We were on the radio yesterday! A quick interview with Drew and then a chance to give Words another airing. Plus we got a new strap line:
"The Southern Wild, more in tune than elephants."

Words on YorkMix Radio

Naked in the lobby of a pension in Bilbao
Battered, bleeding, broken, crawling on face down.
Two men for a funeral and an old man of the cloth
Trailing lines of blood and not stopping to wipe it off
You can choose to preach your story
And you can dig at the mountain base
And you can plan for a landslide coming
When they’ve forgotten your face

Eight hours under arc lights, interrogation cell
Guardia civil are listening, they may as well
Two men for the record and the story stays the same
Turning round the questions and planting seeds of shame
You see a people migrate slowly
Across rough terrain
This fractured moon we travel under
Puts a heart over a brain

You’ll never get a answer, never get your things back
Might get an apology and 50 euros to get on track
And then you’re clear…
So you send…
Two men for the fall guys and one to bury the case
Closing up the file and getting the records erased
And you can dig at a mountain base
And you can shore it up with wood
And you can set a slow flame burning
Where it’ll do no good
And when the lifetime’s passed you over
And the story’s become a game
You can start the landslide coming
And send it crashing down again.


Mugged in Spain

Curtis Stirling

Rattle On

Welcoming Arms

Cirencester

The Winter King 20160731

Navigating a carefully orchestrated run of cables and tape The Southern Wild assumed their position.
Some say the roof blew off in the storm, and the shrieking metal squeal of nails being ripped from joists could be heard over the pounding of the drum.
Others have been known to declare that it was the scream of brakes and the rising wail of feedback that forced open the door and brought the passing traffic to a halt.
But all witnesses agreed that when The Southern Wild staggered out of the studio into the cool evening air there was a sound like static and a wicked glint in their eye.

Denmark Street

Building For The Flood

Northshoremen

Shadowbones

Words

Cirencester 20200706

You may have heard that The Southern Wild were found hanging from a tree outside Warakurna, raw and untamed. Roped and branded, they were boxed and shipped to northern England to be displayed to cheering crowds at freak shows and other music festivals.
You may know this not to be true. You may know that The Southern Wild sprang, full-grown, from the belly of a bison just outside Little Rock, Arkansas. You may know that they plied their trade on the decks of trans-Atlantic liners until jumping ship in Liverpool and crossing the Pennines on foot.
Some say it wasn't a bison, but a big, dead dog. And that it was by the side of the road leading out of Marseilles and east down the coast.
You may believe all of this to be a tissue of lies, that a truth far more mundane hides behind these words, that a small group of musicians of diverse backgrounds and no small experience simply met up and started playing music together.
Some, all or none of the above may be true. But in a world made drab and dreary by the tedium of everyday existence, here you may choose to believe an alternative exists. And why wouldn't you?

The Southern Wild

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