Somewhat trip-hoppish I suppose. Bjork-ish? Music written in 1985 - tune still in my head 36 years on. Lyrics, concerning unpredictability after unexpectedly hearing of a couple separating, written last week. Karyatids are ancient Greek statues of the dancers who greeted Artemis who often do the job of pillars holding up the roofs of buildings above their headgear, made of baskets of palms. If they stop dancing, the roof falls in.

Karyatids

Response to Mark Fisher's appeal for songs inspired by themes of tracks on XTC's 1982 album English Settlement, on his podcast What Do You Call That Noise? Inspired by the Andy Partridge song No Thugs In Our House: the main character in the song is a young Asian-beating National Front thug. As Nigel Fielding mentions in his assessment of the song in the podcast, this was a few years into Thatcher's reign, and the UK youth was damagingly polarised: while the NF was calling for immigrants to be repatriated, some of us were mobilised by music, social conscience and community, to fight back - the Anti-Nazi League and Rock Against Racism wars - Red Wedge, and CND. The badge and music said 'I don't care', but we clearly did care, a lot. Where are the latter-day veterans now? I'd like to think the punk spirit lives on in 2022 in suburbia micro-gestures such as leaving the hedge uncut, and wearing the old badges.

Lyrics:

I leave my hedge uncut, and, you know, I don't care;
I'll let my toffee-nosey neighbours stare.
Read the badge my generation wears...

I found it in my pocket,
Thankful I've still got it.

They would sneer and tut and just because we were young;
The way our hair was cut just told them we were wrong.
The snotty songs my generation sung...

Well, I still wear the t-shirt, 
Of every bloodied hurt 
And I still fight my battles 'cos they're still not won.

Our grandads fought the hun forty years before;
And still in '81, it was the same old war. 
The battle scars my generation bore...

The boots of every woman,
Who marched on Greenham Common
The uniforms my generation wore.

Mass intimidation in red, white and blue;
Repatriate the Asians and Jamaicans too.
The beatings that my generation knew...

I'll find my donkey jacket,
And pin my badge back on it,
And if they want to stop it, there's nothing they can do.

I'm thankful I've still got it -
Found it in my closet;
And forty years on we have to see it through.

Still Got It

Bit of Neil Young-ish Country devotional. Though it's stylistically rooted in the early 1970's, the lyrics are from the swinging 1000BC's, by King David - Psalm 23, hot on the heels of my last collaboration with him, 'O Lord our Lord' (Psalm 8), in 1997, on 2.Tentaklz.

A Shepherd for a Master

Written 23 12 22, recorded 02 01 23. Thousands return to suburbia for seasonal holidays, so wintry electro-melancholy of course. Had to do some vocal auto-adjustment to even-up inflections that I couldn't manage.

Making my return, as a beast of burden, from the east of Eden, to the shsh of curtains, of the sleep suburban, acacia, laburnum, where everyone is certain of what this world will serve them.

In a thousand churches at their Sunday worship, who would try disturb them, whispering that word amen.
Praying that He's heard them, their prize does not desert them, and their luxury is permanent, when you're half a person

To teach your child, it takes a while. Innocents, you know what's right and what is wrong, in a sense it all depends on what you’ve done. You know it's like a switch you throw to turn the darkness on if you can't do the first you turn and try the other one.

A Beast of Burden

Piece of pop nonsense really, but nice rhythm and trem guitar. Vocals over-compressed, possibly. Prompted by something er, spinning out of my hand, and me thinking, 'Ah, how like life...'

Farewell, dashed relationship.
Somehow, I just let it slip.
Spun out of my hands,
It just spun out of my hands.

I was making for the bin.
Next thing I had fallen in,
Spun out of her hands,
I just spun out of her hands.

I learnt my lesson where
The only one who,
I should have taken care
Of holding onto, 

Spun out of my hands,
She just spun out of my hands.

How could I not keep a grip?
Let my concentration dip?
They spun out of my hand,
They just spun out of my hand.

Sending pieces everywhere,
Picking shards out of my hair, 
They spin out of your hands, don't they 
Spin out of your hands?

And for maybe years, you'll need 
To tiptoe ‘round them,
My heart, I fear, would bleed,
If my feet found them.

Spins out of your hands, 
It just spins out of your hands…

Suddenly, it's in mid-air,
And you can't catch its fall,
Clumsy me was not prepared with 
One eye off the ball.

I had a photograph of you,
That I could not hold onto,
It just spun out of my hands,
It just spun out of my hands.

