Searching

I'm going away for a few days - a temporary respite from this darkest of dark English Januarys: getting me some winter sun. Passport? Check. Tickets? Check. Taxi? On its way. Play nicely while I'm gone, won't you? And if somebody could kindly put the bins out that would be fabulous. Ta.

James has sent me a collaborative playlist he's in the middle of compiling. It's called Young Soul and is, essentially, an evolving mixtape comprising soul interpretations of Neil Young songs. I added this one yesterday (I'll more than likely find a few more over the next seven days & seven nights), here it is:

Boz Scaggs - On the Beach (2018)

January. Sick and Tired, You've Been Hanging on Me

Pilate

The January Man, if we're to believe the song, 'walks abroad in woolen coat and boots of leather'. I'm not sure about that; but what has been a horrible month (God, I hate January) is, thankfully, nearly at an end.

I can almost see the distant uplands of spring - if not around the next corner, then maybe the one after that. I live in hope, as Barrington Womble once said.

And what better Long Song for the last Monday of this unfeasibly long month. Well, the clue is in today's title. That's right, Pilot.

Grandaddy - He's Simple, He's Dumb, He's the Pilot (2000)

The January Man

The curtains are drawn, the kettle is on. The thin morning sun coming through the kitchen window is giving nothing away.
Tea is now poured. My mind is wandering. I remember coming in last night and falling asleep, though the timings are hazy. I know the old year was asked to empty its desk and leave the building - its replacement ushered in seconds later through a side door. There'll be plenty of time for introductions later; we'll have the measure of one other soon enough.

I have a few errands to run this morning so I shall face this new January day, this new shiny first of the first, with the collar on my brand new winter coat turned up and my gait will be purposeful. This is how I shall start the day, this is how I shall start 2018. Walk tall, walk straight - as the song says. And let the New Year blink first.

Fill yer boots

I'd just like to wish everyone who's swung by this site in the last 12 months A Very Happy New Year. Judging by my stat counter I appear to getting more readers in the US than back home here in the UK. I know you should never read too much into the often murky world of statistics - I leave that to the likes of Tim Harford and James Medd. So, if you're reading this in England or New England, York or New York - have a great 2013.

Some of you may be aware that I've just recorded and released my first EP. Pickering Place, named after the smallest square in London, is a collection that brings together four of my own compositions and a Slade cover; I Won't Let It Happen Again used to sound like this:



Not anymore! You can download this or indeed any or all of the songs from my Bandcamp site. Go on, fill yer boots.

1.1

It started at midnight; the first of the first. 2012 was a blank canvas. Only it's not anymore. It's just a snapshot in time. Already people have died, many more have been born and world events are skipping along at quite a pace. One may be the loneliest number. But not for long.