top of page

Something Like Breathing

You're looking at the blog page for Consider it in beta form while I test stuff.

I've dropped in and out of blogging for twenty-odd years. Been away for a while (since the social channels intruded) but just lately I've found myself wanting to say a little more. Blogging has always been more attractive to me than Facebook's temporary closed loop or Twitter's transmit-only. Here, there's room to breathe.


Thus far it’s been mostly about my obsession with songs and songwriting, but I might stray into thinking about the state of the world from time to time. We’ll see how it goes: please leave a comment if you can work out how to do it (still beta, like I said)...

Updated: Apr 14, 2020

I can’t remember when I first heard Anais Mitchell. A few years ago, to be sure, when I stumbled across that wonderful little album of Child Ballads she made with Jefferson Hamer. Americans singing the traditional English canon, better and clearer than any English person I’d ever heard. I loved it, but I stopped there.

I’d googled her, of course. And I knew she’d done this thing called Hadestown, which appeared to be some sort of folk opera based on the classics. Neither of which was promising, to me. So I threw it onto the Amazon wish list and forgot about it. 

At least until I once again stumbled across Anais, in a video clip with Chris Thile, performing a song called Why We Built the Wall. Which sounded like it was specifically aimed at Trump but turned out to be several years old, part of the Hadestown thing. It blew me away, but when I looked again at Hadestown I saw that it wasn’t Anais singing it on the album, so I left it on the wish list and forgot about it again.

Then, a few months later I stumbled across it again, when I saw an announcement that the National Theatre was about to put on the show. So I had an idle curious moment and finally bought the album. 

I dunno what I was expecting. Some kind of half-baked soundtrack record, I suppose. They’re usually not very satisfying without the visuals: the music’s supposed to help you navigate the plot, not stand on its own. Hadestown has a plot (Orpheus and Euridyce, no less) but you don’t need the story to enjoy it. It’s a completely original thing that swerves joyously through the musical references: there are echoes of Dixieland jazz and Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen and Ruben Gonzales, held together by a series of terrific vocal performances. Ani DiFranco is all sinister good time gal as Persephone, Greg Brown is as impossibly deep and dark as you might imagine Hades to be, and Anais Mitchell herself is tender and touching as Eurydice. And there’s much more besides.

I must have listened to it half a dozen times, just riding the music, before I paid attention to the story. But it works, despite my instinctive aversion to anything involving Greek mythology - and unlike any show or soundtrack album I’ve ever owned, I find myself paying attention all the way through. Even the two musical interludes, though I might skip past them after a while. Give me the vocals, every time. 

And now… give me the show. Different cast, of course, but I’m watching the National’s website to catch tickets as soon as they go on sale. It’ll be the first stage production I’ve ever seen where I know the music inside out before I sit down. 

Next time I'll pay attention a bit earlier. Anais Mitchell is one helluva songwriter.

2 views0 comments

Updated: Apr 14, 2020

 I like songwriting. I like songs. These days, it’s the thing that interests me most. It’s beaten out photography, and writing novels, and scriptwriting, and video production, and bicycle maintenance and houseplants and genealogy, and a whole lot of other things that have taken up my time thus far.

Songs. Just that. And the guitar playing that goes with it, of course, which my ex-wife once told me was the only thing in the world about which I was totally obsessive. Good observation.

I can’t remember when I first wrote one that seemed complete. I can remember writing a lot that weren’t, from way back, but it’s only in the last fifteen years or so that I’ve managed to occasionally put something together that I’m proud to go out and play. 

So I came to it late. And I’m not an expert. And I’m going to keep learning about this mysterious process till I fall off the perch. But I have picked up a couple of tips along the way. 

Guidelines, not rules. I’ve listed them below, for anyone who’s interested enough to stumble into this corner of the internet. I’m listening out for more, but right now this is about all I know, about anything, really…

1/ Paint a picture. It sounds like a contradiction in terms, but the listener should see the song.

2/ Detail. That overflowing ashtray on the table is how you lead the listener into the kitchen you’re writing about.

3/ Tell a story. It can be surreal, but it should take the listener somewhere they’ve not explored before.

4/ Rhymes don’t have to be at the end of the line.

5/ Your last romantic break-up might be the most important experience you’ve ever had. Your audience probably doesn’t feel the same way. They’ve heard it already.