Love’s the same as everything –
Seems to have some hidden spring?
Spins out of my hands, 
it just spins out of my hands.

Spun Out of My Hand

First song of 2024, thanks to coughing through Feb. How do you make a reliably ordinary song interesting? I tried a lot of counterpoints and instrument combinations that didn't really elevate this much - only the jet-engine flanging is unorthodox, but all else is pretty regular. Lyric-wise it's about my anticipation when literally approaching the lovely city of Leipzig last month - given its dark history, how is it coming to terms? And in doing so how would it feed my fixation with the GDR years?

I was descending over Leipzig, over silver frosted fields, drawing closer to our shadow, on the ground beneath our wheels, and chasing all the toy cars, on the autobahns below, under bruised and blackened angel’s wings, a history buried beneath the snow. 	

I have come to hear the opera explain to everyone, and to witness what the fathers visited upon their sons. I would love to hear the orchestra own up to what was done. I have come to see what history has revealed to me, 
warmed beneath the sun.

When you could not do what you wanted to, and you did not dare even grow your hair and you could not move unless they approved and you lived like rats in your windswept flats they would follow you what you got up to, in your state-built car in the days of the GDR.

Descending Over Leipzig

Started life as 'Piano Piece Feb 2024'. Hmm. Although does include some slightly piano-like feature instrument. Feature instruments - not sure if needed, but if so could have been a flute or shakuhachi really? Music from Sciennes in Edinburgh, words from Banff in Aberdeenshire in March. Holidays never fail that way. Phrase 'levelling up' going round my head - ill-conceived UK Government plan to replace now-lost EU funding (inadequately), bypassing national parliaments and instead getting desperate local authorities to bid for cash, in return for votes. And contains the eye-rhyme 'love' and 'Gove' - Michael, the UK's largely-distrusted Levelling-Up minister - hence the 'other' meaning of levelling-up as in 'on the level', or honest.

Oh I know that I trust you more than I should: it's maybe me - I only see the good. But are you okay Hun? Is it something that I have done? I'd rather be dancing – is that such a bad thing?

Lately, it's been a new fixation: something in me seems to be awakened. Entertaining a phrase - let it in and it stays and stays, rattling round my head for days and days.

Are you levelling up with me? Have you had quite enough of me? Is this levelling up to be a trade war? Falling right out of love with me? Going or Michael go on me? Doing to me what he did to the country, shutting tightly, closing doors?

Treating me like you were closed for business - boarding up and drawing up your bridges. Cos this is all about honesty – are you being upfront with me? Now you send me to Coventry – what's wrong with me?

Levelling Up

Somewhat ugly riff-based (no solo) Strokes-like guitar-band piece with distorted vocals, recounting a dream I had a month or so ago, wherein I was visiting a cousin in Philadelphia in the US and taking the bus to see the lights and fireworks celebrating Pennsylvania's founder, William Penn; on disembarking from the bus was held at gunpoint by a scared Philadelphian young man who went on to explain the social pressures on his poverty-stricken milieu, until the local cops were heard to approach and he disappeared. The dream insisted that the city was the masculine Philadelphius, not Philadelphia.

Not too sure of what the date,
Maybe 2008.
You'd stayed there some time by then,
I was there the one weekend.

You were keen to show me round 
And see the neon lights downtown 
And you'd made a lot of friends. 
We took the bus with some of them.

The place was dressed up to the nines 
Buildings all lit up with signs
Celebrating William Penn,
Crowds of people with their friends.

Soon as we stepped off the bus,
Standing right in front of us,
There was this guy with a gun 
He said, 'Don't you try to run

'Or I'll shoot you in the head,
'This is loaded, look man' he said 
We all held our hands up high 
Terrified that we would die.

Jumped in Philadelphius.

He didn't know quite what to say, but 
'Welcome to the USA: 
'We do this most every day, 
'Thing is you can run away,

'Back to where it is you're from 
'Back to your nice white-bread homes: 
'thing is with nowhere to run 
'except to guys supplying guns.'

He pushed us to a wire fence 
What he made them made some sense:
'better for you if I'd died I am the one who is terrified.

'Of a life that's lived in jail 
Here like every black young male'
Then we all heard the local heat 
And he disappeared on down the street. 

I thought he was going to kill us - 
Jumped in Philadelphius.

I thought maybe he'd kill us.
Jumped in Philadelphius.

