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Reflections on the Never Ending Tour š¶
READĀ ON...
The strange relationship between music and purpose š¶
Pressing shuffle on Satan's playlist š
A journey down musical dead-ends...
Oasis and me šļø
Why ignorance really can be bliss...
Marketing My Mid-Thirties Music Crisis
Thoughts from a Coffeshop in Amsterdam šØ
Rainy songs for the soul: A musical downpour
Embracing the Poetry of Loss: Why England's Defeat is Our Greatest Victory
Clawing myself out of a hole, one task at a time...
Lyrical ideas in pop that should be outlawed forever...
Real-time ponderings from an English Wedding...
Violence, oatmilk and the story behind the song...
On counting down...
On checking less and living more...
The story behind the song...
On gurus and inadequacy...
The danger of ideas...
Spotify, Ships and Star Wars...
Thoughts on songs and Shane MacGowan...
Thoughts on social media, the Agricultural Revolution and dealing with the devil...
Considering kings and chicken sandwiches...
What Frank Sinatra and Italian cafes can teach us about growing up...
Exploring the limits of self-knowledge...
In the studio with self-doubt...
Things about trees you didn't know you didn't know...
An exclusive look 'behind the song' at our new single, 'Cut So Deep'...
Pondering a difficult question...
My thoughts on the daily grind...
Why releasing music is a little like standing in a storm... ā”ļø
Thoughts on time and how to befriend it...
Why shooting a music video hungover is not a good idea...
My love/hate relationship with releasing new music...
Mooreās Law states that the number of transistors on the average microchip doubles, on average, every two years...
Why everything doesn't happen for a reason...
Because popular music is no stranger to questionable uses of the English language...
I canāt help but be haunted by a darkly prophetic vision of the year 2030, or 2035, or 2045, or whenever it might be...
What about the now very conceivable world of the near future, in which digital pop-stars perform music of their own creation? In which the human being has been removed entirely from the equation? It begs the question: just how central is the human experience to the creation of art?
I tend to save my January introspection for the last week of the month. The first two I like to spend somewhere sunny and my birthday is on the 23rd. So, this week, Iāve been wrestling with my ānew year goalsā and a line from āIfā has been ringing around in my head.
(The following poem was typed hastily into an iPhone in Senegambia, a tourist resort where the Gambia River meets the Atlantic.)
In some real sense, the only thing that separates me from a person deem-able insane by productive society is the fact that my internal monologue remains internal.
The venue is far too brightly lit and covered in plastic ornaments for my liking. Itās one of a soulless national chain of yuppie watering holes that appeal precisely to those lacking any imagination.
In Alan Bennettās play The History Boys, Mr Irwin tells his Oxbridge hopefuls that, in the world of historical scholarship, āthere is no period so remote as the recent pastā.
The music business has changed. Or so weāre often told.
The studio space we use is the dusty, three-roomed corner of a mysterious ābusiness parkā near the Curry Mile where, I imagine, all sorts goes on without anybody really being able to describe precisely what.
Great lyricists can inhabit a character the way great novelists do. Occasionally, that character might be an amplified version of themselves; occasionally itās an entirely fictional creation.
One of my favourite lines of Robert Browningās has always been the often-quoted Andrea Del Sartoās rhetorical question: āAh, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?ā
Our beginnings seem to be the conjoined twins of our endings in internet pop-psychology. Every phoenix, by definition, seems to need its flames. One just canāt be mentioned without the other.
On Monday night, following a fairly intense weekend, I was woken several times by a dream (nightmare?) that became serialised in the bouts between waking.
Itās no surprise to me that the ancient Greeks and Romans believed that seven typically capricious goddesses were responsible for artistic inspiration.
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