Why I’m Crowdfunding My New Album

Hullo folks!

It’s been a while since I last posted here, and in the intervening time there have been quite a few changes, including a new job, a new home town, and, most relevantly, a veritable smorgasbord of new songs!

Those of you who are familiar with my music will know that I’ve brought out four six-song EPs so far, each one entirely under my own steam. This isn’t because I have anything against crowdfunding – in fact, think it’s a fantastic idea. But the first EP at least was brought out almost entirely on a whim, before most people even knew I made music, and possibly before crowdfunding was even a thing. And from then onwards, I simply reasoned that if I could finance it myself, I might as well – I’m a big fan of the DIY movement, and a few songs every couple of years, burned on my own computer and sold in handmade CD cases, certainly wouldn’t break the bank. Bandcamp is also fantastic for selling digital albums, which of course have no printing costs at all.

However, this time, it’s different – and these are the main reasons why:

1. There are twice as many songs

Since last summer, I’ve written 13 new songs – more than I’ve ever written before in such a short space of time. There are even a couple of other ideas in the pipeline, which may or may not appear on the final album. I think one of the reasons for this influx is that I’ve become more confident (or reckless!) in my songwriting. I used to dismiss a lot of ideas out of hand before I’d even developed them, but recently I’ve been finishing the songs anyway, and then seeing whether they’re any good – and often, these songs have turned out to be some of the best. Last December, I also gained a piano, which has expanded my musical range further. This album is going to be more varied, and take more risks, than any of the previous ones, and I think it’ll be better for it.

Not only that, but despite the dramatically changing music industry, there’s still something nice about having a “proper” full-length LP to flog. It feels professional and real person-y, and more suited to the point I’m at now with my music.

All of this means is that I basically need to pay my excellent producer, Nick, twice his usual rate to arrange, record, mix and work his usual prog-folk magic with the songs. And I just don’t have that kind of money knocking around. Especially not since:

2. My circumstances have changed

A couple of months ago, I relocated to the promised land of Bristol to seek my fortune. And I’ve realised that the only way I’m going to escape the curse of public-facing jobs is if I bite the bullet and do some unpaid work experience behind the scenes. Bristol has some fantastic opportunities for Biologists, and matters of principal aside, I want the best career I can get for myself. So I’ve reduced my current job to two days a week, am spending the rest of the time as a Digital Marketing Volunteer at the Soil Association.

I’ve got a few royalties from the recent success of A Hole in the Bottom of the Sea, and some money saved from my previous job in Wolverhampton, since I wasn’t paying rent while living at home. But none of this will last forever, and I need to prioritise using it to support myself. I’ve never been in a position where I’ve been able to do an unpaid internship before, and I need to take advantage of it.

3. I can’t keep making everything by hand!

I’m sorry! I know a lot of people really like my handmade CD cases, but they’re incredibly time consuming! This wasn’t so much of a problem at the start, but as my audience has increased, so has the time spent making the darn things, and I might not always have time for it – who knows where my life might take me in the future? Not only that, but it’s an undeniable fact that professionally printed albums are – well, more professional! And it’s hard to credit everyone who’s contributed their hard work to the album when trying to hand-write the liner notes onto 15 square centimetres of card!

Luckily, my mom, Jacqueline Law, is an incredible artist, and she’ll be doing the album art – so you’ve go that to look forward to!

4. I trust you folks!

Every other time I’ve considered crowdfunding, there’s always been that nagging little voice saying: “but what if nobody contributes?” This is especially relevant with Kickstarter, where if you don’t reach your goal, you don’t get any money at all. However, I’ve come to realise that this is foolish. The support and encouragement I’ve received over the years from friends, organizers, audiences and fellow artists alike has given me confidence in the fact that this is something people would genuinely like to help bring into existence. So thanks, folks – you’re great!

If you’d like to make a pledge, my Kickstarter campaign is here: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1541711332/record-jessica-laws-new-full-length-album-the-sum





Meet the Outlaws #2: Rachel Hughes

Rachel piano

Rachel is the keyboard player in Jessica Law and The Outlaws, as well as an (astro?) physicist and an accomplished jazz singer-songwriter in her own right. We met through the ridiculous comedy theatre group Oxford University Light Entertainment Society, a “gateway” society that then lead to her being conscripted into the Steampunk space pirate storytelling folk band The Mechanisms. Since I was also a band member at the time, it didn’t take long for me to rope her into my solo musical pursuits. Her voice has been described as being “like an angel who smokes 40 a day”, and we are still seriously entertaining the idea of performing a sultry jazz version of the popular harvest festival song “Cauliflowers Fluffy” together (in costume).

