Greatly appreciated some of the wisdom in this podcast/video from Ligon Duncan and Matt Smethurst: thinking about the character and posture behind handling conflict and controversy well.
One of the most helpful lines is around recognising how those of us in leadership positions handle conflict is how important the tone and calm of how we receive and process moments of controversy. Words matter. Language matters.
Similarly, towards the end they have a very important thought about grumbling.
Though speaking to the US context, there’s a lot of good here. I appreciate a significant number of ‘voices’ in the public ministry sphere preaching humility, grace, and triaging theological issues. Recommended.
This week, with 17 March on the horizon, the thought passed through my mind of celebrating some of the Celtic-punk that my friend and uni roommate loved blasting at all hours.1 But then local media this week has been blanketed with the marketing for Foy Vance’s new album, The Wake, and that started the internal debate about a favourite Foy song – and the winner was the opening track from 2013’s sensational Joy of Nothing, the triumphant Closed Hand, Full of Friends.
The pounding, urgent piano riff throughout is one of my favourite sounds in all music.
I met Foy, briefly, around about 2011; I say, ‘met’ – I nearly took his head off as I span around with a big camera bag over my shoulder, not realising he had just slipped through the stage door behind me. He took it well and we had a quick chat. I was fascinated, some years earlier, when he had popped up (almost uncredited)on the original Organic Hymnal EP released by the mass, Bangor-Elim-adjacent Rend Collective Experiment:2 Vance sings an incredible vocal line on the closing track, Send Me – in fact, although I haven’t been including two videos in-post in this series so far, you should here it.
Foy, the preacher’s son, sang this beautiful, aching track of faith; a faith he openly wrestled with and, by his own account, is tied up on the relationship with his father which dominates his music. From memory, he took the compliment but didn’t want to delve into it too much then and there. His first full album, Hope, was huge – the fact that, when we were undergrads, we could walk across town to see Foy and others in The Rotterdam,3 and his music had ended up being on these big US TV shows, was an inspiration.4
Foy Vance has many, many great songs – at this exact moment, this is my favourite.
Rend released two EPs before they were signed, and some of the tracks made it onto the first major release. The launch night, in the Black Box, felt like it had as many people on stage as on the floor – I can’t remember when it was, but it was absolute chaos. A band I was in had previously supported Numinous, which original Rend lynchpins Steve and Gareth Gilkinson had been part of, but the styles were… different! ↩︎
The Rotterdam (RIP) was mad. You had Foy Vance and Ken Haddock on one night; you might have had Duke Special the next. And these people were actual musicians, in this brilliant, tiny, dingy pub in Sailortown. We didn’t know how good we had it. What a loss. ↩︎
Twenty years or so ago, an existential question came up regularly. I was the frontman of the band I was in almost by default; didn’t it seem a bit weird having the short, hairy guy doing the singing? Shouldn’t he be tucked away behind the drum kit or something?
To which one can at least reply: but Phil Collins.1
Even though this week’s track originally appeared as a single two years before the range for this project, we will expand the rules a little for this bait-and-switch because the primary – and best – exposure to this and many other Phil Collins tracks comes through the vehicle of the Brit Award-nominated Serious Hits… Live!, an album that I borrowed from my father a few decades ago and kept around.2 Collins walks a very fine line between cheesy 80s idiosyncrasy, and some of the tightest and finest pop production you are ever going to hear. The massive Serious Hits tour came at the height of his powers: a massive production, and a band with the chops to match the theatrics.3
Collins, as a person and as a musician, is as divisive as the film American Psycho – which features a legendary monologue about his work – but this music simply slaps.
Around about 2010, we had a group ski trip to France, unironically soundtracked, depending on which car you were seated in, by either the audio album of Dylan Moran’s Monster, or Phil Collins’ Greatest Hits. This was after the Cadbury’s advert featuring the Gorilla and In the Air Tonight, so Phil was in the mid of 20-somethings beyond the long-term listeners. But for me, the live recordings of these songs simply out punch the studio versions: there’s something about the energy. Even though Easy Lover comes late in the track listing (track 14 of 15), the energy carries through thanks to a late run on the album that includes, You Can’t Hurry Love into Two Hearts into Sussudio – that’s a lot of funk for Side 2!
