He’s been wandering around our lives for years, of course, but most of us didn’t really know it. Sharp-edged with a fierce honesty and a need to grab you- gently- in the street and spin you round, dark-funny, messy-sexual, Falkirk-wise, clownish and deadly fucking serious, this emphatic, empathic Celtic romantic, this grumpy ex-lover, ex-this, ex-that, all twisted and yearning and straight-down-the-line, has been doleing out advice and chords and sweet and sour words in guise after disguise for years. Mocking and lusting and drinking, run through with smart, rainy, self-effacing angst, with edge-of-suicide hope and wit, with an amused, amusing snarl, he’s talked and torn, sung and screamed, run without really going anywhere. Like you and me, he’s just done what he’s had to do. But most of us didn’t really know it.
Originally on Twisted Ear:
Here is where we start and where we end.
Picture the scene.
Two young(ish) people, a man and a woman, are wandering through mid-European poppy-full fields, running through haunted forests, hand-in-hand. The woman is strangely-clothed, weird, Celtic and ancient somehow, mumbling then pleading then smiling; the man- a step behind her- seems to be orchestrating her movements, her indistinct, then too-distinct, words, conducting them, surrounding them with waves of unheard sound and washes of quantum energy. They wink at each other, grin, playing like kittens, seeming to be immersing themselves in a world that exists just for them. Snatches of Nick Drake and Air and Tangerine Dream: pianos and acoustic strums and keyboard waves bob and pluck and caress. A dark figure, scythe in hand, wanders across the screen.