Jumped in Philadelphius

I'm guilty of allowing songs to act as pegs for hanging unused melodies (of which I have legions), at the risk of them hijacking the piece. This maybe isn't quite a proper song anyway. And I can't say I like it at all. Lyrics are a cautionary tale about keeping it secret when you realise you've got the keys to heaven.

Don't you even be like Stephen and that:
Stephen got the keys to heaven, 
Did not know what to do with them 
So decides to keep them hidden. 

Couldn't quite believe he'd got it 
So he kept it in his pocket 
Didn't know just how to share them 
Burnt such holes he could not bear them.

Don't you even be like Stephen and that:
And if you keep them to yourself, 
You're better being someone else. 
Jesus said you're doubly-cursed and then 
You'd be like Stephen, and the worst of men.

Even Stephen

Well, sounds like Chic obviously. Has a lot to do with having seen Nile and co. last July, and a lot to do with completing the backlog of unfinished songs I started last year for the DWAM album. Contemplated other treatments of the song but no it's got to be disco. Could do with a female lead, if anyone would like to volunteer.

Up up get up on the roof - I see the big city lights. And everyone of them proof that it's alright, that it's alright.

Up up get up on the roof – it's the top of the world. You see all the way to the truth for every boy, every girl.

I'm going to get in that elevator, I'm going to punch me a higher floor. And every day as I'm climbing higher I'm going to push me one more.

I am going to get up where I see clearly just what I've been looking for, and nobody is gonna tell me, 'You could've done more.'

I'm going to breathe where the air is clearer, it's the place that I can see the stars and they all seem that wee bit nearer and don't look so far.

We're going to have a little party, have all my friends around, and we're inviting most everybody to lift their lives off the ground - don't look down.

Up Up

I don't mind working in a hurry - this was recorded yesterday and written the day before. Much of the time was taken up synthesising rainfall. But the idea for the song came last October from watching the Jacobite steam train arrive at Glennfinnan railway station in the Highlands, in the rain. It would probably make quite a good Crowded House-style pop tune [see 'Rounding the Oval'].

Whistling.

Here, to step down from the train, 
For my Jennie Agutter moment, 
After years of false imprisonment.

Listening.

Through the sound of running rain 
When the steam and smoke has cleared 
And everybody else has disappeared.

My Jenny Agutter Moment

Squeezy and Crowded-Housey, reasonably friendly and inoffensive, based on the My Jenny Agutter Moment song I put up last week, and, yup, another one about railways.

Round the oval, round and round the circle, round the oval, round and round the circle.

While we sit here for our train, to take us round the oval and back again to lead us round the circle of track again to the other end.

In my double-O gauge dream, nothing’s put an end to the age of steam, whistling porters, and speak-your-weight machines.

Cos we’re model scenery, brown for you green for me, fixed in our bases, holding our suitcases, under the canopy, where it's 1953.

Round the oval of track, and back again, round the circle and back, and to the end, round the oval and back, round the oval and back.

Never glancing from his paper, a bowler-hatted and suited city gent, never even rising to leave his bench.

A raincoated woman waves her scarf with her hand raised where it forever stays, fixed in the olden days, and so shall it be always on this model railway.

Round the oval of track, and back again, round the circle and back, and to the end, round the oval and back, round the oval and back.

Round the oval, round and round the circle, round the oval.

Rounding the Oval

Trying to be understated yet not dull. As in life. But nothing that's exactly going to impress. Eco-lyrics and muted lurchy piano. Has a couple of heroic moments. I've no time to be 61, it's no time to be 21, it's not time to be Any1. The 'Yes and no are sufficient' thing is from the book of James.

I have no time to be 61: 
we tried to take the bastards on, 
no doubt about it that they won 
and now it looks like hope is gone.

But I never stop waking up
Just say what is true.
'Yes' and 'no' are quite enough, 
and they can't use it back on you.

It's no time to be 21: 
with what our generation's done. 
I tried to pass the planet on, 
and yours has been left without one.

But I never stop waking up
Just say what is true.
'Yes' and 'no' are quite enough, 
and they can't use it back on you.

No Time to Be Any1

Not sure if I like this much but anyway it was written last month after climbing the hill near our house at midnight to see the Northern Lights, which were very visible around Scotland that night. A big crowd of people had the same idea, and it quickly became a Northern Lights Festival Gathering Experience sort of thing: one or two folk decided that what was necessary to consummate the occasion was some amplified music, somebody decided to light a fire etc. etc. and it kind of eclipsed the Lights. The song's quite stop and start, but I quite like the synths, which I always program from scratch. The middle-section took repeated goes at getting right, and even now I imagine there's a better way of returning to the verse economically.