I love it: a tight band, a hyped crowd, and a group of vocalists having the time of their lives – I hope it brightens your day too.
This is as far as this comparison legitimately goes! ↩︎
I was less successful in shoplifting his Graceland LP, but mentioning Paul Simon gives me an opportunity to get You Can Call Me Al onto our Spotify playlist by including it here, so you’re welcome. ↩︎
Dr H’s birthday present gift to yours truly in 2007 was a little left-field, but not really: tickets to see Harry Connick, Jr., on his ‘My New Orleans Tour‘, at the Waterfront Hall. Harry Connick became embedded somewhere in my mind from repeat watches of Nora Ephron and Rob Reiner’s great When Harry Met Sally,1 for which he provided the soundtrack album at age, what… 22?2 So off we went to see Harry and marvel at his patented screen-based sheet music system.3
At some point, Harry calls forward trombonist Lucien Barbarin to play a couple of solos. Then Barbarin sits down on the edge of the stage, and sings the old standard Girl of My Dreams, his legs swinging, with a big grin on his face – and had the whole Hall eating out of the palm of his hand. It was sensational, and it looked so easy.
After purchasing the album and scouring its depth, it became clear that Barbarin was an absolute legend of New Orleans music in his own right. To his credit, Harry Connick packed his band out with pros, which either speaks to ego or to respect for the tradition – I’m going to choose the latter. But Barbarin, this tall, gangly, serene gentleman with this unassuming manner and silky voice, stole the show.
He was duking it out with a couple of other New Orleans musicians to make this list – Trombone Shorty4 an extremely close number 2 – but my love of this song alone places him on the list. An absolute treat.
‘You’re going to have to find a way to not express every feeling that you have every moment that you have them’ is an accurate summation of my 20s. ↩︎
Also, for years he was the official, non-Buble soundtrack to Christmas in our house with Harry for the Holidays. ↩︎
You have to remember, kids, this was a couple of years before the iPad launched. Every member of the band had a screen in front of them, Connick had one discreetly on top of the piano, and there was a guy at stage left running everyone’s scores – but crucially, the system was programmed in such a way that each instrument’s score ran simultaneously across each piece of music. And it’s jazz, so they were clearly only paying mild attention to them. Screen-operating tech, you were the true star of the night and I doff my black A/V hat to you, sir. ↩︎
Let’s take a minute for Trombone Shorty. This guy was performing on public stages before he was in high school. We saw him first on the Hurricane Katrina-themed Christmas episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. For the couple of years I spent in vans and cars driving to far off work gigs, the whole Backatown album was a mainstay on for months. Hurricane Season is the track to get started with, but also his Tiny Desk Concert is a delight. ↩︎
In moments of darker humour, I have sought to unsettle a person by remarking that, regardless of what opinion they have formed of me thus far, they should know that I was present at the national premiere of The Twilight Saga: Eclipse. Reeling from this information may send an individual judging me in a different light, but don’t blame me: blame my (then) long-term girlfriend and her coping mechanisms.
Part of that coping mechanism was, for a time, an attachment to a song that appears near the end of the original Twilight film – Iron & Wine’s quietly epic Flightless Bird, American Mouth.1
Next week is our fifteenth wedding anniversary2, in the twenty-first year of our relationship – but of the handful of songs that I can say with any certainty that my wife actually enjoys, this one is right up there. For our first anniversary, which we celebrated a very long way away from here, her gift was a hand-illustrated card adorned with the lyrics of the song – I was certain I had a photo, but cannot find it.
Our first dance was Come Fly With Me.3 Our first home often reverberated to either Mumford & Sons’ Sigh No More or Paolo Nutini’s Sunny Side Up (also a favourite of her children for a long time).4 But Flightless Bird – ostensibly a story about the loss of innocence and the wafer-thin line between dream and failure – remains her theme tune in my head.
