The Hollies vs. Radiohead vs. Lana Del Ray

Plagiarism is a boring subject that I’ve talked about all too often on these pages, but the latest high profile case is a perfect little microcosm of the problem, and where the lawyers are leading us.

So. I assume we’re all familiar with Radiohead’s Creep (Pablo Honey, 1993) yes? Well they were successfully sued by Albert Hammond and Mike Hazelwood of the Hollies for plagiarising their famous song ‘The Air that I Breath’. So listen up, and listen well – for here are the respective songs, side by side.

Now, you will admit that there is a family similarity here. The chord progression and the melody are definitely close kinfolk. And, in fact, if you pick up a copy of The Bends today, you will see Hammond and Hazlewood credited as co-authors of the song. Their attempt to sue was successful and according to H&H, Radiohead effectively admitted that it was a soft steal.

And now, fast forward 20 years and Lana Del Ray is being sued by Radiohead for stealing Creep.

Again – here’s the tune in question so you’ve got some context.

Yep. Hard to not notice the extremely close similarity in terms of melody, pace, arrangement and chord change there, and it stretches credulity to say “I’ve never even heard ‘Creep!'” given its place in pop culture to anyone who was alive in the 90s (Del Ray is 32).

And so Radiohead, who have to give 40% of their songwriting royalties for Creep to the Hollies are trying to get some cut (according to some sources 100%) of the royalties for Get Free. As the saying goes: the only ones winning here are the lawyers.

I just hope they never hear Pulp’s Underwear (Different Class, 1995)…

Or Morrissey’s I Know It’s Gonna Happen Some Day (Your Arsenal, 1992)

…and probably dozens of other songs in a similar vein.

You see, this is where the shortcomings of ‘copyright’ law as it stands should be apparent. Unless you’re The Cardiacs, Frank Zappa etc, most Western musicians use a common sonic ‘language’ of chord sequences that make sense in our shared cultural seas.

A good example is the the I-IV-V progression that has been a staple of the blues since way back when. If you pop into your local pub on open mic night, there’s a 100% possibility that you’ll find a bunch of guys jamming gamely along to this progression – either just as a chance to solo over the top, or as part of a vast back catalog of songs which use that progression as their underpinning. That might even be why you roll your eyes and head outside for a fag when someone strikes up in this vein: you’ve heard it a billion times.

The musical structure, the phrasing and even the lyrics all operate in a small set of well understood tropes of the genre. If you love the blues, then it remains thrilling to hear them done well. If you don’t, then it’s all such tedious reworking of old ground.

The chord pattern that underpins all the songs above is clearly the same thing – even if the keys differ. The root note, the major fourth, major fifth, then minor fifth (C maj, E maj, F maj, F min, in the example of Creep)  is something that has a recognisable mood. To our ears, we instantly understand this as having a kind of implicit unspoken meaning that is both uplifting (the first two chords), but also sad (the shift from major to minor of the last two chords).

This is common to all shared musical languages and even used to identify them. You might not be able to put a name to it, but the music of the baroque period has a certain feel to it, derived in part from the re-use of chord patterns and even melody that was the idiom of the times. So deeply rooted are these conventions that the practised ear can confidently state which era a piece of music comes from just by listening for those conventions.

Likewise the entire oeuvre of folk music is based on a commonly understood set of changes and unspoken ‘rules’. Half of Dylan’s back catalogue can be traced back in terms of lyrics and melody to stuff that’s been knocking around for centuries. Let’s listen first to his (incredible) Masters of War. And listen quickly, because his lawyers are, ironically, quite quick on this.

Now listen to Jean Ritchie’s Nottanum Town.

Oof. Surely Ritchie’s estate should be pursuing Dylan through every court from low to high in search of payment for his assimilation of her work?

Plot twist: Nottanum Town actually dates back to the Middle Ages.

Prior to the invention of recording music, tunes just… existed. Passed from minstrel to minstrel. You overheard someone else’s song, committed it to memory and passed it along at your next gig – perhaps with your own version of the lyrics, or in a different key that was easier for you to sing or whatever. If Marvin Berry hadn’t overheard Marty McFly, maybe there wouldn’t even have been rock ‘n’ roll.

