like it, especially from here on where we leave the whispery bit behind.

Fantastic illustration. Something very "real" about this piece. I am not sure what it makes me feel...but probably sadness is near it...for yet, you still keep holding hands. Your music is all very unusual and far from typical fayre.

RELATIONSHIPS

Hiraeth 3.m4a

I offer you a reading of this book of deep resonance. It has been a true pleasure to have these words move through my lips. 

May the truths from Khalil Gibran bring you what you need as that need calls to you. 

With love,
Sebastian

28 The Farewell

Main vocals/Harmonies- Ria Madon
Guitar/Harmonies- Ria's father
Cello- Ria's sister

Fix You (Coldplay Cover)

Down

Down 2022 Remastered

When I was very young I asked my mum what my dad did for a living. "He makes boxes" was her reply and left it at that. It would be some years later that I learned what kind of boxes. 

My dad was an undertaker. After serving in the RAF during WW2, he returned to complete his apprenticeship as a cabinet maker for a local family firm that dominated my home town’s high street with any number of outlets providing the community with almost all their needs: furniture, shoes, clothes, haberdashery, carpets, curtains and … funerals. It was the last three in this list that my dad was involved in — fitting carpets, hanging curtains and, crucially, as an undertaker, not only making coffins and putting dead people in them, but also donning a black suit and officiating at funerals, burials and cremations. When the founders of the family firm one by one died and left it in the hands of an alcoholic nephew (the original heir having been killed in a plane crash in the Swiss Alps in the 1960s), it collapsed and my dad was obliged to move full time into the funeral director business, no longer having a hand in making bespoke coffins. For a period in the late 1970s/early 1980s, I was frequently called upon to help my dad remove bodies from where they had breathed their last.

Do The Body Box Bop

A song to celebrate the many weird and wonderful characters I've met at acoustic sessions, both musicians and punters, although none so weird or wonderful as those who people this song.

Friday Night at the Rose & Crown

ALMOST "49": AN APOLOGY

© CYRUS DALI VESUVALA

You dropped them in their tracks,
Hit them harder than an axe,
Now I realize you did that without tryin'…
It was far, far too late
To save the fallen 48,
But I could stop becomin' "49" 
(Oh, I’d hate to be your number "49"…)

Saw them fallin’ to the floor,
Saw them comin'back for more,
Then I saw them come and stab you from behind-
Saw the hatred in their eyes,
But it made me realize
If I warned you, I’d be branded "49" !
(So the Man in the Moon turned blind…)

I never heard you weepin’
And I never heard you cryin’
Lord knows I never guessed just how low you were flyin’
Now I see you’re hurt as bad as all those people that you had,
And I’d only hurt you more as "49"…
(And I couldn’t bear to be so unkind…)


ALMOST "49": AN APOLOGY

BEST OF FRIENDS
© Cyrus Dali Vesuvala


We were lying in the grass,
We were talking of the past,
And I told you of my dad’s old steel rimmed glasses-
Then, you told me of the man 
With another in his hand,
And you couldn’t believe that he was making passes…


Then, you spoke to me of touch 
And you said it meant so much
To be touched when you are down or just plain lonely-
Now could that be the spark
Made you hold me in the dark-
Though you said you really loved your one and only…

Still, we’re the best of friends
And our friendship never ends,
It just grows deeper, though the river has its bends-
And, though I know
That you are another man’s,
Still, I thank the Lord that we’re the best of friends…

Side by side upon a plank,
Novice holding up the bank-
You’re like a stone, for reasons that you do not mention-
When you say you’d like to go,
I say: I’d really like to know:
Is it sleep, are you unsure of my intention?

A bit of both, you guess,
So I say: Well, thanks for being honest;
I’d like to see you once again before you go-
And, when you smile again
Oh, I am a happy man,
Though, now, that seems so very long ago…

Still, we’re the best of friends,
And our friendship never ends,
It just grows deeper, though the river has its bends-
And, though I know
That you are another man’s,
Still, I thank the Lord that we’re the best of friends…

TRANSLUCENT EARS

IF YOU SEE KAY (A CHESSBERG)
© Cyrus Dali Vesuvala

Our Tukid has ridden a Chessberg away
On a grammical Aziph turned down-
Your Chessberg’s an iceberg, the Queen tried to say,
But iceberg’s a nice burg to hang round!


The King has turned blind, disappointment and spite,
The tip of the iceberg and money;
The Queen’s awake, worried about mating all knight
On a diet of bread without Honey


So, if you see Kay, if you see our Kay,
If you see our Tukay-Tukid,
Tell her the Queen has abandoned the scene
Of the Save-our-King-from-himself bid!