For what it’s worth, I think we’ve fallen on the right side so far.
I’ve included the track in the body of the article, above, but maybe the best way to enjoy it is through the lens of Song Exploder Episode 243, where Sam Beams talks Hrishikesh Hirway through the process from demo to production – a great episode. ↩︎
My brothers-in-law made up our wedding band, along with the wonderful pre-Ferna Ferna, and the mythical, amazing Rick on trumpet. They absolutely smashed Paolo Nutini’s Pencil Full of Lead out of the park. ↩︎
This week was heading in a different direction; but the news on Thursday of the passing of the actor James Van Der Beek weirdly resonated. One of those actors whom millennials weirdly probably saw a huge bunch of his body of work: Varsity Blues, The Rules of Attraction, in later years Apartment 23, and of course, Dawson’s Creek.
Dawson’s Creek sits in a weird emotional space: I have seen less than half of it, yet the character of Dawson Leery resonated so definitively (Film school? Check. Spielberg obsession? Check. Inability to articulate actual feelings in any healthy way? Check check.) As a piece of television, it sits in a bracket that I wouldn’t knowingly let my own kids watch; but for this teenagers in the late 90, the actual characterisation, stylised as it was, tickled that love of smaltzy American comedy drama deeply.1
Of course, a key element of these shows was always the soundtrack. I studied with someone who ended up being a music supervisor for TV later in life – talk about your dream job. And I realise now, skimming the Wikipedia pages for the Dawson’s Creek soundtrack albums, that this allows me to tangentially jump right into the great forgotten musical genre that kids today just don’t get – the homemade mix tape (or in our generation, CD).
I had a friend in school who was an enthusiastic purveyor of mix CDs – and they were dominated by this same sub-genre of 90s/00s American adult/contemporary/soft rock music. His compilations became a primary source of a whole host of tracks – not music that would ever bother the UK Top 40, but music that was nonetheless often familiar from TV, movies, and music television. A prime example – all of Five for Fighting’s America Town, but particularly the lead single Superman.3
The SFX of the music video have not dated well – but this is prime, ‘As heard on…’ music; no-one cares about the video.4 Moreover, John Ondrasik provided teenage me with ample ammunition for tiny subgenre of piano-led soft rock which, as a pianist first and foremost, was always welcome.5 I remember playing covers of this all over the place in my late teens.
Those mix CDs supplied all sorts of introductions – Dave Matthews Band, Goo Goo Dolls, Barenaked Ladies, Joan Osbourne, Avril Lavigne… basically a huge block of the contents of my Last.fm for the late 2000s. Perhaps we’ll unpack a few more here as the weeks go on.
We’re going to come back to this, but for me this is an arc typified by the content of T4 on Sunday afternoons – your OC, your One Tree Hill – but also widens to include everything that I watched on Channel 4 in summer terms when we were on revision leave – Ed (that’ll be mentioned again), E.R., weirdly Without a Trace purely in terms of scheduling. Was Joan of Arcadia in that bracket too? The other big time block was RTÉ2 (then Network 2) on Monday nights, with a prime comedy slot including Scrubs, That 70s Show, Friends – so much incidental music. This emotional arc probably runs well into adulthood and at least as our last big box set start-finish watch, Friday Night Lights, a decade after everyone else. ↩︎
The only feature-length screenplay I ever completed (outside of undergraduate work) was partly inspired by a moment in an episode of Dawson’s Creek. True story. Though it was otherwise mainly inspired by my attempt to profess my undying love for someone… via email. I found it on an old hard drive last year (the screenplay, not the email), re-read the first few pages, and died inside all over again. ↩︎
Superman is on Vol.2 of Songs from Dawson’s Creek, along with Teenage Dirtbag: there’s an epochal life story involving that song coming much later in the year. ↩︎
Wikipedia says it was featured In a key sequence on Smallville. Yep, that fits. ↩︎
Sometime, maybe around 2009, I was sitting awkwardly at a low-key concert (some kind of coffee bar style thing), when a musician friend, Andrew, ambled over.1 He’d been in the States for a year with his bandmate Steven,2 and had come back with a bunch of war stories which I enjoyed hearing. And he mentioned that Steven’s brother-in-law was this up-and-coming singer-songwriter who, in Andrew’s opinion, was the real deal.