You know, I'd never even seen the Northern Lights, until that particular night. I remember the day – it was the 10th of May, and it was quite the spectacular sight. And there were people coming from miles around - like students in their dressing gowns. Silhouette milling around on the hill as the haze hovered over the ground.

Somebody played Coldplay, somebody brought Mumford and Sons. Vacuous playthings they couldn't even do without for once. Cherry vaping, and somebody was playing a guitar – and overspilling the place with their cars.

And under a curtain of pink and green, and clouds dancing around in a dream, wearing a veil, and a gossamer trail, with glimpses of stars in between.

Never Seen The Northern Lights

I wasn't intending this to be so sax-heavy, but the harmonies I wanted to express seemed best-served by sax - there was enough synth going on in the bass, which I liked, and no other instrument quite rich enough. Lyrically it's about a notional ride, open-top bus-style, around the places of interest in your life; but it's also very much because I wanted to write a song called Charabanc (it's a sort of open-top bus that used to be favoured for seaside excursions). And the ride, it turns out, is of only nostalgic interest: the memories at each stop are there, but the days themselves are long-gone. I feel Steve Mason (The Beta Band) might make a better job of the vocals.

I had decided to ride on the charabanc, a-bang- bang: I would say, if I'm honest, I'm okay to climb on it. Finally time to climb on the Charabanc. 

I thought, 'I know, I could go on the caravan', a-bang-bang, on a bus with an open top, with a memory at every stop. Now that I want to get on the caravan: and they drive you around, every corner of the town, where the memories still stand.

On the right is the site of the skating rink, a-ding-ding, and the place of his first kiss: not her first, but it was his; the Pizzaland, and the park where they held hands. 

Now, is it the ride in the cold wind makes me cry - put a tear in my eye, like rain under a clear sky? Or is it when I came to realise - that I'll never see those days reprised - you can only think back on them - and they will never pass your way again, however hard you try.

Charabanc

A version – in somewhat Television-style – of the track I put together for What Do You Call That Noise? The XTC Podcast. So I suppose the title should be Shake My Innocent Hand [Not For What Do You Call That Noise? The XTC Podcast]. See below - or is it above?

Shake My Innocent Hand

Completed while in Covid solitary confinement, but April 2025, not lockdown: odd couplings of a straightforward pentatonic chant, a jazzy groove and an atmospheric late-60s twangy Doors low-key interlude, then back to the chant. One man's unorthodox songwriting is another man's unfocused mixter-maxter, and it's probably fair to say that the individual sections could maybe be worked-up into separate, better, songs. But this is about the promise of Scotland being 'Better Together' with England – has clearly been broken, as many knew it would be. Adapts Winston's post-torture submission to Big Brother (in Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four) to expound the Labour Party and the Union, which we have to put up with in Scotland, despite anger over the Grangemouth jobs betrayal, WASPI women betrayal, winter fuel payment betrayal, electricity prices betrayal, Scottish visa betrayal, disabled people's payments betrayal, two-child poverty payment cap betrayal, carbon capture underfunding, Brexit omertà, stopping care workers' visas, blocking zonal energy pricing, refusal until recently to condemn the Palestinian situation and instead clamp down on pro-Palestinian protesters, and their U-turn on protecting Scottish legislation from UK veto – the list goes on and on. So, yes, anger.

'Better Together'

If I knew what 'lilting' meant this might be it, though not in the traditional folk-song form. Was going to sound like The Associates. Just about escapes piano-balladry. Fairly hastily put together, as it's a little syrupy and I want to unstick myself and get on with something else. Lyrically about receiving medical proof of daughter's all-superior heliomanufacture. Rossini (of whom I'm not a fan) apparently composed a lot in bed and this began life when in Covid-isolation. Maybe similarly was going to a) add backing vox and b) re-tune the guitar at the end to something nearer A440hz, and c) make something of the suspended passage at the end, but didnae bother.

Fashioned from Sunshine

Another 70s funk track: inspired entirely by the desire to use up some of the hunnerts of funk basslines I have stored up on my phone's Voice Memos, although to be fair the song is otherwise based on fairly thin ideas. Concentraton 64 is a playground clapping game where you and your clapping counter part list things like breeds of dog, types of tree, famous bassoonists etc.