The idea that you have to have either a scientific brain or a creative brain, not both, is obviously codswallop. But what’s the link between creativity and science for you? Is there one? Or are they opposites?

I think there is a link, because the human brain naturally picks out patterns from its surroundings and applies them to make new things – which is what we do in science and maths, and also music too, if only on a subconscious level. When you make music, you’re always riffing off the conventions and structures of the music around you, but then trying to push them further and do something new. What I like about music, though, is that there can never be a wrong answer like there can in science or maths – it’s just a playground where you can mess around and be free to do what you like, which takes a lot of the pressure off, and makes it more fun!

Is it true that Brian May was one of your tutors?

Not quite – it is true that he is a guest astrophysicist at Imperial College, which is where I was doing my PhD. So we may have been in the same building at the same time, but I’ve never met him, sadly.

A few years ago, Rachel and I went on a walk to Wittenham Clumps in Oxfordshire, and while we walked, we told each other stories. My story became the song and novel, “Jack the Re-animator”, and Rachel’s story has just been released as the concept album “Lolina: Origins”. Tell us about it!

It’s set in a dystopian future where humans, having destroyed the environment of the earth and colonised the solar system, genetically engineer people for certain roles in society, creating what is essentially a slave class.  The main character, Lolina, is a genetically engineered sex worker living on Mars, who is then kidnapped by a member of a moralistic, eco-warrior cult and taken to the barren wasteland of the ruined Earth… drama ensues! In terms of music, it crosses a lot of genres – as with much of my solo music, it has a jazzy/bluesy/soul feel in many places, but I also experimented with classical music when singing the part of Mariella the cult member, for whom I used the higher, purer register of my voice. I also, with the help of my friend Ben (Drumbot Brian of The Mechanisms), got some awesome funky electronic sounds in there. The last song of the album is a proper electronic pop anthem!

Where did you get the idea? And what messages were you aiming to put across?

I guess some of the ideas are similar to Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, where people are genetically engineered for certain roles in society. But I wanted to take it in a different direction to explore gender roles, sexuality, the Madonna/Whore dichotomy, and how much we are determined by our biology compared to our experiences. These kind of thoughts were floating around in my head a lot anyway, being a bisexual woman in a society that is often still quite judgemental of women’s sexuality, so this is just how it all came out.

We’ve both been in The Mechanisms, but I’ve never written a narrative album on my own. What were the challenges of telling a story through songs?

In a way, having a narrative was a help, rather than a hindrance – I find that if you want to write a song but have no ideas, you get nowhere. But if you have a certain theme and storyline you want to get across, it informs the genre and the feel of the song, giving you a jumping-off point. What is hard is trying to make sure the lyrics include all aspects of the story. I don’t think I could do what Jonny (Jonny D’Ville) of The Mechanisms does, and write long narrative sections, because keeping track of what the audience do and don’t know is confusing when you have full knowledge of the story. That’s why I opted to include short, in-universe clips, such as radio adverts and sermons, to help advance the story without spelling it out exactly. I was really inspired by the way Janelle Monae (check her out – she’s amazing!) tells stories in her music, where the story isn’t essential to the enjoyment of the songs, but if you want to, you can pore through the lyrics and the radio sections and work out what’s going on.

This is your first album release, but you’ve been doing music for far longer than I have, haven’t you?

Yes! I first got into writing songs at the tender age of 11, when I became involved with the Young Women’s Music Project in Oxford. They’re an amazing organisation who support young women and girls with making music and playing gigs, and I don’t think I would still be making music now without the support they gave me over the years. If you’re based in Oxford, you should definitely check them out!

How did you get into jazz?

Being the ultimate hipster as a teenager (a hipster before it was cool) I had to like an obscure music genre! More seriously, I was raised with Steely Dan and rock with Jazz fusion elements, so it was inevitable that I would track back to the source of the delicious river Jazz. I was also quite an unhappy adolescent, so mournful, bittersweet Jazz ballads by people like singer and trumpet player Chet Baker, and pianist Bill Evans, really appealed to me.

What were people’s reactions when you started singing like Louis Armstrong?