A while later, I remember driving to work on a Sunday morning with the iPod hooked up to the car stereo, and a song I didn’t know came on from some freebie sampler collection (remember those?). And I sat in the car until the song had finished, and played it again. And again on the way home. I found the CD sampler, which had embedded video files (again, remember those?), so stuck it in the computer. And when I watched the video – there was a glimpse of Andrew, bouncing around in his blue T-shirt in the background – and I realised, ‘Oh: this is the guy?’
‘The guy’ was John Mark McMillan; the song, ‘How He Loves’; and in my opinion, the rulebook for contemporary praise and worship, such as it was, had been torn up forever.
In my lifetime, contemporary praise – aka What We Sing At All The Things – had rapidly evolved from Graham Kendrick and friends, through to the rock orientated – but less geared for corporate singing – more acceptable end of American CCM music. I enjoyed seeing both Third Day and particularly David Crowder Band in that period; but even at by the early 2000s, the emergence of the behemoth Hillsong Music was shifting things up to a level of slickness that would lead to a backlash.
John Mark McMillan is not contemporary Christian music by any stretch – rather, like the Switchfoots of this world, a musician who writes about what matters to him, and what matters to him are often big questions about faith. But his talent is in mining a vocabulary that puts into the air words that sound real – not the limited range of the corporate Christian machine, but like the best poetry, words that paint a portrait of a heart and mind processing life in the presence of an infinite king.
The hunger of such music drew a line, however indirectly, to the explosion in stuff like Housefires a decade later3 – which of course, then led to the machine taking a turn, like so much of our culture, to more ‘authentic’ sounds in praise and worship. But throughout his body of work,4 McMillan has continued to innovate and find words to express meaning for his journey, and it is always heartening to me to go back and hear a range of songs that sound like a man crying out, in praise, exploration, or grief5 – or, like life, very often a mixture of all these things – and very many other voices joining in.
How He Loves has a significant back story, stemming from a tragic accident, and leading to a difficult third verse which McMillan rarely performed live as the years went on. But the story, as he tells it in this song story video, is beautiful. ↩︎
I don’t know (no pun intended) about an annus horribilis, but certainly the winter of 2008/09 was probably the lowest point of my adult life. Still, holed up with good friends in a little house off the Lisburn Road (a room for which I could not even afford the rent, and often relied on their charity) music was a refuge. The house had an odd-shaped back hall extension which I lived off, and we filled it with the drum kit and keyboards and amps and would fill it with a therapeutic wall of noise bouncing around off the entirely unsuitable tiled floor and plain boxy walls.1
That dark winter season was also filled with discoveries, chief among the Bon Iver’s Blood Bank EP2 and Lisa Hannigan’s debut solo album Sea Sew.
Hannigan was best known up to this point for being the best voice on Damien Rice’s heart-wringing O and 9 albums, and Sea Sew presented an entirely different tone and narrative – still very Irish and very handmade, but one dominated by an optimism that bubbled up and over. The first thing I saw/heard was the little live video above. Later, in 2009, we made the trip up to Derry to see The Frames for the umpteenth time at the Millennium Forum, and the support was Lisa and this full band – and the joyful noise was real and infectious.3 We were able to meet the band afterwards4 and they came across as a group of people in the best moment of any project – that feeling of the magic just taking hold as things come together, before anything happens to bring one back into the real world.
Future albums deserve a listen as well, but the raw chemistry of Sea Sew, as illustrated above, makes it, for me, a warm memory in a sea of tumult.
