control

I was drafting this post about Control when I had the good luck to listen to Adam Walton give the song its premiere on BBC Radio Wales. I’d been struggling to sum up the mood, but he did it perfectly: “What an elevating slow burn this is. Sumptuously produced."

The big trees

Muddy and crunchy in all the right ways

Control is the second song from Freyja’s upcoming EP ‘to stop the world turning’. You can listen to Control everywhere from 3rd July.

We worked together on the EP at StudiOwz last summer. Freyja had mentioned there was an extra song floating around, in case we had spare time, but I didn’t actually hear Control in full until the time came to write and record a part for it. Freyja, Richard and Zach had tracked their parts the day before, so my first listen was on the studio monitors with freshly recorded double-bass, grand piano and drums. I was immediately hooked on sparse groove and how it played against the the ear worm of the chorus (which loops and lingers just like the anxiety being evoked in the lyric). I improvised as the track played and found a couple of motifs that sat well in the spaces between the phrases.

One of my favourite parts about collaborating in a studio is how quickly new sounds come together. I had one more playthrough to hone my ideas Freyja and Owain dialled in the pedals to create an underwater, fuzzy tone that had a feeling of isolation and disassociation. Within 10 minutes I’d gone from never having heard the song to being ready to record. People are sometimes surprised at how quickly music comes together (the recent Beatles documentary showing the creation of Get Back being a case in point). To me it makes perfect sense. When musicians get to be in a studio where there only task is to think, write and speak music, it’s natural for it all to happen faster. Just like how learning a second language is quicker if you immerse yourself in it.

the watkins copicat

echo, sustain & atmosphere

In the end I think we captured 2 full takes, which Freyja took away for mixing. Along the way she sent me rough mixes and the part got sculpted as we discussed which parts to cut or push forward at certain moments. In my own songs I usually find there is a moment where something has to be removed from the mix. We did this in the final verse and it gave the space needed for the lyrics, but also created more impact when the guitar returned.

I’m excited for everyone to hear the finished song. When I had access to the preview links (perk of being on the track!) I would reach the end of the EP and then loop Control on repeat. Every listen revealed more nuances in the depths of the production. “Ghosts appear and fade away” to quote a lyric from another song about anxiety: Overkill by Men at Work. Yes it’s a very different vibe, but who can resist the sax and the octave leap in the third verse! To close I’ll return to Adam’s words. Although the song focuses on the dark, heavy, sometimes relentless impact of anxiety, it does feel uplifting to me. Taking turmoil that can control you and sculpting it in a song for the sake of self-expression and beauty is a sublime act of elevation. I am grateful to have played my part in it.

In My Veins

The first single from Freyja Elsy’s upcoming EP ‘To Stop The World Turning’ is out today. Have a listen to ‘In My Veins’ while you ready my memories of collaborating on it.

I first worked on this song with Freyja preparing a live version for her first headline show back in April 2025. The chiming guitar riff came from a keyboard idea Freyja had written years before. Some electric pianos let you record and store ideas on them. Freyja rediscovered this motif and brought it to the song as a guitar part.

Later that year we headed to StudiOwz in West Wales to record the track along with the rest of the EP. You can read about the sessions from Freyja’s POV at her website

Going into the session I knew we would the main guitar part with a bright, chiming, chorus tone. It offers a counterpoint to the tension in the sparse piano and double-bass and fills the gaps of reflection when the vocal drops out. The great thing about being in the studio is people end up in ideas mode. Owain Jenkins (engineer and owner of StudOwz) suggested doubling the guitar part with a random guitar he had lying about. He had restrung it so of the strings covering 2 ascending octaves they all sat in a range of 1 octave. It made the notes and resonant frequencies cluster together and a added a lovely, vibrant harpsicord-esque shimmer which sits in the left headphone.

After that we added some driving acoustic guitar to reinforce the folk side of the folktronica aim. Freyja took the lead in guiding me about when the make the rhythm busier and when to just let the chords ring, creating contrast in the different verses and choruses. As an arranger this is one of my favourite, simple tricks in songs. Variation instead of straightforward repetition can add tension and release and also help reinforce the shift in lyrical mood as the song develops.

The lyrics evoke the way in which snatches of memory move in and out of focus as we age, grow and reflect on our lives; a fluid, dynamic arrangement made perfect sense. Freyja’s mix did an excellent job of drawing the ear to the shifting elements. In the ‘are you reaching out’ section my mind goes between the vocal, the guitar motif and the swirling snatches of glitchy voices that sound like flashbacks to a dream that catch you as you’re waking up.

I hope you enjoy listening to the song and stay tuned for the next release from the EP.

album one - june update

The songs have been finished, lyrics finalised, demos made. Now I’m in the midst of recording the final parts, reviewing the takes and getting ready for mixing.