I remember my mum being quite surprised when I started singing so low at age 11, but I think she grew to accept it! People always say my speaking voice doesn’t match my singing voice, which is especially true when I’m excited or around people I don’t know well, and start talking really high-pitched!

To most people, jazz and folk seem like polar opposites. But I’m not convinced. Can you see any parallels?

Yes, definitely – both jazz and folk are often based around playing the standard, traditional tunes and putting your own spin on them. Folk lyrics generally have more of a storytelling element, whereas jazz is more about improvisation and how much can you play around with the base material you’re given. I don’t really do proper jazz in my own music, although it has a jazzy feel – I mostly borrow the kind of chords you get in jazz and mix it with loads of other stuff – although at the moment I am having jazz piano lessons to try and improve my improvisation skills.

You can catch Rachel, and the rest of the Outlaws, at our gig in Bristol on the 17th of June, which will also include afternoon tea! Find out more here.

Meet the Outlaws #1: Nick Siepmann

13717434_10208646816040982_5203143013034239604_oNot only is Nick the guitarist of Jessica Law and The Outlaws, he’s also a talented multi-instrumentalist producer, responsible for arranging and recording my past three EPs. I met Nick when advertising for victims (collaborators! I mean collaborators) in “The Adventures of Sticky Harry and Associates”, a madcap radio play I wrote at university. Since then, we’ve developed an almost psychic level of creative communication, to the extent that he’s actually able to understand and execute phrases such as “electronic doomscape” and “BOM bom BOM bom.” Nick lives in London with his fiancee and numerous pets of varying adorability.

Firstly – why did you agree to get embroiled in all this?

After university, I found myself doing a sound engineering course at SSR London, and was in need of recording clients. Fortunately, I had just discovered that you had expanded your array of talents to include songwriting, and so, having heard those first songs, I offered my services. Many mandolin and vocal tracks later (not to mention a string trio recorded in a bedroom, a set of pan pipes improvised from beer bottles, and a joint of ham boiling in a pot), The Littlest Libertine was done, and we were off!

And you’re not just a collaborator – tell me about Phlebas, your “philosophical death metal” solo project!

Aha! In fact, this is also a child of my time at SSR London – I wrote and recorded my first ever death metal song for my first big project there, and I have been writing and demoing metal songs ever since. Last year, I decided – mostly to prove to myself that I could – to properly record a full album of the best of my songs so far. The resulting album, Alkahest, is now fully recorded, will be released at some point this year, with some wonderful album art from Lordanumblue (Nottingham-based artist Ben Lord).

Where does the name come from?

The name comes from the mention of ‘Phlebas the Phoenician’ in the fourth section of TS Eliot’s The Wasteland, called ‘Death by Water’. That section always stuck with me – a beautiful bit of simplicity in the midst of a sprawling Modernist poem, looking at time, death, and nature – and I felt it was in-keeping with the attitude and themes embodied in the songs, so I went and nicked it. Unfortunately, it’s almost universally assumed to be a reference to Iain M Banks’s Consider Phlebas, which I have yet to read… Sorry, fellow nerds.

So, what have you found to be the challenges of being in a band compared to solo projects?

One thing I’ve found both tricky and rewarding after each release is the challenge of how to translate the vibe of our often complex arrangements on the record into something that can be played live. Also challenging: helping move Rachel’s keyboard up and down tube station stairs…

Are there some things only a band can offer?

However much I love sitting at my laptop and indulging myself with Wakeman-like multi-instrumental excess, there’s nothing quite like the feeling during a gig when you all lock together and the song just carries you along. It’s sort of like being a component in some sentient Rube Goldberg machine.

Where do your musical roots lie?

I’ve sort of put down roots as I go – I’m the son of two classical piano teachers, and have sung in Anglican choirs on and off since I was 7, but since then I’ve taken it upon myself to educate myself in bluegrass, extreme metal and trad English folk, which have more or less become my musical home. For now.

When we meet, we often spend every second rambling on about all things musical. So there are probably a lot of things we don’t know about each other. Tell me something about yourself that I didn’t know…

I share a birthday with Niccolò Machiavelli, James Brown, Pete Seeger, email spam, and geocaching.

Do you have any pie-in-the-sky projects you’d love to do if you had infinite time / money?