And you know what? Nobody died from this. Music flourished and traditions were nurtured across countless generations, and people got paid for being itinerant minstrels and the songs long outlived their creators without even the notion of copyright.

But, since the advent of recording, suddenly the idea of melody and lyrics as being proprietary things has put down deep, deep roots. You can’t walk out of the pub without running into someone who will grab you by the lapels, slam you against the wall and begin a litany of instances where Led Zep stole this riff, that arrangement, or the other lyric.

And now, weirdly, we’re in a position where it’s almost impossible to make money from recorded music in any case. I can attest from personal experience that it will be many years of streaming royalties and iTunes downloads before you make as much as you can doing a handful of gigs as a cover band in pubs.

So, if I’ve mistakenly written a song that sounds like a Meghan Trainor dancefloor smash – and it is entirely possible – then I could lose my house, home, kids, wife, and biscuit tin for my crime – even if I’ve never heard of Meghan Trainor (which I haven’t). On the other hand, I could take my guitar down the pub, don a wig, bill myself as Faken Trainor and earn $$$$ playing her songs live without so much as a court order.

I don’t know what the answer to this is or even where I’m headed with this point, only to observe that – as in many areas of life – we’ve legislated ourselves into a right ruddy pickle from which really nobody benefits other than a tiny number of already wealthy copyright holders.





Sitting on the seawall with a polystyrene tea
Handing you a Kit-Kat – there’s half for you and half for me
Sea slops seaweed on the prom just like it did,
In simpler, easier long-agos, back when we were only kids

Oh my Gloria
Oh my Gloria
They say that pleasure follows pain
Just as sunshine follows rain
As sure as eggs is eggs if we get knocked down
We’ll get right back up again
Oh my Gloria

Busy going nowhere through days that look the same
Friends arrive as strangers and leave behind unnumbered names
Seasons leave their fingerprints on every fold of skin
A different kind of beauty – what’s left without is kept within

Oh my Gloria
Oh my Gloria
They say that pleasure follows pain
Just as sunshine follows rain
As sure as eggs is eggs if we get knocked down
We’ll get right back up again
Oh my Gloria

But when it seems to me
That nothing’s like it used to be
You put your hand in mind
Remind me with that same old smile
There’s still a road ahead
And many miles still left to tread

Like photographs that yellow in the pages of a book
(“You were young and skinnier and I still had a hairline – look!”)
The colours might have faded, but their vividness remains,
The future is uncertain but the past will always be the same

Oh my Gloria
Oh my Gloria
They say that pleasure follows pain
Just as sunshine follows rain
As sure as eggs is eggs if we get knocked down
We’ll get right back up again
Oh my Gloria…


Yep. It’s an old person song – both in content and in style. Award yourself 10 points if you noticed either the lyrical theme or the musical setting. I actually wrote the music a couple of years back, and knew what lyrical field I wanted to pitch it in, but I just never got around to finishing it – despite its relative simplicity (frankly, I was more interested in my other songs).

Anyway, after what seemed like a thousand goes around, I finally arrived at a lyric that expressed what I was trying to say and a reasonable vocal. I’ve parcelled out the track to my tame guitarist, as it’s practically crying for some Faces/Ronnie Wood style country/blues twanging on it – so much so that I had a crack at it myself, but couldn’t quite get the feel. In a sense, the track as stands is still technically unfinished, but I like it enough to class it as “in the bag” at this point.

So, what’s it about? Well as I mentioned above, it’s an old person song and, like most of my songs, kind of indirectly personal. Me and my wife (who has endured more shit from me than is reasonable for any human to bother with) have, for a long time, had a kind of shared vision of basically growing old together. If you potter around seaside towns, you will see many couples, dressed in beige, shuffling alongside each other in a kind of beatific silence. It’s easy to mock them for being all of those things, but I see them as something to strive for. If you arrive in the final third of your life with somebody to share it with it seems you are lucky indeed.

I look around my friends (and social media cohort) and there’s a recurring theme of loneliness and failed relationships. Often it’s laced with self-lacerating humour, but more often than not, it’s the men to blame (men: you are fucking dickheads) and when I look at my behaviour in the past I see very clearly that I was one such man, and that I am lucky beyond belief to have kept my marriage alive – and thus this modest, shared dream of being old and beige together.