Some of the songs started life back in 2019 when I was completing my Master’s in Songwriting and Production at the University of South Wales. We were given endless prompts, tasks and challenges and every time I picked up an instrument, sat down with a notepad or just found myself with a moment alone and idea would pop into my head.

As I finalise the songs I’ll go into more detail about the process and the meaning.

For now, I want to thank Andrew Sanders at King’s Road Studios for his help with the core sessions. He very much took the lead in capturing excellent takes by Lucas Eldridge which helped the songs feel so much more alive and vibrant. Sanders also added plenty of tambourine, shaker and cabasa. As a drummer it takes him a lot less time than me to lock into a tempo and find the right rhythm to compliment a drum part.

We also re-amped the bass and keyboard parts. This gave them so much more character, as they had been initially recorded at home straight into my computer or using plugins. Sending the signals back out into amps then recording them with a mic responding in real time to air being moved, then sending those signals back in through rack compressors and EQs, it added the colour and tone that was missing from the demos.

The vocals have been tracked in two ways. Sessions at USW with Finn (of Small Miracles) were great for the parts where I needed to open up and sing loud. Finn is a great coach for this as a big, bold, performative singer. Having them gesturing and responding from the control room really helped me instil a live energy to the big choruses on the album. Some of the mic choices also brought out the necessary breathiness in chilly songs like Cold Air.

However, I found it more effective to track the most emotional and personal lyrics at home. I could take and re-take a line repeatedly without worrying about using another person’s time and energy, getting the phrasing just how I needed it to be.

There are two songs left to track, which we plan to capture as live takes. I’ll play guitar and sing simultaneously, capture a few options and pick the one that feels best.

Beyond that, some ear candy has been commissioned from Freyja Elsy and Jim Webster will be adding banjo to the opener then, I think I’ll be ready to mix.

sunken treasure

On my last day in Prague I squeezed in more sightseeing. Crossed the Charles Bridge and rubbed the lucky gold dog. Made a wish for your health. You only learned my middle name was Charles when we discussed the bridge that very week. Clearly we'd been busy with deeper discoveries in the eight and a half years beforehand.

So many messages. Countless thoughts back and forth up until I boarded. Memories. Difficult discussions about sharing (or hiding) your illness. Caring confrontations which ultimately helped me comfort important people when they needed it most.

I sent you clips of the final song we worked on. It started as a prayer for your life after recovery, but (months later) turned into a fantasy about the life you were never able to return to. Of course you questioned my eccentric arrangement. Of course you preferred the simple voice note recorded on just an acoustic guitar. I will share both versions one day: for both of us.

Bizarrely, whilst waiting in the departure lounge, I recognised a woman who I usually saw on my commute in South Wales: one of those people who stands out for no discernible reason. I knew it was her from the back of her head alone. Marshall headphones. Wispy hair. Autumn-coloured clothes. I walked around to confirm and told you all about it. How could she be here catching the same flight from Prague to the UK as me when we usually sit on the same train from Barry to Cardiff? It probably meant nothing, but I trusted you enough to share it and not feel like I was mad for noticing.

Fundamentally, love is a declaration that you like and accept what you know about someone and want to know more. You want to keep delving into the interesting, esoteric, complicated and simple details.

Grief forces this to stop in the most horrific way. You can only learn by looking into the past or using your imagination. Returning to old photos. Reading messages. Replaying memories in your mind. You have to abandon visions of the future that you didn't even realise existed. Nothing new feels fully real. Sunken treasure.

Originally posted on 26th January 2024

travel

I won't lie and pretend that I always felt this way about travelling.

Sometimes the distance made me nervous. Often the lack of a fully-formed plan made me protective (but later we indulged with silly beauty in this energy: getting lost and soaking in flooded fields because you were sure you'd seen some people ramble there from a passing bus once or twice. That was the plan, along with me knowing which direction East was). Occasionally a nervous voice from my inner child would question if you were leaving to escape me. But time and reflection and observation and honest conversation taught me that the person travelling does so for their own reasons.

Even if the reason is to put distance between themselves and you, it's not your job to stop them. If they want or need or are curious to find out what that feels like, to know how they are apart from you, in a new place (geographically, emotionally, spiritually) then love shouldn't stop them. Love should free them to do this. Love should let their friends, families and partners support them in their leaving.

And sometimes, of course, the only motive is pure exploration. "I don't know: let's find out."

I spent my 5th day in Prague exploring. The castle. The old town. Art shops. Alleyways. Some places you planned for us but ultimately couldn't make it to (somehow easier to admit after we had seen each other). Cakes like chocolate architecture. Coffee flights with quizzes to guess the farm from the flavour. A sketch of your colleague Saša. Restaurace "u Veverky" pretending to sell barbecued squirrels. A vintage shop with a school uniform from Conwy on a mannequin in the window. Cathedral. God is Gay graffiti right outside. Bright Jazz. Warm basement. Pickled camembert. TV tower. Dark cocktails. Cold hands. Warm skin.

