See you soon mum.
It’s a dogs life.
It’s hot hot hot.
There will be watermelons.
It’s a blue kind of day.
Winters coming, nights are drawing in. Yes it’s still autumn but damn it got cold quick.
It’s also election time in America and all the mayhem that brings. Enough of that though as it’s only gonna be a long complaining whining post if we head down that path.
I’ve been bereft of ideas, I just trashed 10-15 posts I began and never finished, fragments of thoughts and half formed ideas, autumn’s the time that I often have too many ideas and struggle to get those thoughts out down on paper, virtual or otherwise.
I’ve been listening to Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt and Steve Earle as I drive around, or sit at the end of the day in the big chair. It’s been reminding me of what I loved/love about America, the rugged liberal individual, concerned for others, Dylan, Clark, Crosby, Guthrie and the others that have travelled the dusty roads playing and drinking and singing.
On his last album Clark’s voice is a shadow of what it used to be. It’s fragile at times and then others stronger than ever. The songs are reflective and compassionate and small stories of a larger reality of love and consideration and empathy for the underdog. It’s the better side of an ugly reality we are all living right now. They’re deeply personal and universal songs. Waltzes and ballads, love songs and gentle protests that are all the more powerful because of their softness.
It’s a liberal album for an illiberal time, comforting and challenging, stoic, passionate and you can dance to it. Clarks voice is the voice of Everyman and his stories are universal, and you can sing along and drink rye whiskey and laugh and dance.
It’s soul destroying.
The ducks are getting ready on the roof.
It’s the view from the window.
Syd’s been giving me the eye all day.
So there it is in all its blurry glory.
Robyn Hitchcock has a new record out.
It’s delightfully bonkers, starting with the Shuffle Man which is Lonnie Donegan via every garage psych band hanging out in Brentford in 1966. Then it heads towards a sensitive reflection on dealing with the inner life of scorpios.
There’s also room for South American gods, trains Greek philosophers and that’s just side one.
Side two covers being Noirer than Noir, rain, the muse, reflections on pubs that should be and scheduling.
Johnny Marr shows up along with Kimberley Rew, an Ono-Lennon and lots of other people around the globe. It’s Hitchcock doing what he does, vaguely spacey psychedelic folky rock music, it’s fun it’s light and it makes you tap a foot nod a head and dance around joyously.
The stunningly amateurish collage sleeve is fitting, showing our friend Robyn has always had a sunny smile.
As we head into election season it’s good to have a lighthearted album to play.