I believe that the album is out in March but I got my promo this morning (thanks Johnny!) and it is a lovely thing: gentle folk with Celtic colourings, sung in a true, pure tenor. And sure enough, track 2 is 'Homeward'. Johnny's version is beautifully rendered, I particularly like the fact that he approached it on piano, making it his own. It's always interesting to hear other folk cover my songs; the nuances that are kept and the fresh investments made. Love it; the cello and backing vocals are particularly moving on first listen.
I'll try and link videos when they appear but for now, look out for details of the release here.

To the Bone: Jones: Latest

'To the Bone' is finished; mixed and ready for mastering by those men in white coats: Peter Beckmann and Marcus.

That'll be Wednesday.

At that point we send the Hi Res files off to Linn Records who will make the album available as a 96 bit Hi Res Download and also as CD and MP3 quality downloads.

Hi Res seems to be the way ahead; read about it here at Audiophlie Audition.

Proper Records will be distributing the hard copy CDs upon release which should be around May time.

I will however be making the album available to buy via the MiracleMile/Jones website 'Store' here once we get the first pressing back; which should be early February.
No vinyl edition at this point but never say never...

'To the Bone' is back on personal ground.

After the balm and reflective calm of both 'Hopeland' and 'Keepers' and the dispassionate objectivity of 'In Cassidy's Care' this album comes from a period of relative instability.

For me, the daily dramas, the joys and the sorrows, the love and the longing; always ends up in a song; usually those songs stand as resolutions. 

This particular bundle still sit a little unsteadily so I’m unsure of their worth. 

A reticent recommendation I know but…

If I’ve learnt anything from the past year, it’s to wear your life loosely; it fits better that way. 

Mine’s still currently a tight fit, although a little baggy around the knees. 

And you’re only as good as your knees…

Thanks, as ever, to Marcus; my friend, my confidante, my brother.

And dedications?

This one’s for me.

Meanwhile, here's an early look at some of Barry Cross's excellent artwork:

Hopeland (Notes From Corsica): 24: A Cima

A Cima

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

Abide. 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’.

***
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: Jo Hamilton: Think of Me & Liatach

Morning all.
I hope that you are feeling better than me...
Trawling for some new music on New Year's Day I found this.
Nothing particularly original I know but there's something in the voice and arrangements that hit head and heart hard; an emotional bullseye!
I've never heard of Jo Hamilton before but these two songs are stunners; both taken from her 2009 album 'Gown'.
All the best for 2014 by the way...

What I Did on My Holidays/My Top 10 Albums of the Year

I've just got back from a Xmas break in North Wales. We went with neighbour's Des and Louise, to their family bolt hole, a cozy cottage with sea view in Rhiw, on the Llyn peninsular.
It was my first time in the area and surely not the last. It's like the Yorkshire Dales by the sea; spectacularly beautiful yet austere, no frills, built to last. We had plenty of sunshine but also found ourselves in 'The Storm of the Century' on Boxing Day when nearby Aberdaron (1 mile away) recorded gales of 110 mph. Thank God for the dulling effects of alcohol; we should have been crapping it. Anyway, we had a hoot despite our host and games master Des contracting tonsilitis on Xmas day. As you can see we still managed a fine time...
Endure my holiday photos to find my Top 10 albums of 2014 listed below...

Meanwhile; I've been compiling my tracks of the year CD.
If you want a copy the rules are simple:
Send me your Tracks of the Year CD to:
Trevor Jones
18 The Green
Wooburn Green
BUCKS HP10 0EF
Include your address and I'll return my Tracks of the Year CD to you.
Here's a clue of what you might get; my Top 10 albums of the Year.
Excuse lack of verbiage but I've got washing and ironing to attend to...

