Session 2


Vagabond from the Blue Sky, part 2

An interview with FolkRadio’s Alex Gallacher

Talking about his experiences of music and the road, Jonathan continued:

Life, it often seems to me, is like a string of beads: moments strung like pearls on the fading continuum of my passing. Here are some of those moments, translucent milk-white things, rainbow chased, their pitted surfaces scarred by heavy wear and the worrying of fingers.

So often the most powerful moments in music are not in concert venues or on festival stages. Last year I was travelling between engagements in New Mexico, on a US tour. The darkling of the day brought the need of a place to nest. I favour the high and wild, so seek out mountains when I can, or forests. Somewhere I can breath, somewhere I can see. Leaving Santa Fe this day I was uncertain. So many intriguing names on the map, each promising a different kind of doorway into a variety of lights. In hindsight, though, always only one way remains, our lives the traces of a thousand choices left unmade. I had to choose the way I would take my life – and which possibilities I would ignore forever. I turned, laggardly and uncertain, towards Taos. Names further on had confirmed it for me: Trinidad and Walsenburg, of which Woody Guthrie had sung, and Cimarron, full of mountain wildness – stallions drumming on the roof of the world. I hadn’t looked particularly carefully, and had no idea that I would follow the gorge of the Rio Grande, until I did it. So, thereby, the most fateful moment of my tour was made inevitable, an encounter with life and death, powerful, and with the smack of eternity. The water sparkled in sunlight, collapsing cliffs looming overhead. Deep in the gorge, I stopped for ice-cream and soda at the Sweet Take Out. A lovely old lady smiled from its service hatch, content with herself, with us and with the world. Her sign said “I’m retired so stop asking me to do stuff”. I drove out over the lip of the canyon, saw it cut a knife gash across the high land. Distant mountains bookended the gently sloping sage-green plain – like a picture from a storybook, exactly like the Time Life Library Geography volume I had bought with my pocket money as a child. Closing the circle, of this, my little life.

So beautiful a place, I thought I’d come back and watch the coming solar eclipse from there, expecting to be alone. After a high cold camp came a beautiful mountain morning (I didn’t think too much about the ‘Beware Rabies’ signs nailed to the trees…) and a helter-skelter drive down to Taos Pueblo. I was unceremoniously waved away: it was closed. Turned out not to be an act of pique by the dwellers who still claim these ancient muddy condominiums – they were dancing a secret ritual for the Moon-Eats-Sun, ensuring she would regurgitate him, after their momentous congress was done.


American Tour: Sangre de Christo Mountains

American Tour: Sangre de Christo Mountains


I was wrong about the solitude – and I was glad. A happy party crowd, of school kids and school Ma’ams, accountants, professors, local renegades temporarily returned and flat land dwellers up from the heat of the South. A kid, obsessive and clearly deeply loved, fetched an enormous telescope out of his father’s car. Properly equipped with filters for the burning light, we saw the sun the size of a plate, and an orderly queue formed full of smiles and cell phone music. A very pregnant blonde girl smiled and talked with me about travelling and her coming child – up from Albuquerque, she and her Latvian man. I sang Dumshe Nachte, an old Baltic song I’d once learned. She was so excited at the coming birth, might even be during the eclipse. He was philosophical, thinking they had been lost in their lives before the child, who gave them purpose, a reason to be. The moon slid across the sun, like a seductress assassin, with a knife hidden in her knickers. It darkened and the birds grew quiet, the shadow covering the mountain lands. A brilliant ring of fire remained and I captured it against all hope, perfectly through the telescope. Once he was fully dead, his fiery blood spilled for all to see, she, supercilious, self satisfied, replete, let him go slowly, like a dog freed finally by a bitch. The light did not return: it was sunset now. As the moon moved away a crescent sun hung in the sky. Over the ochre and sage brush plains, throat slit by the Rio Grande, the coral red star set in a turquoise sky. As it sank the crescent point remained – a triangle of sun setting, while the Tiwa kicked the dust and danced.

Amazing, I know. I can imagine a crone saying soothfully to me as a lad “you’ll live to see the setting sun triangular” and I would have thought her mad. But here it was and here am I to say however much we know, there can always come things entirely unexpected.

