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