Sign up for my Weekly Newsletter.Every Friday I share 3 things--visual, sound and word--that I like, and that I think you will too.
The luxury of the commute.
Wednesday 22nd November 2023
Even when I did it always involved driving, so there was no time to switch off.
Today I took a 1.5 hour train journey to work in a cafe for the day and felt like a real grown up. More than the workplace, I’ve developed a real fondness for train travel. It provides the ability to detach from a focus on travel—the same way that the train tracks leave me detached and disorientated from local roads and routes that I know so well.
To be able to pause and have space in an intentional state of waiting feels good for my soul. To read a book knowing that there’s few alternatives whilst I’m trapped on this moving vessel.
A commute is a luxury, in the same way that my barista for the day so perfectly put it; ‘creativity is a luxury’ also.
A poem about senses.
Monday 4th September 2023
The Brilliance of Kevin Morby.
Friday 28th July 2023
January 2021. After a tumultuos year, we trudged our way into a third lockdown. It was a pretty bleak time for most. At least the first lockdown was beautifully warm and sunny. But these were cold, dark, wet, indoor days of jaded weariness.
In that time of tumult I was enjoying listening to lots of Khruangbin. The texas trio provided me with guitar-drenched surf rock that had me lusting after a far-off summer of sand and sea.
At that time, a YouTube video of similar music to Khruangbin appeared on my homepage and it was 19 minutes and 36 seconds into that video that I heard this for the first time.
I remember stopping what I was doing immediately and finding out what these immaculate vibrations were that were blessing my ears.
I raced to his profile on Apple Music and saved his latest record at the time; Sundowner. An album that released in October of 2020, just a few months earlier. I remember being immediately intriguied by the artwork:
A cosy looking, comfortable place, but out in the open, exposed to the elements. Comfort in an unlikely place. And that pretty much perfectly describes what this album became for me.
In a dark, cold January spent indoors as the rain lashed at the windows I listened to this record again, and again and again. Something about it struck a chord in me. There was substance to Kevin’s monotone lyricism. The songs felt like real places to be lived and breathed in. At times it was like stepping out of reality and into a scene from an old movie, one that feels familiar and yet entirely distinct.
There’s a tone to Kevin’s voice, and to his guitar, that has a certain quality to it that’s reminiscent of an era from times gone by. His sound feels deeply grounded into the earth, immovable roots sprouting downwards, to a core lineage of past greats like Lou Reed, Jeff Buckley and Bob Dylan. Kevin’s sound pays respect to his idols, but it does so in a unique sepia-toned sentiment that is a respectable, worthwhile sound in it’s own right.
There’s a black and white vibrancy to his music.
Divine, poetic lyrics delivered with colourless, matter-of-fact artistry. Sublime, heavenly guitar solos delivered with gritty, routine ease.
I don’t think I’ve ever come across a more versatile artist with such a complete catalogue of tracks - from the sanguine and sultry to the sorrowful and somber. For every Hail Mary or Dorothy there’s a Sundowner or an O Behold.
Few artists have the flexibility to make Rock Bottom sound this jubilant. And to make Midwest America sound this delicate and mournful.
Kevin Morby’s brilliance lies in his wonderful ability to skillfully blend the marvelous with the mundane. There’s a beautiful, rich dichotomy to his music. He’s able to deliver concepts like death and lonliness in a manner that’s delightfully charming -which leaves a sense that his music is real. It speaks to life as we all experience it.
The crushing lows of life are often experienced right in amongst the highest highs - there’s no seperation between moments that are heavenly and those that are heartbreaking, and Kevin’s music entirely embraces this symbiology.
He doesn’t shy away from lyricism dealing with loss, faith and the existential, but he holds them all lightly within graceful melodies teeming with life, vibrancy and soul. His music is perfectly poetic.
I was fortunate enough to catch Kevin on his European tour for his 2022 record This Is A Photograph.
We stood dead centre atop the messanine and basked in the warmth of Morby and band’s mellow sounds. Around us was a mix of people, young and old. There was an elderly couple across the room to our left, in their late 70’s having the time of their lives - and it was incredibly wholesome to witness. They walked out of the concert holding hands, walking off into the balmy summer night. It seemed I wasn’t the only one that Morby’s music has left a deep impression on.
It speaks to Kevin’s ability to create a sound that’s so connected to something deep within us. Almost as though there’s an itch inside that’s desperate to be scratched, and Kevin found that sweet spot.
For me, discovering his music in that cold January felt like I was hearing the one thing that had been missing deep down. A sonic puzzle piece that immediately snapped into place.
His sound felt immediately like home.
It was like hearing something that had really been there all along.
I think that’s the power of music. Real music. Music that pays its respect to those who’ve graced our ears in times gone by.
Music that has it’s own story to tell, and it’s own elegance to be savoured.
Blackout Poems at 40,000 feet.
Thursday 11th May 2023On a recent flight, I borrowed a sharpie from one of the cabin crew ladies, and scribbled out these poems from a copy of The New York Times.
These next 4 are from the return flight, by which point I found a sharpie of my own.
These were particularly special to make. It was the middle of the night and I was i in that -’I’m-so-tired-but-can’t-sleep-on-a-plane’ delirious state.
It seemed the whole cabin was full of slumbering individuals, and the only light that illuminated the sleepy cabin was that of the dull screens projecting mediocre films onto sleeping faces, and the spotlight from above me that lit up the pages of print on my lap.