6/ You can make your song as miserable as you like. But if you don’t include something positive you’re going to bring your audience down. They won’t thank you.

7/ There’s nothing wrong with philosophy. In a philosophy book.

8/ Edit. Murder your darlings.

9/ Learn Nashville notation. Understand that Em (the three chord) to C (the one chord) is the same as Bm to G, but in a different key. You’ll learn how and why chords fit together, and transpose faster.

10/ Learn scales. Not so you play faster, but so you see how the chords stitch together.

11/ There are a million songs that use the I-V-vi-IV or I-vi-IV-V progressions. It’s OK for you to use them too. Just train your ear to recognise when you've mimicked the melody of Stand By Me. It can’t be improved on.

12/ Melodies that follow the root of the chord are usually dull. Not always. But pretty often.

13/ A blues doesn’t have to have twelve bars. Hell, it doesn’t even have to have chord changes.

14/ Write a bridge. That’s the bit of the song that’s different to everything else. Bridges take you somewhere. You may decide later that you don’t need to go there, but give it a try.

15/ If you manage to write a bridge that leads you to a key change, award yourself a big pat on the back. Then check if you can actually sing it.

16/ Steal. Not whole songs, but changes, lines, and passing chords. Make them your own.

17/ The Lennon and McCartney rule: if you can’t remember it the next day, throw it away.

18/ Some songs are written in half an hour. Some hang around in your notebook (you do have a notebook, don’t you?) for years. Either way is good.

19/ A hook is a good thing. You want your song to be an ear worm. No matter how much you hate the Benny Hill Theme.

20/ If you can’t sing it accompanied by a single acoustic guitar or piano, it’s not a song.

21/ When you’re busy with something else and a chorus or a hook comes to you unbidden, that’s what Bukka White called a Sky Song. Cherish it.

7 views0 comments

Updated: Apr 14, 2020

I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard Pet Sounds. And Blonde on Blonde. And Meet on the Ledge.

And I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard Guy Clark. In a flat somewhere between Highgate and Crouch End, in 1976. Desperadoes Waiting for a Train, to be specific.

I hadn’t taken too much notice of ‘country’ music up to that point. Maybe a little Pure Prairie League, but I was ambivalent. 

That was when I got it. And I’m still listening today. Matter of fact, I was playing Guy Clark in the car this morning.

It’s not really ‘country’. It’s folk music, I suppose. People love to hang stuff on a category. All I know is that Guy Clark was the finest songwriter I’ve ever had the pleasure to listen to. If I could get myself transported back in time, I’d choose Guy and Susanna’s house in Nashville in the mid-70s. With Rodney Crowell and Steve Earle over for dinner. And Townes. Of course Townes.

Great American men of letters, every one. I mean that, anyone who still thinks songwriting’s just a popular art.

When I got serious about the guitar in the late 70s, after a long layoff, Old No 1 was the first album I took anything off. I sang She Ain’t Going Nowhere with the Dewhursts in the Red Lion at Stansted. Nobody knew what the hell it was.

When I was staying out late at lock-ins in the 90s (with David Hardie, rest his soul) we jammed on Guy Clark tunes so often that the drunken clientele took to calling out for ‘the tart’ because none of them could remember the title of Rita Ballou.

When my marriage was falling apart, Boats to Build helped me through. I owe that song. I owe Guy Clark.

I’ve sung Desperadoes Waiting for a Train for nigh on four decades. It’s about an old man Clark hung out with when he was a kid. I sing it for my grandfather every time. That’s how the great songs work.

Right now, today, we’re doing Nickel for the Fiddler and Rain in Durango from time to time with Thursday’s Band. One from each end of Guy’s career. I’m proud to know them.

I’ve admired Bob Dylan all my life. I admire Steve Earle and Tom Waits and Townes van Zandt and especially Bruce Springsteen. But with Guy Clark… 

With Guy Clark I’m a fan. I cherish the three precious times I saw him live, and the brief moment when I queued up at Cambridge Folk Festival to get his signature on a copy of Old Friends. No-one understood better than him how to turn a song on a single detail; how to walk the tightrope between emotion and sentimentality; how to make every single word ring out clear and pure.

Thank you, Guy Charles Clark. Rest in peace. 

‘Shores, distant shores

That’s where I’m headed for

Got the stars to guide my way

Sail into the light of day…’

0 views0 comments


bottom of page