I’ve had a hankering to put together some kind of impractically theatrical metal band inspired by the Wicked and the Divine series of comics – the lighting alone I’m sure would reduce me to penury, but it’d be a hell of a show right up until the bailiffs arrived…

You can catch Nick and the rest of us at our next live gig in Bristol, Teatre: Jessica Law and the Outlaws, an intimate afternoon of sinister folk ditties with tea and cake included!

Things I Thought I Had to Do (That I Don’t Have to Do)

When you’re growing up, there are lots of things you have to do that you don’t want to do. Going to school might be one of them. Homework is definitely one of them. Brushing your teeth, taking exams, PE, going to your first disco – the point is, you don’t want to do any of these things, but you have to make yourself do them, because you know they’ll benefit you in the long run, and make you a better, more well-rounded person. So it’s no surprise that you enter adulthood in the same mindset.

But the fact of the matter is that, as an adult, you have a control. And I’m not saying you should never leave your comfort zone, but I think that by your late twenties you have a pretty good idea of the things you’ll absolutely hate. So here is a list of the things I was incredibly relieved to discover I didn’t have to do. What were yours?

Having Children

“Oh god, it’s going to be terrible when I have to have children,” I used to think. “It’ll be so stressful, I’ll hate the noise and the rushing about, and it’ll stop me doing so many other things.” It never crossed my mind that I didn’t have to have them.

Before we go any further, I’d just like to reassure you that I don’t hate children. I’m not a Roald Dahl villain – It’s just that I don’t have a maternal bone in my body. I work with children, and I like them in small doses (but I certainly couldn’t eat a whole one!!!) -but even if I didn’t, that shouldn’t make me a terrible person. Everybody’s different.

The fact of the matter is that the world is overpopulated as it is – there’s no urgent need to reproduce. So the people having children should be those who really want them, not those pressured into it by family, society, or the idea that it’s the “next thing to do” after meeting someone and settling down. “But isn’t that a bit selfish?” you might ask. “Having children makes you focus on something other than yourself, and turns you into a more giving and sympathetic person”. Well, my riposte to your imaginary remark is that it’s selfish to have children just to turn yourself into a better person!

Besides, if I suddenly completely change my entire personality and decide I do want children, there’s absolutely nothing stopping me from doing so. But saying I don’t want them takes a huge weight off my mind, and prevents family and potential partners from expecting something that isn’t delivered (pun intended).

Going “Out Out”

God, I hate fun. And by “fun”, I mean society’s conventional definition of “fun” – namely, suffering dreadful music in a club full of drunk strangers. “But you’ll enjoy it when you’re there” – no, I won’t. I’ll want to be in bed reading a book about Victorians and eating biscuits. The moment I realised I didn’t have to be cool, and that no-one was watching anyway, was a great moment indeed.

Becoming a Teacher

“If you can’t do, teach” – I was having trouble getting a job relevant to my degree, so teaching was the natural route to take. You wouldn’t believe the amount of time I wasted feeling guilty for not taking it. Teaching is a worthy occupation, and gives you the power to do a great deal of good in children’s lives, but if you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to. “But you’d be such a good teacher!” That doesn’t mean I have to do it. I’d probably be quite a good assassin, but if you’re not temperamentally suited to it, you’re just making yourself miserable. The scales fell from my eyes when I couldn’t even cope as a part-time science technician in a secondary school, because it brought back too many bad memories of all the bullying I’d endured in that environment in my formative years. Nobody has to put up with that if they don’t want to.

Going Travelling

“Travel Yourself Interesting” is the tagline of travel agents Expedia. Well, believe me, if you’re not already interesting, going travelling is not going to make you so. In fact, it’s far more likely to have the opposite effect, as people flee from your endless “gap yah” anecdotes (the only funny one I ever heard was when my friend got trench foot). I haven’t yet thought of anything 10,000 miles away that’s more fun than anything I could do here, and that would outweigh the expense, stress, faff, disease, jetlag and language barrier of going, but when I do, I’ll be on the first plane there.

(Sorry, that sounded a bit Scrooge-like. Of course I’m open to travelling if something really special takes me there, but I won’t devalue the experience by doing it just because I feel I have to).

