Category: songwriting

In the depths of winter, I find reassurance in the quiet patience and dormant life of a pine cone. Its sturdy symmetry is comforting. Drawing gives me the opportunity to observe its ragged regularities and geometric modulations with keen attention. Somewhere between a rock and a flower, its scales are sturdier than petals. Easier, I find, to keep track of. They aren’t shy about taking up space.

Pine cones, when fresh, harbour winged seeds within their scales. Most of the ones on my bookshelf have long since shed their seeds, though if I look closely I can find a few hiding deep within the cone. If I put one in a bowl of water, its scales will close as it protects its seeds from the damp, inhospitable conditions. If I put it somewhere warm and dry, it will open again.

Respecting my own rhythms of dormancy and engagement is not easy. I have needed lots of rest this winter. So be it. The miracle of homeostasis continues deep beneath the surface.

There’s a time to rock out and a time to recover. We can rest assured that some serious rocking out occurred over the last year. Playing with the band at the Great Barn Festival, the Jericho Tavern, and Mrs Henderson’s were an utter delight. Also delightful was the opportunity to lead a songwriting workshop at Willowbrook Farm, not to mention banging a drum for the Whirly Band on May Morning. The Sometimes Band even managed to squeeze in some recording in November. I look forward to sharing the fruits of our labour in the fullness of time.

But for now, let’s sit tight. May we, like the pine cone, protect our nascent treasures from hostile conditions with a firm grasp. And when the weather clears – which it will – let us open and relax, sharing our creative offerings with confidence and abandon.

In spite of its being March in England, we managed to have a glorious, sparkly, magical night at the Jericho Tavern. Have a look!

Like many things in Oxford, the place is steeped in history. The current pub was built in 1818, on the site of an inn dating back to the 17th century. A conveninent place to lay your head, if you were approaching from the north and the gates to the city were shut for the night.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the venue was part of a thriving music scene, with Radiohead and Supergrass making serious waves and signing record deals. (When they played at the Jericho, Radiohead was called On a Friday. Learning that fact brings me joy.) Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, I was learning to play guitar, discovering the Indigo Girls, and organising* school music shows. Also writing songs and making jokes with my friends like, “Bumper? Sticker? I hardly know her!” They were, on the whole, Good Times.

Anyhow, I hope you like this song, which I wrote in Chicago, recorded in Middleton Stoney, and now swims through the ether – in this video, but also on Bandcamp and Spotify. I have mixed feelings about Freud, but I have learned a lot from him over the years. The title is very much a reference to his work. Also a way of making peace with longings that pull me in 360 degrees, all at once.

Singing Discontent with the Sometimes Band at the Jericho Tavern was an absolute thrill. My thanks to our incomperable host, Sam Taplin, for holding the space and gathering us all together.

Here’s to surviving March – even adding a bit of sparkle! Bring on the spring.

*I find making decisions about using American or British spelling very stressful. I could tell you more about why, but I suspect our time is better spent in the company of good music. Just watch the video.

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Last week I had the pleasure of visiting family and other monsters on the Île d’Oléron.

When I spied these blackberries ripening defiantly in the cracks of the citadel wall, slightly above a hastily spray-painted English curse word, I felt something big. Was it recognition? Relief? Or something like hope? A mixture of all three, wrapped up in the joy of seeing an unarticulated notion taking physical form.

There are so many reasons to let expletives fly from our mouths. Inaction in the face of ecological breakdown. The amplification of discontent, unmediated by editorial thoughtfulness, and the interpersonal cruelties that criss-cross the globe, propelled by the algorithms of social media. The persistence of so many forms of oppression, as well as the allure and durability of ignorance.

A lot of things are breaking. We don’t know what will take their place. This is scary. So many of my songs are animated by this thrill of panic. As if Eden responds with a call to defiant action and the vitality of love, while also acknowledging the inevitability of death. Maple Seed is a gentler reply to the same fear of dissolution. Tender breezes – where might they come from? Where might they take us?

A breeze brought a blackberry pip to what might have seemed an inhospitable place, a crack in the face of a fortess wall. But it sprouted and grew of its own accord.

I, too, have new songs ripening in my mind. But they bristle at the thought of being rushed. They thrive on freedom and sunshine, which they are greedily soaking up this summer.

Sour or sweet, they never fail to surprise me.