"It's so nice not to be worrying about time or work." I told you.

Living with myself I realised many of the mistakes I had made. And I got to discover that you (and other wonderful people who are still here) loved me despite them.

Originally posted on 25th January 2024

photos

This is the only photo I took in Prague that feels like a 'real' artistic photograph. A temporary tunnel beneath building works, bright winter light creating silhouettes and somehow bouncing around the bodies enough to highlight their footsteps. A suggestion of a cross. Two people walking in stride, at tempo, synchronized yet distinct. Captured. Moving.

Living with a photographer, living with an incredible photographer, you learn to look out for exceptional moments. Trust your instincts. Don't resist the pull. Be led by the impulse. Be taken over by the joy of seeing something beautiful in the world. Show people what you see that they might have missed.

I see every step from Rajska Zahrada to your ground floor apartment. Odd-one-out surname by the buzzer. Long pause. Crutches. Hugging a version of you that was somehow too small. Your favourite photos framed on the kitchen wall. Homemade schnapps. A card from many (not opened until I left as you knew you would cry), a present from me, opened and laid out on your quilt. Later, by message: "Can't wait to wear it in spring."

You were so happy to see me free from many of my old worries. The anxieties and habits and traps that kept me static whilst you moved and grew all those years ago.

You used to take photos of me to show me how you saw me: versions of myself I had yet to apprehend. Tortured poet. Peaceful partner. A musician at home in himself.

You didn't need a camera that day. You knew the journey had let me see myself the way I needed to.

Originally posted on 24th January 2024

coffee

I spent my first full day in Prague by myself, exploring the city under bright, white clouds that mirrored the crunchy snow on the streets. Power cables and sculptures. Delicate ironwork. Wide roads. Alleyways. Street art passages scary and inviting. Trams to dodge. Phrases to practice.

You shared a list of 28 places we could go to if it was possible. Gathered, researched, wished for. I didn't want to go to them alone, so stumbled upon others instead and took photos. I reviewed the coffee, cake and atmosphere of every one; shared them in real time, listing brewing methods, farms, countries, roasts, tasting notes, decor, music, staff moods and movements.

The best photo that day was of a coffee set in the second café. It also had the best coffees and became the one place I visited daily.

When you live with a barista you remember that small amounts of effort and attention can transform everyday experiences into moments of concentrated pleasure.

I once gave you a book about a man who tried to thank literally everyone involved in making his daily coffee. You didn't enjoy it and told me. I always respect and admire this honesty. Part of it might have been because the book took him out of the moment, away from that mindful, immediate response for what he received. He turned a pause into a journey, a photograph into a movie.

I pledged to take a photo each day of my trip. Distinct moments that now transport me back to specific points in time. Travelling to be still.

Originally posted on 23rd January 2024

anniversaries

Anniversaries confuse me. If we met on a Tuesday, the anniversary should be the Tuesday a year later, because each day of the week has a distinct feeling. But the numbers make me follow rules, so:

I arrived in Prague a year ago today on a Sunday evening. Snow covered the fields and paths near the airport. A Czech man taking a holiday home from Bristol guided me to the tram and kept me company into the city: got me to a stop one minute from my hotel. The air was cold, but drier than the humid chill of Welsh winters that used to make my chest wheezy before garlic soup cured it. I took deep breaths and didn't rush to get inside.

After some confusion about payment, the receptionist trusted me to sort it in the morning. I dropped my bag in my room and headed to the nearest pub that looked ike it would have a cheap, limited choice of beer that would get served the traditional, frothy way. My "Jedno pivo, prosím" was so convincing that it garnered a fluent response from the woman behind the bar, at which point I had to admit my Czech accent was now more advanced than my conversational skills and switched to English. It had, at that point, been 7 years since I lived with a Czech. I was there to see her again.

I had three beers (they are tiny when poured this way, after all), some peanuts and a shot of Becherovka as a nightcap, whilst messaging to say I'd arrived.

I forgot how high the bar stool was when I hopped off and almost fell. This made me feel more tipsy than I was. The regulars might have thought the tourist couldn't handle the local spirit, but I knew it well. I was alert. Wired. Cold air: clear mind.

When you live with a traveller (who pops to Berlin for a day cause the flight is the right price if they go via Amsterdam or to Japan because they have to know if it feels the same as the best photographs make it seem) you get used to patience and distance. It's healthy and nurtures trust. But you also learn a precious anticipation for the person being back on the same piece of land as you. Counting minutes til you are in a room and can share the joy of what they discovered and learned. Somehow, in Prague for the first time, I was the person returning.

Originally posted on 22nd January 2024