Getting Married

I hate faff, and organizing a wedding is the worst faff I can possibly think of. It was hard enough getting my three closest relations to come to my graduation (which culminated in my dad panic-buying a shirt and tie in Next clearance and getting changed in a photo booth minutes before the ceremony) – let alone spending thousands organizing a large-scale event I have absolutely no interest in taking part in. Of course I’d do it if it meant a lot to my (hypothetical) significant other. But as for any other reason I should get married – I hate to break it to you, but it’s not the Victorian era any more! (As much as my style might fool you otherwise…)

Having a “Real Person” Job

Short of not being a burden on others, there’s absolutely nothing to dictate what kind of job I have. Yet feeling I’ve wasted my degree, or that I’m a disappointment, or that I’m not “giving anything back”, is the main thing that’s plagued me since graduating. I still intend to get a real person job, in which I can hopefully to some good. But I’m past feeling guilty about the years in which I didn’t have one. I realised yesterday that if I’d gone straight from university into a full-time office job, rather than fannying about in a series of part-time lackey jobs like I did, I probably wouldn’t have had the time or head-space to write a novel, or bring out four albums, or countless other bizarre schemes that may, for all I know, have entertained and inspired up to tens of people. And I probably would have felt creatively unfulfilled.

And that’s the thing: I didn’t know what my dad’s job was til I was 12. I still don’t know what my uncle Mick does (none of us can remember, and it’s gone far beyond the point where we can reasonably ask). I can’t remember what half my friends’ degrees were (sorry!). And most people remember me for my octokittens far more than my museum guiding. The point is, when you think about someone you know, your first thought isn’t what they do as a job, it’s what they’re like as a person – cheerful, miserable, nice, annoying – and so I’ve decided that, if at all possible, I’m not going to have a job that turns me into an unpleasant person.

Some of this might sound a bit selfish and close-minded – in fact, the absence children, marriage, travel, and all these conventional rights of passage might make my life sound joyless and empty. But I’ve had some amazing experiences some people might never dream of. I’ve written a novel in a month; another month I performed a space opera every night. I’ve jumped off ruined castles into lagoons. I’ve been in loving and happy relationships. I’ve written a children’s book that’s been reprinted in Welsh. I just don’t believe in making things difficult for myself for no reason – there are enough ways for our lives to be difficult as it is. And as long as I’m not hurting anyone else, I don’t see any harm in that.

It was Hygge all along!


There’s a concept that’s entered into the public consciousness recently, and it’s called hygge. Hygge is a Danish word (don’t ask me how to pronounce it), and although there’s not a direct translation, the main impression I get is “having a cosy time with close friends and family”, or “creating a nice, warm atmosphere and enjoying the simple things in life”.

My mom introduced me to the idea of hygge in Helen Russel’s book “A Year of Living Danishly“, which tried to uncover the secret behind Denmark’s number one spot in the World Happiness Index. (She has since developed a worryingly expensive obsession with sheepskin rugs, which she is convinced are the key to cosiness). But it wasn’t until I was flicking through the pages of the recently published Little Book of Hygge by Meik Wiking that I realized that this was a philosophy I’d been subscribing to all my life – I just didn’t know the word for it!

The first clue comes from my song The Littlest Libertine: “eating creme brulee for breakfast doesn’t qualify you for Rosetti’s scene”. The idea for the song came one morning, when I arrived at band practice particularly proud to have eaten dessert for breakfast. I thought this was one of the most decadent and hedonistic things that could ever be done. Jonny (the frontman) responded to my adorably small-scale attempts at debauchery by saying: “Aww, you’re the littlest libertine!” There was no other choice but to turn this into A Song.

But taking pleasure in the small, reassuring elements of life like hot drinks and good food is as hygge as it gets. And, for me, being a connoisseur of small pleasures is actually the definition of true hedonism: I don’t cave in to peer pressure and do crazy, out-there things just because I think I should. I genuinely only do what I really enjoy, even if some of those things might seem little and unimpressive to others.

One of the other points that stood out was that hygge is the perfect way for introverts to socialize. I’m not an introvert – I don’t know what I am. A friend once suggested that, to me, all conversations were just people interrupting my life. They’re not (please converse with me!), and he’s a professional magician, anyway, so what does he know? But I do tend to find loud, hectic environments full of cool strangers (e.g. “clubbing”) incredibly stressful. In fact, one of the most off-putting things to me is feeling pressure to have fun. I like fun to creep up slowly and surprise me – the preconception that everybody has to have fun from the outset is one of the main things that will prevent me from doing so! Whereas hygge allows fun and socializing to be done in a relaxed context.