And so, as age begins to creep up on me in the form of grey hair, expanding waist, failing eyes and ears etc, I’ve started to get a sort of weird pre-nostalgia for what this life might look like: a kind of premonition of a small, comfortable old age, spent pottering happily around seaside towns. And this song is a love letter to that imagined future, and thus also to my wife.

Up on the Downside…

And so, here it is in all it’s ramshackle, badly-recorded glory. An album. A solo album made with naught but my own blood, sweat and tears. And a dash of more competent guitar playing in parts from a  friend of long standing – and to whom I owe a great deal for his loyalty and friendship over recent years.

It’s been a longer journey than I anticipated. It was on January 3rd 2017 when I published the first ‘proper’ version of one of the songs: Sex Dream (which I have, naturally re-recored 411 times since. ) I was so excited by the achievement of making a listenable version of one of my own tunes that I set myself a goal of recording the full album by Easter.

But it wasn’t until the 29th December that I actually published it officially on proper official grown up music channels. Today, you can find it on Spotify, Napster, Google Play and all those digital corners of cyberspace where music goes to die – as this most assuredly will.

The delay was, with hindsight, entirely predictable. It’s easy to like your own song, but easier still to hate what happens to it in recording. None of these tracks have a live drummer, and I am a perfunctory kind of bassist, so there is basically no rhythm section as such. I’ve long believed that the rhythm section is the most distinctive part of a band and actually is the make-or-break element to a band’s success. Imagine, if you will, what The Who would have sounded like with Ringo behind the kit. It’s that indefinable element that lends a cohesiveness to a band’s work, and the crucial element that often differentiates a ‘band’ from ‘a singer with a collection of session musicians’.

At it’s most extreme, it’s the difference between Abbey Road and, say, Flaming Pie.

So the short answer is that I will never really be happy with every aspect of the album. There are dozens of little moments when I wish the drummer would push onto a beat, but as he is a collection of digitised sounds played in predetermined sequence, he is deaf to my exhortations.

And I have the singer’s constant gnawing hate of the sound of my own voice. I want to sound like Eddie Kendricks… John Lennon… Elvis… Wilson Pickett… Gram Parsons… Dylan… Shaun Ryder. And of course, I don’t. I sound like me, with my wayward pitching, grating accent, and unsatisfactory phrasing.

And all the musicianship? Well I hear every duff note, bad recording choice, and moment where I almost dropped the guitar. In the background, if you listen closely enough to the isolated vocal tracks, a beer fridge can be heard humming quietly in the background as I recorded in the conservatory.

So over the year, the task great more complicated as I realised I actually wasn’t happy with this vocal or that guitar part. I would have to wait weeks for a snatched hour alone in the house, without kids to burst in halfway through a chorus or a visitor to ring the bell mid-guitar solo. Some songs – such as Rising Up – became mini epics of construction in themselves as new ideas came to me during recording. An experience further from the recording of Exile on Main Street is hard to imagine.

Lyrics took long, agonising months to come – even for songs that had existed for years beforehand.

And, I was always distracted by shiny new things. Alongside the 12 songs that made it to the album, I experienced a rush of creativity that I haven’t had in decades, as new songs came pouring out. Sometimes to displace things long planned for in the album’s running order, but also to form the spine of another album that has already taken shape over the last six months.

And in the background to it all, I continued to fight my demons and the ghosts of past mistakes that hang in deathly pallor over every thing that I do now. Not for nothing have I adopted a nom de guerre for this project. As honest as this project is, I must still hide behind a mask of sorts. Sometimes, overcoming this side of myself has been the hardest thing of all. Many of the songs obliquely deal with this, and sometimes that knowledge has weighed hard on the creative process. Should I even be singing about these things? Fits of depression have consumed me for weeks on end and made recording seem futile and meaningless.

But, all self-criticism aside, I have done it. I set out to record an album of 12 tracks, and there it is. And for all its faults, it is authentically me. The words and tunes are mine and mine alone and every note means something to me.

My prior experience of digital music releases means that I am under no illusions about how I will measure the ‘success’ of this album. It cost me hundreds of hours in time to create, but I will be lucky to even recoup the £35 it costs to put your music out there.