Solar eclipse, over the Rio GrandeSolar eclipse, over the Rio Grande


Sometimes it’s the contrasts that are most remarkable. It was a time of black and white in my Shropshire hills. The Shein brook which winds along to the Hafren/Severn covered itself in ice. Wandering its upper reaches, I found otter tracks. A really profound feeling, silently welcoming back this elusive creature of water and air. I followed its path over the frozen weir and through the thickets and eyots…wandering from open reach to reach across the snowy ice.

I first saw the small feet and the swish of its tail on a deeply overcast day, snow clouds overhead stuffed to overflowing, filtering the light until everything was a shade of white or deepest brown. The leafless trees scratched themselves into the snowy hillside, rising above the stream. Two Fallow deer, perhaps a mother and child, watched me suspiciously, tasting the air for any hint of what I might be, high stepping skittishly in the field’s corner until eventually retreating into the scrub.

In the grey dawn light, as I set out for the airport, white stuff was falling from the sky and a skein of geese flew over my house. Magical moments just when you least expect them.

Some hours later I floated down to the desert out of the clearest blue sky, just after sunrise. Even so early, the light was piercing and brilliant white, impossible to look into. A dawn mist lay over the sands, mauve-gray hills in a low ridge and then the Arabian Sea, moon coloured in the morning. The airport was a silver wing, cool and shaded. A thrush like bird was flying inside, with the sweetest song…

Later still, flying into Suvarnabhumi, Bangkok, there was light on the salt pans, through a mist, stained tangerine by the late sun.  The pencil grey sky was broken in places by teal green and an intense, dense powder violet. I found myself in a place of colour, as home was drained by winter to the purest of monochromes… and I said to myself, what a wonderful…

I love left field venues, like The Clover Grill, Bourbon Street, New Orleans – unchanged since the ’70s, a perfect past age place. The manager is a man who flits and shimmies, acid tongued. In a flash of his eyes he tells the pain of his ill-fitting form, his passion to survive and prosper, his demand to be taken as he is and a quiet invitation to be his friend. Head cocked to one side, he sent me a challenge: “with me, or against me? You’re choice baby” and danced off across the room. I tried for the former… His friends he calls ‘ho’ – I never make it that far, remained ‘baby’ the whole time. It was enough.

Sacred Heart, Monde Creole

Sacred Heart, Monde Creole


Deep blue Voodoo, New Orleans


I played my Triangulin. It has a beautiful sound, hand made for me by a white-haired woodcarver, far away and long ago across the sea. One of the audience called my playing ‘soothing’. Outside was the coruscation of Bourbon Street, Crescent City – a caterwaul of sex and style, deep blue voudou on tubas and growl, uncomfortably close to invocation – aching country singers in intaglio, slashed vest Southern Lord-I-was-born-a-rambling men. As a girl in the dark doorway of a ‘Hustler’ club opposite shook her thonged and unappealing ass at the world, I took ‘soothing’ with a smile.

Running into unexpected performances is another of my favourite things. In Tsim Sha Tsui on tour, I was offered an amazing gig on a 1950s tenement rooftop (thanks to guitarist Brain Lau for promoting). A bitumen-black star-splashed sky was jigsaw puzzled by towering and looming concrete and glass. Occasional clouds caught their neon stained skirts on lightning conductors and microwave masts – I played songs about the Northlands and thought about Suzie Wong, whose long ago story climaxed on exactly such a roof. Despite being themselves half a world away, the lakes of Pontchartrain have never sounded more like home.

roof top

Roof top, Tsim Sha Tsui

 My music is an attempt to catch these evanescent rays of light and hold them – like making a horcrux in Harry Potter,a place to hide your greatest treasures and take them out, still dew-fresh, when they are needed. My feeble and halting attempts to touch the burning heart and suck the marrow of my days leave these residues, songs like storm rime on a wrack. If you’ve made it this far – thanks for being interested. Our new album ‘Between the Worlds’ will be out at New Year, along with a book of pictures and writing about last year’s American tour.

See you then ; )

Jonathan Day