Hatstand, the most hygge of open mic nights

As a performer, and an acoustic singer-songwriting one at that, there’s nothing more stressful and soul-destroying than performing to a loud pub full of people having shouted conversations and ignoring you. One of the most hygge open mic nights I’ve ever been to is Hatstand, a completely acoustic open mic held in a beautifully-lit cafe where the audience have to devote their full attention in order to hear the performers. The intimate atmosphere and sense of camaraderie is second to none, and really brings out the full meaning of everyone’s songs. Playing round a bonfire, such as Folk in the Forest, is also incredibly hygge, and one of my favourite activities.

Fig.1: Frumpcore at its finest

Another clue of my latent hygge tendencies is my mode of dress: a style I like to call “Frumpcore” (see fig.1). This mainly involves seeing how many layers of jumpers and cardigans I can don before actually becoming somebody’s maiden aunt. In fact, I’ve calculated that around 30% of my body mass is comprised of jumpers, and I’m actually really scrawny underneath, like when a lovely fluffy cat gets itself wet and you realize that under the fur it actually resembles nothing but a very tall weasel. One winter I was going through an existential crisis and took to wearing a jumper so bulky and shapeless it made me resemble a giant egg. I sure was comforted, though!

Talking of existential crises, one of the main points of hygge is that surroundings do matter. The Danish devote huge amounts of time and money to perfecting the interiors of their homes (no surprise when faced with the interminable Danish winter), and I’ve come to realize over the years that this actually is incredibly important to one’s happiness. I used to think that my living quarters didn’t matter, and as long as my situation in life was fine, I could live anywhere. And young people just out of university take “slumming it” as default. But it can really grind you down. When I was living in a shared house in Oxford, I spent all my time in a tiny, box-like room, perpetually messy as I had to use it for everything. After a while it made me feel as if my mind was in prison. Having to move back home isn’t ideal, but the feeling of walking around the large, airy rooms of the house after that horrible little shoe box was unbelievably liberating.

So I’m a full hygge convert now! And although I do still enjoy intrepid adventures, if you ever come round to visit, you’re more than likely to find me engaged in my favourite activity: sitting in bed, reading and eating.

Brilliant Song Lyrics

In my last blog post, I mentioned that one of the main things that attracted me to Folk music was the fact that the lyrics are actually about something. So it astonishes me the number of people who simply don’t listen to the lyrics at all. An erstwhile gentleman caller once doomed himself by dismissing my entire musical output as follows: “I did try to listen to it, yes, but it was a bit distracting.” I understand now that different people use music for different purposes, and I’m definitely not still bitter about it (honest!), but it does explain why some artists manage to reach stratospheric levels of fame while still sickeningly young, before they’ve gained even half enough life experience to write anything wise or meaningful. After all, nobody writes a bestselling novel at the age of 16, do they? (Or do they? As always, willing to be corrected!) To quote one of my first ever songs,”The Innocents”:

“I’ll need to live a little more / Before I write a song worth crying for”.

(That would be three years later, when my voice disappeared just as we were about to record “Narcissus Under the Knife”, and it took three separate recording sessions to perfect it.)

(And I promise this whole article isn’t just going to be quotes from my own songs!)

But I digress.

In any case, I’m one of those people who think lyrics are important – what’s more, they can have a huge and lasting effect, just as much as poetry. So I’d like to share with you some of the lyrics that have stayed with me over the years, be it because they’re funny, clever, comforting, or just seem to explain the human condition perfectly. I tend to keep my cards very close to my chest, as a general rule – in fact, my own songs are often the closest you’ll get to my real thoughts and feelings, and even then they’re veiled in about 7 layers of metaphor, transferred onto literary characters and then set in a Dystopian future, or something. So hopefully, showing you these lyrics will help me to be a bit less of an aloof ninny:

“Try not to look at you in the shoe, but the eyes – find the eyes…”

Franz Ferdinand – The Dark of the Matinee

This is a wonderfully atmospheric song about how the lead bloke used to bunk off school to go to the cinema (the girl he meets there may or may not be fabricated). I’d really recommend looking up the lyrics, because the whole thing is just poetry. In fact, one of my friends wanted to quote Franz Ferdinand in a General Studies exam about how pop bands were becoming the modern poets, but the only lyrics of theirs she could think of were “I love your friends, they’re all so arty.” (That’s an A level that’s never done either of us a jot of good).

But most of all, this song marks that moment at the start of the 2004 indie revolution when I realized there was hope for modern music after all (and all my classmates started buying scooters and those bags with targets on them).