This was dominated by tracks from John Mayer’s Where the Light Is and Kings of Leon’s Because of the Times, and we will stood by those choices even when the neighbours begged for mercy. ↩︎
A four-track wonder that sounds like being parked in a fogged up car in a frozen car park on a winter night, waiting for someone to turn up. ↩︎
My uni classmate Will, who ran a great live music project called The Bandwidth Sessions for years, which Lisa recorded two tracks for. The whole channel remains a delight, and increasingly a time capsule of better days. ↩︎
Whilst about to begin a different anecdote about this song, a mild episode of PTSD has occurred – a flashback to a moment in the 2000s. Whilst still at school, a makeshift band were asked to perform a couple of songs at a fundraiser (a fashion show, no less, to which I inexplicably thought it would be a good idea to wear a cartoon t-shirt I had designed myself1). I believe the two songs we performed were Ironic and this: an obscure album track by folk revivalist Ellis Paul, given prominence by its appearance over the end credits of Jim Carey’s slapstick Me, Myself & Irene. In my caffeine-fuelled flashback, the room was stonily silent throughout: not for the first or last time!
When I first heard this song, during a late night movie-binge at my cousins, during the summer break of 2001 or 2002, it was one of those things where you had to scroll through the credits and write it down, then play on repeat off the VHS or DVD itself.2 Kids, in an era before streaming, it was probably then off to acquire it online from an (cough) alternative source, and then work out how to play it by ear.
We’ve previously mentioned how musical tastes supposedly skew towards your teenage years – and I think that largely holds up – but a caveat to my own is I think my tastes skew towards the things I was watching in my teenage years, which, with TV and movies in view, often means retrieving things from the late ’90s and earlier 2000s.3 The impact of such music was profound – alongside the love of film that I contracted over those summers, hanging out and making terrible short films, the two would combine and lead towards setting out to study Film and Music together at university a couple of years later.
Ellis Paul has a couple of other great tracks of note – Sweet Mistakes is a clever piece of writing, which also had fifteen minutes of fame on the soundtrack of another Farrelly Brothers’ film, Shallow Hal – but the innocent soul of this song, with a simple riff that even a clumsy teenager can handle, kept it a go-to song in my mind’s catalogue for many years.
When Nickel Creek announced their indefinite hiatus in 2007, I was devastated; I had only discovered the summer prior, at the repeated urging of one committed summer team leader. It’s been a delight, then, not only on the occasions when they’ve reformed since, but on the wending journey through an extended universe taking in both solo efforts and a plethora of brilliant side projects1 to follow this influential and un-pigeonholable group of musicians.
Picking a track feels almost like throwing a dart at a map, but I’ve plumped for 2005’s Helena – presented below in a pristine 2021 livestream.2
One of the reasons Helena is perhaps a favourite is a fond memory of musical friends (and at different points, bandmates) Erika and Josh performing a full-throated, never-to-be-repeated cover at some point in the late 2000s. To be fair, given the absurd musicality of Nickel Creek’s members, it is probably one of the few songs most of us mere mortals could even consider trying to imitate.
Chris Thile is the main reason I was delighted to be gifted a mandolin for my 30th; Sean Watkin’s 2020 collaboration with chamber musicians The Bee Eaters,This is Who We Are,3 was a key audible crutch during the pandemic. But more on the music of that surreal period in another post.
They are my favourite group which I haven’t seen live, even though I have had the chance; regrets, I’ve had a few.4
I mean, where do you start? Chris Thile’s Laysong sits somewhere between his solo singer-songwriter stuff, and his solo and collaborative renditions of Bach sonatas; then there’s Punch Brothers; the Goat Rodeo records; Watkins Family Hour (hands up for their cover of Not in Nottingham, from the best Disney movie that everyone forgets about); and the searing albums from I’m With Her. And that’s only some of their catalogue. ↩︎
The original album recording – with the unexpected, soaring appearance of a full drum kit at the denouement – is here. ↩︎
This one-off album is a sonic journey, but a sweeping cover of Paul Simon’s Gracelandis a particular highlight. ↩︎