Prefab Sprout: Crimson/Red
Fossil Collective: Tell Where I Lie
KT Tunstall: Invisible Empire
Bill Callahan: Dream River
Emiliana Torrini: Tookah
John Fullbright: From the Ground Up
Jason Isbell: Southeastern (Thanks Macwood)
Sam Baker: Say Grace
Josh Ritter: The Beast in it's Tracks
Michael Kiwanuka: Home Again
David Lang: Death Speaks

That's eleven I know but David Lang's gloriously grim album has just arrived and it's sublime.

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica): 23: Saudade

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 come 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’ as a 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 the texture. We know everything, but is there a genuine understanding? With so much data in the file 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.
We have become too distracted to be happy, when 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?
Corsica had gifted me a perfect day in the sun, now I needed to live beyond that day without corrupting or resenting the memory of it.
I’m learning to rekindle hope.
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.

To the Bone: The Mixes 2

Ok, ok... Marcus and Luce wish all of our readers a 'Merry Xmas'!
And me and Willow? Well, I'm a humbug who looked a bit of a bellhead in the hat and Willow? Well... she's a dog.

'Angelicana' is our most challenging mix thus far.
There are disparate elements flying around.
We had deliberately incorporated Americana (dobro/pedal steel) and Britsounds (mellotron/distorted piano/classic Hammond) and this starts to sit uncomfortably with Marcus who feels that we have lost the quirkiness, whilst I see that USA/UK dichotomy as vital to the track's meaning: our heroine's yearning for the 'dusty roads' of Elsewhere. We go eyebrow to eyebrow and I eventually get my own way. This one could come back to haunt me... The Scientist is usually right!
I offer elevensies and the olive branch is accepted, except we then cannot agree on English Breakfast, Earl Grey, or a cup of Java...
'Man Behind the Moon' is slight (the word 'vignette' is outlawed) but important to the flow of the album. "There's something in the water, there's something in the air, there's something in the way that you worry with your hair." 
It's a gentle diversion and (dare I say) an easy mix of voice, piano, guitar, double bass, with some mellotron 'voices' added to give add a bit of grain. My whistling tooth gives Marcus some grief but the de 's'er soon sorts the sibilance.
A light lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches makes my whistling tooth ache even more . Willow wolfs down the left overs and then demands a walk.
'The Fullness of Time' is a similar arrangement to 'Man Behind the Moon'; we'll need to separate these in the running order. 'We danced as Dusty Springfield sang...' finds that whistling tooth again but it's sssoon sssorted.
Marcus and I hit the kitchen for a beer while I wait for the friday evening traffic to evaporate.
Three more songs to mix and we'll be done.
I'll be back on Tuesday for a couple of days.
It'll all be over by Christmas...

To the Bone: The Mixes

Today is the third day of mixing 'To the Bone' and all is well.
Every mix is challenging but things are controllable for Marcus because we have worked in the old school way by commiting to arrangement and sounds in the recording stage. The first challenge was to edit Melvin's pedal steel parts. As ever his playing is impeccable and, with two or three passes for each song it's really hard to choose what to keep and what to forever dispatch to pedal steel heaven. Marcus is keen that we don't hit the 'pretty button' on this album, so phrase after phrase of gorgeousness is 'wiped for now'. I'd hate to be a wasp in The Scientist's jam jar; he's brutal! To vary the sound we also got Mel to play Dobro and Weissenbourn and Marcus takes them out of their usual reverb and renders them bone dry. We aim at two mixes a day but have already nailed (I think):
Pardon Me: First track done and probably first track on the album. A live take, just me singing to Marcus's prodding piano.
Cabin Fever: Based on Raymond Carver's unsuccessful attempt at using a friend's cabin as a writing retreat. 'Send a letter or a woman!' he wrote...
Fireworks: Currently my favourite; a winsome waltz bathed in the ambience of overhead mics.
Phil the Hat and TJ: A friendship imagined that was then bathed in nostalgia.
Some Kind of Surrender: 'We settle for silence once again.' We go Tex Mex in search of an alternative.
To the Bone: Insomnia and ennui: 'I woke in the night from a stranger's dream, I'd rather be remembered that way.'
Row: Probably the last track on the album. Kind of sad; kind of hopeful.
Luce came in last night to add some siren like backing vocals to 'Angelicana' so we'll be mixing that after breakfast.
To the shower...