“And our prayers were answered / When we wrote these songs and we lost our minds”

Slow Club – All Our Most Brilliant Friends

Something a lot of musicians can sympathise with, I think!

“Stop taking chances with the ammunition in your pants.”

Beth Jeans Houghton – Franklin Benedict

Another universally relatable statement…

“All roads lead back to you / Like some flesh-coated Rome.”

Trembling Bells – Torn Between Loves

I just love the sheer audacity of such surprising and unsettling lyrics. A fellow musician, Matt Bradshaw, talks about “bucket words”, words used over and over again in pop songs (arms, charms, love, above, broken heart, apart) that you can just pick out of a bucket to instantly write a plausible-sounding song. And I think both he and I agree that strange, unconventional lyrics are often very effective in jarring an indolent audience out of their reverie and making them sit up and properly pay attention to a song. Also, if you like prog folk, Trembling Bells are AMAZING – think Sandy Denny accompanied by a psychedelic mushroom-fuelled rock band, and you’re only halfway there…

“I’ve got this lingering feeling / Like I’ve slipped between the fingers of the century / I know you know what I mean.”

Anais Mitchell – Of a Friday Night

This song is the only thing that’s managed to adequately describe this feeling – not so much imagining what a place would have been like in the past, but seeing the layers and layers of eras and different people who came and went over this spot, all superimposed on top of each other, and somehow being both there and in the past at the same time – just go and listen to it. She also wrote a Dystopian bluegrass version of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, “Hadestown”, so, you know, you probably ought to go and listen to that, too.

“If you’re falling apart, well, that’s only entropy, like the death of a star.”

Borderville – The Anchor (From the album “Metamorphosis”)

That’s just some lovely phrasing. Also, anyone who’s going to write a theatrical rock opera version of Kafka’s Metamorphosis is going to earn my grudging respect.

“Time will rub out the pencil lines, and you’ll be remembered.”

Laura Hocking – Pencil Lines

This song sketches a lovely vignette about a couple whose slightly ungainly first encounter will be idealised by the passage of time. In the final verse, what first appeared to be a romantic encounter is revealed to be a portrait sitting, a nice twist that renders the metaphor literal – as clever, wry and cerebral as all her songs. In a way, it was Laura Hocking that inspired me to start writing my own music. I used to have a handmade cuddly toy stall in the corner of Sunday Roast in Oxford, an alternative live music night on Sunday evenings, part of the indie-twee movement of 2007 that I’ve always found inexplicably comforting. I didn’t really pay attention to her set at the time (I was, presumably, too busy selling cuddly lobsters and nautiluses), but something must have got me, because the next day I looked up her music and realised what was possible. She seemed to be pretty successful for a while, too, but then suddenly disappeared. Two years ago I sent a long, embarrassing fan message to her personal Facebook page on what happened to be Valentine’s Day, telling her all this and asking what she was doing now. I hope she never saw it, but if you’re out there, Laura – sorry, I’m not really mad, honest!

“That plate’s in the same place I left it before, when the world seemed so sure.”

Faceometer – OK, So That Happened

Faceometer (AKA Will), fellow Midlands bizarrington and the only musician capable of fitting more words into a line than me, has managed to do the impossible with this song, and make my eyes leak. “A song about sitting in an identical place when something’s changed”, as Will puts it, is full of hopeful happiness for the future and all the possibilities it presents. And, as someone who has, in the past, experienced life as a series of slamming doors and missed opportunities, that hope used to make me very sad. But now it makes my eyes leak for more positive reasons. Silly eyes.

Right, now I’ve told you all of mine, what are your favourite song lyrics, and why? I’d love to hear them!

Why folk music is objectively* the best kind of music

*Warning: contains copious subjectivity

I’ve always loved anything related to folk: I remember being introduced to 1970s prog folk (Fairport Convention, Pentangle, Jethro Tull and the like) as a child, and having my young mind blown by the mystery and delicious poignancy of the songs. And it’s struck me recently that my love of folk might not just be down to childhood indoctrination or a vague personal perversion: there might be some specific reasons why it captures the imaginations of so many people, and these could be put to good use in modern songwriting. I’ve catalogued these reasons in a handy list, as follows:

1. Melody

Folk 008
Well, I don’t know who this man is, but I sure like his style!