Concentration 64

My tribute to countrymen AWB, obviously: I just hope this is my tune and I haven't just picked it up from somewhere, the spongy - brain being what it is. Fun of course to put together, probably displacement activity instead of doing something more original. My mental image is of getting the melody while taking the stairs at the multi-storey Queen Elizabeth hospital in Birmingham, where I was visiting someone. So many people using the lift, when using the stairs is so much better for you.

Take the Stairs

Really not sure where I'm going with this, and likely to make alterations for future versions. Combining a jazzy swing with pitched ventilation fans sounds as odd as you'd expect. Said fans were at Birmingham New Street station a few months ago. And this is the latest in a line of non-songs I've done this year, lacking an identifiable verse and chorus. Maybe it's revolutionary (I doubt it) but it does give you that 'What was that?' impression when it's over.

The Same Chair

Have lived with this track on and off for three months while I had to get on with other things in life, so glad to see the back of it to be honest and start something else. Overgrown being a metaphor for the brain being tangled and thorny, like a tapestry that's a scrambled mess of thread on its reverse side. It's problematic for a number of reasons: the main riff ends on a slightly jazzy maj7 riff, which takes it away from Stones territory, and the lyrics as always with me are slightly unfocused. I'll type them up later.

Overgrown

Decided that synthetic guitar, which I'd used for demo, was just about good enough to publish, while I'm away from home, and guitarless, on a family visit to England. It's a song of empathetic encouragement, and a slight Talking Heads vibe in there. Maybe heavy on the toms. Quite honestly I don't really know what ny songs sound like to people – are they odd? Are they predictably conventional? It's difficult to tell when they're yours.

Days & Confused

At the end of October, my friend Mark Fisher sent this song to me, asking if I wanted to do anything with it; I liked it and performed a sort of rebuilding of it, which he didn't seem to mind. I also tried recording it with a different tune, as Tastes Like Winter [version], which is also available on this page.

There’s something the matter with you
These mornings I’m feeling it too
The longer the night times the more we’ve been starting to stew

I don’t want to say this out loud
It’s nothing that makes me feel proud
But hunger for daylight has put us both under a cloud

But it tastes like winter
It tastes like winter
When you’ve gone outside

It’s clear that we’re feeling depressed
No sunlight, no joy and no rest
Both of us feeling the other one’s not at their best

Should we admit we are trapped
Lethargic and energy sapped
Feeling like we are two presents that no one’s unwrapped

But it tastes like winter
It tastes like winter
When you’ve gone outside

And it’s not like winter 
Not quite like winter 
Until you’ve gone outside

Without you the silence, 
Despite my defiance is 
Something like violence 
When you’ve gone outside

And it tastes like winter
It tastes like winter
When you’ve gone outside

And it tastes like winter
It tastes like winter
When you’ve gone outside

Come in from the cold 
Come in from the cold!

Tastes Like Winter (when you’ve gone outside)

At the end of October, my friend Mark Fisher sent a song to me, asking if I wanted to do anything with it; I put together an arrangement based on his original tune, which he didn't seem to mind. It's  available on this page as Tastes Like Winter (when you’ve gone outside). I then tried fitting his song into a tune I was working on, and came up with this version, which he didn't seem to mind either.

There’s something the matter with you
These mornings I’m feeling it too
The longer the night times the more we’ve been starting to stew

I don’t want to say this out loud
It’s nothing that makes me feel proud
But hunger for daylight has put us both under a cloud

But it tastes like winter
It tastes like winter
When you’ve gone outside

It’s clear that we’re feeling depressed
No sunlight, no joy and no rest
Both of us feeling the other one’s not at their best

Should we admit we are trapped
Lethargic and energy sapped
Feeling like we are two presents that no one’s unwrapped

But it tastes like winter
It tastes like winter
When you’ve gone outside

And it’s not like winter
Not quite like winter
Until you’ve gone outside

Without you the silence,
Despite my defiance is
Something like violence
Weighed-down in my lungs
When you’ve gone outside

And it tastes like winter
It tastes like winter
When you’ve gone outside

And it tastes like winter
It tastes like winter
When you’ve gone outside

Come in from the cold
Come in from the cold!

Tastes Like Winter [version]

Written in Birmingham, revisiting Moseley after many years away and realising I was little use to it unless I was eating-out, drinking, vaping or needing my nails done, pretty much. So it's about what happened to shops (yes I know - internet, supermarkets, out-of-town etc.) So, who to blame? It crossed my mind it might be funorthodox to suggest it could it be locally-manufactured Freddo Frog, a bar of which I had with me at the time? The spiralling price of Freddos over the years is held by many to be an indicator of the inexorable march of inflation. I took the M People style piano riff from the bassline I used in that lovely recent track Days & Confused, and turned it into a somewhat Do It Again-style jazz-inflected raga.