Springsteen and I

My Springsteen weekend continues apace.
1/4 of the Penderyn single malt left and a chilli bubbling away on the gas ring.
And I've just had this delivered (on a Sunday!) by Amazon.
I don't know whether to open it up and play it or wait for Di to return home tomorrow.
I haven't been so anxious about breaking a seal since my first packet of condoms!
Come on readers, you've got to help.
Break the seal or wait?
Break the seal or wait?

Lovesong: Bruce Springsteen: New York City Serenade & Dream Baby Dream

I'm on my own this weekend; that invariably means cricket, curry, whisky and music.
Even though the early signs of the imminent 'High Hopes' aren't too inspiring, I've got a hankering for Springsteen... I like him languid not lumpy. A bit like Costello; I switch off when he starts shouting at me.
But no-one does a rasping whisper like Bruce... and the motherlode of whispering intensity is surely his sophomore release. It's been a while since I visited the glories of 'The Wild the Innocent and the East Street Shuffle' so I went looking for a live performance of one of its highlights and, boy, did I strike gold.

This version of 'New York City Serenade' was shot weeks ago in Rome and it's just beautiful. 

And I thought that the man's voice was shot... 

It's a stunning performance.
String sections can come over as detached, aloof; here they just seem really chuffed to be there.
Then I then found this video of a song (more of a sweet chant really), 'Dream Baby Dream' which is new to me. It's quite hypnotic and the visuals are a treat. 

I defy even the staunchest cynic not to be moved by a moment or two from these performances...
Music made for the right reasons: to connect.
That Bruce can do that in a huge stadium of 100,000 odd is testament to his abilities as a performer.
Whether you love or loathe him (there doesn't seem to be much middle ground), whether he's whispering or shouting you cannot deny the man's integrity.
Meanwhile, back to the cricket.
Ouch!

Nelson Mandela: The Man is Dead: His Legacy in His Own Words (2002)

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica): 22: The Heat of Horses

22: The Heat of Horses

He sat barefoot in the garden, bewildered by the industry of birds: a chuckling chorus of secret signals, a riot of flight.
Squinting through a silhouette of branches his eye drifted skyward to a pair of red kites circling the morning haze with idle intent.
Spectral clouds lay quiescent, punctured by vapour trails bound for wider worlds. He traced their progress with a trembling finger, conjuring potent meaning from that totemic sky, before the vertigo of longing brought him back down to earth.
Beyond the hedge, a shifting of shadows, a familiar feral scent.
He saw the steam rising from their backs long before their bodies came into view.
The horses never came to his beckoning but he always held their eye.
He loved the heat of horses.
As a boy he would hug their necks and steal their breath while they delicately nipped peppermints from his palm.
He’d carry their stink on his fingers all day.
At night he would dream of dappled flanks and sour green apples.
His story was now a potent past, truth distilled.
Its refined energy taunted these pallid dolorous days.
These days he only had one dream.
He was a boy, running, and his feet made the sound of hooves.
The guitar rested idly on his lap and he hugged its walnut body to his belly, his fingers finding familiar shapes on the ebony board.
The strings were old and dull.
He would boil them later in vinegar.
“You never write me letters”, she had said the night before.
Before the argument.
After the whiskey.
He tested the dew with his toe and reluctantly opened his note pad. Good thinking, bad spelling, too many words.
She’d asked for flowers and, he offered water.
Reaching for his coffee cup he drank the tepid dregs, taking pleasure from the bitterness.
‘Soon all of this will end and ne’er begin again’ he muttered testing the air.
Turning his back to the circling shadows he sat square, found a chord and started his song.