One of the first things that struck me when I started listening to “normal” bands was the lack of complex and unusual vocal melodies. I get the idea that most bands come up with the chord structure first, then lay the vocal melody over the top (band people, is this right?) which often tends to flatten and restrict the melody from doing anything really “out there”. But traditional folk, by its very definition, was written by ordinary people, not trained musicians. So the people composing the songs probably didn’t have any formal schooling in the rules of musical theory, and if they played an instrument, it was just as likely to be a melodic one, like a violin or tin whistle, as a chorded instrument like the guitar. This has helped to form much more unusual, interesting melodies, unrestricted by backing instruments or any prior knowledge of the “rules” of music. (My producer informs me that folk melodies are also very good at indicating what key the whole song is meant to be in, probably as a result of them being sung a capella).

2. Repetition

A lot of people make the mistake of thinking a simple, bland melody is more catchy, but complex melodies are more distinctive and often contain more musical “hooks” – they just need to be repeated in order to drill them sufficiently deeply into brain of the victim (listener! I mean listener). One thing I hate is getting “lost” in a song – hearing all these wonderful musical turns of phrase, but only once before they move onto something else, and before you know it you’ve lost track and can’t work out whether it’s the same song or has gone onto another one (Laura Marling is very guilty of this). Folk music, with its narrative nature, is repetitive by necessity. And since most people composing folk songs couldn’t write them down, the melody would have to be strong and distinctive in order to be remembered – an opinion shared by Paul McCartney, who bemoans in this article the fact that “dozens” of early Beatles songs were simply forgotten the morning after due to the absence of portable music recording devices.

3. Lyrics

The Beatles can’t help me on this one. Lines about holding hands and love are absolutely no substitute to songs that are actually ABOUT something. From piracy and highwaymen to hangings and lost polar explorers, folk songs were used as much to carry news or spread a cause as they were for entertainment. Of course, like every genre, they have their clichés. I once developed a game of “folk bingo” to be played at folk gigs, where points to be crossed off included:

The events of the song taking place “in the merry month of May”

Awkwardly attempting to get the phrase “press-ganged into the Royal Navy” to scan

Visual rhymes like “the wind” and “to find”

“Milk white steed”

Singing in a strong yet completely unrecognisable regional accent

Folk 004
Who are these people and what on earth are they doing? Ah well, at least they’re having fun!

But despite all folk’s faults, nobody could say the lyrics were an afterthought. That’s a relatively modern phenomenon. West End producer Richard Andrews puts it perfectly I his book “Writing a Musical”, and it’s just as true in folk as it is in musical theatre:

“People don’t appreciate the difference between pop songs and show songs. Once upon a time they were the same thing, but since the 1950s they have each moved in different directions. My definition is that the most important thing about a pop song is the sound, while the most important thing about a show song is the meaning. Lyrics are often the last thing to be added to a pop song, after the music track is finished, and their importance is certainly less than it once was.”

4. Instrumentation

Once I’d got over thinking all popular music was rubbish (which it couldn’t possibly be, right?) I just assumed that people must be listening out for completely different things in songs than I did. Being raised on an ungodly combination of folk and musical theatre, it was no surprise that I’d automatically go straight for the lyrics and vocal melody. But what else is there if the rest is just a load of guitars?

I will never for the life of me understand how, out of an entire world full of instruments, modern music has been built almost exclusively on guitars. It’s like deciding to make all bands for the rest of history play nothing but different kinds of xither or bassoon, and obsess over the tiny differences offered within this niche.

Michale Chabon, editor of McSweeney’s Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales (an anthology of “proper” short stories with a beginning, middle and end), bemoans the prevalence of the “plotless, self-revealatory” short story, stating all modern short stories have been forced into this single, narrow format. He puts it this way:

“Imagine that, sometime about 1950, it had been decided, collectively, informally, a little at a time, but with finality, to proscribe every kind of novel from the canon of the future but the nurse romance.”

Well, guitar bands are the musical equivalent of the nurse romance. (Gosh, that’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d say!)

Folk music, on the other hand, offers a diverse range of musical instrumentation so refreshing that I even like this song (composed by scientists using the most commonly hated aspects of music).


Obviously there are hundreds of exceptions to every one of these rules, many of which reside happily in my music collection. But I’ve had a good rant, and hopefully this will be helpful, or at least interesting, to some of you. Of course, everybody has different tastes and different songwriting methods, and I’d be really interested to hear some of yours – feel free to prove me wrong!