I don't need a Dominos, give me proper shops.
I don't eat at Papa Joes, please just make it stop. 
Butcher, baker had to close, I need meat and bread. 
Bring me Alfredo the frog, let me bite his head.

Bars for nails, and takeaways, tans and vapes and booze.
Cars have overrun the place, I just need new shoes.
Hypnotised and digitised, no one seems to walk. 
Bring the head of Fredo Frog, maybe then he'll talk.

Fred and I are lifelong friends, we go way back when.
These days nearly fifty pence, back then he was ten.
We watch the town go to the dogs, and need someone to blame.
Fetch the head of Freddo Frog, or some other random name.

Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Frog

This was put together as a gift to the new Blackford & Grange church in Edinburgh, on the dissolution of Reid Memorial Church, where I used to go to worship, and which unites its congregation with Marchmont St Giles nearby on 1st Jan 2026 to form the new united church. I used the same melody pretty much as Fashioned from Sunshine earlier this year, but new lyrics, and it's piano this time, with slightly clunky arpeggiating. Had a cough these last three weeks, so recorded today even though written a few weeks ago.

Wherever you go, wherever I go, He will be there. 
From east to west, from right to left and everywhere.
All water, fire, earth and air and time itself are in His care.
Wherever you go, wherever I go, wherever we go, He'll be there.

From each beginning to the present, to the end, 
Gracious forgiver, selfless saviour, constant friend. 
A sign that all our storms will end, with every rainbow that He sends.
Wherever you go, wherever I go, wherever we go, we take His hand.

Wherever We Go

Tentative-sounding apology for irrevocable silences. Opposite bookend to Parade, which I uploaded the other day. Chimes inspired by simultaneously setting off a few babies' mobiles on display in IKEA. Started off as Nativity song 'Tallulah #1' and performed December 2010 at Reid Memorial Church, Edinburgh.

Song of Love Unsung

On holiday in the north at Easter, I had a few hours to kill while Highland-mechanics attempted to rectify our car's suspension, so I ended up walking beside miles of glassy-still, black Caledonian canal, wherein the reflected telegraph poles looked like Easter cruciforms, and fish darted about. It occurred to me how different from mine the local fauna's idea of this place was - even though we were sharing it, our impressions of it were totally alien. I had XTC's wonderful muscular Roads Girdle The Globe on my mind, which I mutated in my head into a sort of Roni Size-ist, DJ Shadow-y thing. This is an extended excursion - if it were a single I guess I would pollard it for economy.

Accidentally on Purpose (Roads Girdle The Globe) [Extended Mix]

Somewhat dubious about this now, as I often am with bigger productions, and its gestation has been a bit laboured. Plus it's nobbled as usual by my vocals, and thrown-together lyrics. But as rip-offs of Stevie Wonder's early 70's sound go, it's nice and funky.

Does That Thing

Ridiculously under-publicised due to lack of effort on his part, and criminally under-listened to due to lack of effort on everybody else's part, Boy:48 is an Edinburgh 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 graphic designer and married father of two who likes to write, make, record, produce and publish music when he can. His SoundCloud page has over 250 tracks on it, dating from ancient lo-fi tape demos from 1988, to regular releases as they are finished, at the rate of one or two a month. Thirteenth collection of demo's, 'Scatterling', released in December 2015, followed by double-collection Matryoshka (late 2017) and Krokodyl (early 2018). There followed a period of fulsome activity resulting in the OZALID and Dream, Daedalus albums, and while beginning his Sleepshow collection, lockdown struck and he walloped 26 tracks in just 6 months - one a week, resulting in much slapdash work. 2021 saw a return to normal with the completion of Sleepshow in March, and Ink Traps in December. 2022 saw his collection FASH completed, and its follow-up, DWAM, was completed in the second half of 2023. 2024 has served up seventeen new tracks, which are bundled in the collection, Charivari, which was released January 2025. Be advised that all the stuff is demo's - that means they are there to showcase, or give an impression of, what a piece could sound like. But they've not been done by professionals, nor in ideal recording conditions, so all sorts of qualities, details, dynamics etc. will not be the best possible. So think of them as worked-up sketches, rather than studio-made productions. All of them are AMDG - Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam: To the Greater Glory of God.

Boy:48

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