Lovesong: Aztec Camera: High Land, Hard Rain

Marcus is in the studio today whilst I'm at the coal face.
Not fair!
He has the marvelous Melvin Duffy in weaving his pedal steel magic on our latest recordings. I hate missing out on these days; it's great watching a steel guru in action. We have worked with two of the best in the past, Mel and BJ Cole; alchemists both, yet they each produce a totally different lode. I'm looking forward to hearing the results next week when we continue with the mixes.

Meanwhile, I've been looking back...

"If you write the truest thing you know as a teenager and you write it well, it’ll be no less true three decades later. When Roddy Frame played those old songs, I remembered again why they swept me away." Pete Paphides

1983.
'High Land, Hard Rain': Jesus; 30 years old this year!
Really?
I remember buying this on vinyl the week of release, spinning it over and over, seeing the band live, wanting to be Roddy.
I was too old of course, he was just 19; the boy wonder...
I won't bang on because two folk have already addressed this brilliantly:
Read journalist Pete Paphides over on his Hidden Tracks blog and Drew over on the blog Across the Kitchen Table.
Then go and order the album here on Amazon; yours is surely languishing next to my lost (5th?) copy.
If you buy the box linked set you get the first 5 albums for just over £10.
Avoid the Remaster btw; apparently it's a dogs dinner...
Di's away this weekend so I'll be getting out the fringed suede jacket and doing one in front of the bedroom mirror. Might even post it on YouTube; apparently I need to improve my 'Profile'...
Here's the excellent 'Walk Out to Winter' live in '83 for The Old Grey Whistle Test.
Amazing: the glasses that render Bono a twat look so cool on our boy.

Hopeland (Notes from Corsica) 21: So Far So Good

21: So Far So Good

These are hardly original ideas.
The grass is always greener.
The human condition is invariably in a state of disappointment.
Is ‘different’ better? When habit and convention demoralizes and casts us adrift, how do we reset our course?
Change?
The thought of real change is intimidating; it could save me, yet I fear it and remain content with cold compromise. Dissatisfied, I crave happiness and, when it fails to materialise, look elsewhere for a quick fix. As ‘consumers’, maybe we have become so used to instant gratification that we can only be disappointed.
I want to be ‘of substance’, yet deny the process that makes the fabric hardy: life. I focus on the horizon, rather than on the small dramas in front of me. I desire to be “anywhere but here” with the vague possibilities of that ‘other life’ making me resent my real life even more. Traditionally these ‘other lives’ were just vague unobtainable pipedreams, seen in fuzzy black and white. Now, digital clarity promises a focused and immediate reality in ‘High Definition’ that is demanded without investment or preparation. Thus, even if I do make the dream reality, I’m unable to appreciate or recognise the gravity of its arrival; I just use it and move on to something else.
Many of my songs focus on the tricks that we use, the games that we play and the skills we develop, to stop ourselves from becoming unglued. For me, silence stands as failure and threatens everything, so I fill it with music and search for the perfect song. I’m surely doomed to be disappointed, but the ambition keeps me moving forward.
I believe that we all rest where compromise leaves us, in a kind of limbo. Limbo? It's sorrow's way; like the unravelling of a lost kite, a gentle rise or fall towards oblivion. We’re all connected by our unravellings, we don’t always feel the tug, but as the line tightens, leaves a mark, then relaxes, we realise that things can never come to rest and learn to trust the rhythm of chance. I say, don't be afraid to forget. You will not. What is vital will remain. Regrets will become your palest thoughts, and one day, when your gaze has drifted, the sadness will buck and buckle and be gone. How do you live the perfect life? How do you write the perfect joke? Start with the punch line and work backwards. And the perfect joke? A man falling from a great height whispering “so far, so good.”

