This one (Canute was no Fool) was recorded as a demo sometime around 2014/15 on the single-track Otari MX-5050 you see in the video, which was shot on iPhone 5S. Once again I’ve done considerable messing with the original files to try to overcome their respective shortcomings.
No upcoming shows scheduled
If memory serves me correctly the video and audio was recorded (separately of course) on an iPhone 5S sometime around 2013/14. I found the files this morning as I was trying to create some space on a hard drive by throwing old files into the black hole of trash. Although neither the sound or vision is that good I couldn’t resist having a play around before chucking the original files (which is the object of the exercise) and uploading the resulting mess for your entertainment, or otherwise.
Spare me the middle
Spare me the time spent muddling
The money managing
The taking the time to mind your manners
The panacea, the planners, the mindless mindfullness
The painless leveraged loss and gain
Damn your principled stance, damn your love that never took a chance
Heed the dull ache in your heart
Bleed, feel, cheat reason, follow the fleeting feeling that tonight… tonight…
Folky fingerpickers, dressed in union soldier hats and coats, make me wish I had a good horse, bow, arrows, and a steady aim.
You can brush your teeth
In the shower
For a good while
It may take an hour
But by that time
It may not be your teeth
It may be your feet are too big
The shattered ghost-rider
Shadows the clandestine peloton
As ever, the things we do, the things we make, the things we say, will in time be rusted, worn and washed away.
Our dreams and cares will pass, our arms and hands and legs and feet, our brains and hearts, no more or less than trees and leaves and grass, will die and fade, the sun will set at last.
Brilliant shafts of sunlight penetrate the canopy of ancient trees and dance across the leaves of fern and flannel flower.
The warm still air is silent but for the sounds of a cool stream tripping and running across its smooth pebbled bed. A dragonfly hovers and skims restlessly above the water’s rippling surface on gossamer wings. Now and then a plaintive bird call rings out and hangs in the air like an arrow turned to mist.
Bare feet glide noiselessly over the moist leaf-strewn path leading to the glade as the daylight fades and encroaching darkness beckons.