Our Tukid’s a King, playing limited moves
On a board dominated by nights-
The Queen has been beating out timid tattoos,
Unheard, since she’s lost all her rights…


So, the King takes his ice and the Queen takes her song
To their separate beds every night,
Each trying to say, oh, if you see Kay,
I’m really feeling all right!

I’m feeling all right,
The feeling’s all right,
The Queen is all right,
The Queen was I…
I’m feeling all right…


IF YOU SEE KAY (A CHESSBERG)

Soulful, Semi Classical, Hindi, Soft Indie Rock, Deep lyrics

Zindagi Madham (Unplugged)

HOLDING HANDS
© Cyrus Dali Vesuvala

Boulder,
Head on my shoulder,
And, though you’re turning colder,
Yet we still keep holding hands…

Softly,
Kid, are you scared of me?
Know you cannot love me,
But could we still keep holding hands?

I had you April,
And May was too long…
Another man’s girl,
Another man’s song…


HOLDING HANDS

Written by Sindhu Mathew.  
Composed, sung and produced by Vinod Varma

January through Saturday
Wrapped in shaped light
Come, tell me why you stay -
Snared-
Driven out of colored time

A droplet of framed thought
A Chiseled memory
A rezoned  warplane
With a battle scar for a name?
Come, tell me who you be!

Bring these now in your best Chalice
I'll watch it stir around and clear
As you love yourself, a little tighter-
little sober.
Come, tell Yourself Now, 
who you be-

Bring me your pollard
Your silently retired treasure
That friendless trait,
Your most valuable Scarlet letter.
Better yet

Unfasten  those tight masks
Drink a little bitter to better
Come, now back to our stories
Stay happy Saturday- 
stay January's a Charlie Foxtrot away!

Bring these now in your best Chalice
I'll watch it stir around and clear
As you love yourself, a little tighter-
little sober.
Come, tell Yourself Now, 
who you be-



WHO YOU BE (original)vinod varma

Performed using only a Yamaha Clavinova CVP 405 keyboard: no guitar...

FADED BLUE JEANS (Instrumental Version - Nov 2011)

This song is the outcome of a collaboration back in 2009 with Billy Simons, a very talented young lyricist from the U.S.
 
Billy asked whether I'd be interested to write the music for these lyrics he had just written and perform the song.
 
I thought the lyric was extremely well written and ready for the music writer to take over, without having to make too many changes.
 
I hope I have been able to do some justice to Billy's very evocative lyric. 

LIVING IN A POSTWAR DREAM

Lyrics: Billy Simons (c) 2009 
Music and performance: (c) Cyrus Vesuvala 2009 

Verse-1: 

I dreamt that dream again last night 
The one in which I'm dead 
The scene is grainy black and white 
But the blood is crimson red 
See a cardinal on that snow white beach 
On that cold and blustery day 
And I watch with trepidation 
As he turns and flies away 

Verse- 2: 

His red tail flutters in the wind 
As he races 'cross the sky 
And as the scene fades out to black 
I open up my eyes 
Within this strange reality 
Precursor to the screams 
That cardinal is always there 
Embedded in my dreams 

Chorus: 

Living in a postwar dream 
Where the fighting never ends 
More terrifying 'cos I've lost sight 
Of what I must defend 
Living in a postwar dream 
A lifetime on the mend 
A lifetime on the mend 

Verse- 3: 

The beachfront's now deserted 
Those soldiers, long since gone 
Their orders cancelled years ago 
But my battle rages on 
I can still hear that moaning 
It's a young boy face-down and 
He convulses as he's drowning 
In a pool of blood and sand 

Verse-4: 

So, everyday I agonize 
About the here and now 
Wondering how I'll set the stage 
To take my final bow 
It doesn't matter much to me 
When and where the curtain falls 
I've waited all these years to hear 
That final bugle call 

Bridge: 

So, yearning for tomorrow 
As today slips through my hands 
I'm trapped within this hour glass 
Half buried in the sands 
At the beaches here at Normandy 
Which never looked so grand... 
Oh, the beaches here at Normandy 
Are grand... 
The beaches here at Normandy 
Are grand... 

LIVING IN A POSTWAR DREAM

A singer-songwriter, with over four decades of songwriting experience, currently based in Gurugram, India 

HOLDING HANDS

Psyve

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HanJan

Andy Rashley

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