***

Rolling up his sleeves, he approached us with the fixed stare and intent of one about to join a pub fight. As he brushed past, kicking sand onto our towels, I noticed that his belt was already undone. A woman in a red coat, with the countenance of a long-suffering wife, followed closely behind. Fingering his flies the man stopped with purpose fifty feet beyond us and completed his dishevelment. Naked but for briefs and a St Christopher, he clawed at the sand and within minutes had created an elaborate maze of sunken tunnels and ditches which fast became irrigated by the sea. So intent on this toil was he that he disregarded a chuckling child, armed with water wings and a bright yellow bucket and spade, joining the game with relish, until he caught the man’s eye. The sad red lady had stationed herself at a dispassionate distance and sat smoking, in mute acceptance of her lot. Maybe she was a sister or even a care worker. Cursing unseen demons her charge shivered and threw his arms to the heavens, perhaps demanding divine guidance, then continued his ecstatic excavation, like an aguish archeologist digging into the past, tunneling himself back towards happier times. He was joined in his work again, this time by a young Alsatian that fuelled the feverish frenzy, the two working in unwitting unison until the pup backed up, covering the sandscape and its architect, who kicked out at the dog in a rabid rage before returning to his work. After a good hour of unbroken endevour the digger suddenly stopped, as if to the sound of a factory siren, his shift complete. Picking up his clothes in a rough bundle he set off at a pace, retracing his steps, again covering us with sand, his wild eyes indifferent to our sympathetic glances. We had however caught his companion’s attention. As she passed us she rolled her eyes and, in perfect broken English muttered, “Lost forever. And it was a fucking Rolex!”

***

Jones: Spotlight UK Artist: UK Country Radio

You might be interested to know that this weekend I am honoured to be the 'Spotlight UK Artist' on 'UK Country Radio'.
This means that Friday afternoon through to Sunday evening they will be playing one of my songs every hour.
There will also be an interview (just done) with DJ, Jerry Scott, played in two parts between 12.30 - 1pm on Saturday and Sunday.
You can find the station here at www.ukcountryradio.com
The first tracks will be played from 17.00pm today (Friday) on Allan Watkiss's show.
Just hit the big 'LISTEN' button top right of their Home Page and there I'll be.
Yes folks, I am a little bit country.
This of course means that I write sad songs, drink coffee and (very occasionally) play live behind chicken wire.
Small change is acceptable but please don't throw soft fruit...

To the Bone: The Third Sessions (Wednesday)

Sleepless; I finally get off by reading the late John O'Donohue's blessings in 'Benedictus'.  Lucinda has nudged this my way a few times. There's a fine line between preaching and teaching but the writer's Celtic lilt adds poetry to the piety. He presents wisdom and goodness so keenly and kindly that you can't help but admire his enthusiasm as you melt into the prose:

"There is a quiet light that shines in every heart. It draws no attention to itself, though it is always secretly there. It is what illuminates our minds to see beauty, our desire to seek possibility, and our hearts to love life. Without this subtle quickening our days would be empty and wearisome, and no horizon would ever awaken our longing. Our passion for life is quietly sustained from somewhere in us that is welded to the energy and excitement of life. This shy inner light is what enables us to recognize and receive our very presence here as blessing. We enter the world as strangers who all at once become heirs to a harvest of memory, spirit, and dream that has long preceded us and will now enfold, nourish, and sustain us. The gift of the world is our first blessing."

Willow wakes me from my uneasy slumber with an unearthly howl; apparently a love song for Luce who is on the other side of a closed door. Breakfast (coffee with peanut butter and jelly soldiers) then we head for the studio. Marcus plays a double bass part on 'Cabin Fever' and we think it's done. As Melvin is confirmed in sick bay we decide to start mixing any non pedal steel tracks; we might as well start with 'Cabin Fever' as it's up. The Scientist has to disappear behind the desk to rewire the thing; "lineoutlineinfucketybollocks" is his song as he brandishes a soldering iron...
One hour later Marcus pronounces that 'it's sounding good' and To the Bone's first track is in the bag.
A quick brew to celebrate then onwards.
Next up is 'Pardon Me'. This was the first thing that we recorded for these sessions. It was a live take, just vocals and piano. I shouted out the chords and after one run through we recorded it. Marcus added an electric guitar part and that was it. It was therefore just as easy to mix, so much so that I was dismissed to the shops for bread rolls and batteries. Talk about an energy sandwich!
'To the Bone' is our next mix, a bit more challenging this; like Tom Waits singing for the Salvation Army. I might change the title as I'm not sure that it's up to the pressure of being the title track. How does 'Holy Din' sound? Lots of stomping bass drums and cymbals and... a sousaphone. When I suggest this new title and circus freaks for the video Marcus glowers at me with those knitted scientist eyebrows. I get a similar reaction from Willow and go in search of Cadbury's chocolate fingers...

                                           

To the Bone: The Third Sessions (Tuesday)

Tuesday: I've changed the title of 'Somewhere North of Here' to 'Huckleberry Dear'. I had initially played a chugging acoustic as a guide to sing against; we decide that, although a bit rough around the edges, it's a keeper and commit to using it as the essence of the track; there's a meditative quality that's quite hypnotic. We then add some Mellotron flutes and voices. Affecting and effective; it sounds like Sparklehorse galloping through Strawberry Fields... is that a good thing? We rub our chins and decide to have a cuppa. When I return with the brew and a cheese butty Marcus has a retro 70s Roland Space Echo and a Wurlitzer reverberating. Lovely! The Scientist then plays a shaker which loosens things up nicely; ironic as it's home made from a coffee bean tin...
'Some Kind of Surrender' sounds Tex/Mex and unlike anything we've ever done before; this should dash the Blue Nile comparisons for a while at least. It's ready to go; just needs a bit of Melvin's magic.
'Fireworks' provides a moment of serendipity; on our first listen through Marcus mishits a mute button and there are no direct drum sounds, only the room overhead mic's which give the song a lovely, late night lonely ambience. It's a High 5 moment for sure. We decide to leave it as it is...
'Dream Horses' sees some spikey chords from the Epiphone semi-acoustic and then sends Marcus back to the house in search of his double bass and dog food for Willow.
We're getting messages that Melvin might be cancelling tomorrow; struck down by 'Man Flu', which is a bummer as he is the final brick in the wall before mixing commences in a couple of weeks...
We have a listen to 'Cabin Fever' which is an odd little thing; part spoken, part sung. We try and emulate the reverbed snare sound from 'Bridge Over Troubled Water'. We find a snare sound that is mighty, record it in place, turn the reverb up to '11' and then remove the snare, keeping just the ghostly echo of the reverb; it works really nicely. We'll add some double bass tomorrow but it's now time for curry and beer...

To the Bone: The 3rd Sessions (Monday)

Monday: The Monday and Tuesday sessions will be nuts and bolts stuff; tidying up the vocals; adding a minimal amount of backing. The nature of the recordings needs to be refined and fairly... austere so we need to keep our fingers off the luxuriant button... On Wednesday we have Melvin Duffy booked to come in and play some pedal steel, something I always look forward to; it means that things are starting to come together.
Into the studio:
Marcus adds double bass to 'Row', 'To the Bone' and 'The Fullness of Time' and we end the day adding some high castrato backing vocals to 'To the Bone' which induces much mirth and Hinge and Bracket comparisons...
Lucinda cooks a cracking risotto for supper, featuring leeks and crispy chestnuts. Marcus suggests to Luce that she can't really call his bowl of rice a 'Risotto' if it doesn't feature parmesan and nearly ends up wearing it as a hat! The red of the night is a bottle of The Black Stump which takes the edge off nicely. Marcus puts on a yellow vinyl copy of 'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road' and we both play air guitar to 'Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding' whilst Luce looks on with a sympathetic gaze.
He was good was Elton.
Whatever happened?
Time for bed Zebedee.