And in the end, that’s irrelevant. All I’ve ever wanted to do is to be able to point to something and say: that’s me. And I have.

But now, it’s time for that difficult second album. Half the tracks have already been published on this blog, so I know that my pace has picked up considerably as I have learnt the skill of recording on GarageBand in my own limited way.

I expect it to be completed by Easter.

New Song: Gone


“I guess you’d best come in,” she says with a sad shrug.
“Hang your coat up there – don’t worry about the rug.”
Steam starts to crawl up the window
Making tea for two – and a plate of biscuits too
‘Cos that’s what people do

She takes him from the mantelpiece, and wipes him with her sleeve
Looks down into his eyes, and her shoulders start to heave
Through all the sobs and the hiccups, fighting down the tears
She tells him of her fears
They’ve never seemed so near…


I recently texted a friend I hadn’t spoken to for a couple of years. Much to my consternation and dismay, her reply was simply: “Can’t talk now – just at [partner’s name]’s funeral.”*

It sparked a train of thought about how we handle death in our peculiarly English way. Tea and biscuits in public. Awkward, private grief. While playing around with a gentle Cmaj7/Fmaj7 chord change on the piano, this tune appeared as a direct expression of that thought. In its own minor way, it is a little vignette about grief.

As is usually the case for me, I felt that neither the lyric nor the song should linger longer than necessary to impart the meaning and the mood. I’m not much of a pianist anyway.

* Personal postscript: I literally gasped. I had no idea of her loss and – in conjunction with some other sad news I received from a different person that week – was plunged into sudden sadness for days afterward.

In a way, it marks another little waypoint in my personal journey over recent years. I’ve found it hard to explain to people about how stunted my emotions were for the years either side of my brain tumour. For context, my 35 year old cousin died suddenly and I barely shed a tear at his funeral, nor at my grandma’s who died a year later. I certainly wasn’t affected in my wider mood either side of the events. I’d describe myself as emotionally ‘flattened’ – and the trouble this ‘flatness’ caused me in my personal life is hard to overstate.

So, in a sense, this feeling of startlingly deep empathy tells me that I am, perhaps, becoming more recognisably myself – crawling back towards a humanity that I somehow lost touch with at great personal cost and collateral damage for friends and family that I can never undo.

Fifty Bob


Officially he’s known as Simon
But he calls himself Si with a ‘P’
There’s froth at the corners of his mouth
He’s spent the last fortnight on E

His hair’s going grey at the temples
And his life’s going down on the skids
He just about pays the bills
Throws down bottles of pills
Just to keep up with the kids

What a life it would be
To freeze the frame in 1993
And never have to change a single thing…

Look who’s living the dream
Is it everything it’s cracked up to be?
Cut your hair, get a job
You could sell your soul for fifty bob
Staying clear of the law
So you can piss your last at 54
Isn’t that what people fought and died for?

Why does it have to be this way?
(You know what they say: tomorrow’s another day, but sometimes it feels like we’re living in yesterday)
Why does it have to be this way?
(The faces and places and names might have changed but the winners and losers are always the same)
Why does it have to be this way?
(Where have you been and where are you going? Is there pleasure in asking or pleasure in knowing?)
Why does it have to be this way perhaps tomorrow’s your lucky day?

Julie’s Monday is just like the last one
She’s chalking it off on the wall
She keeps her head down
‘Cos if she makes a sound
Maybe no-one will hear her at all

She spent a nice weekend in Brighton
Took some nice selfies there with the kids
She sent them to Si With a text saying ‘hi!’
But he was too busy feeding his id

What a life to be free
To pay your tax and VAT
And never have to deviate from a plan at all…

Are you living the dream
Is it everything it’s cracked up to be?
Go to school, get ahead in your job
You can buy your piece for fifty bob
Staying clear of the law So you can die in bed at 84
Isn’t that what people fought and died for?


I’ve spoken at dreary length about my struggle with writing lyrics in these pages, so I am going to give full credit to my mate and occasional collaborator Den for the opening verse – which he came up with a couple of years ago. I remember filing it away in my mental notebook for later use and here, just a couple of years later, is the result.

The main tune was actually in place ages ago. I’ve probably mentioned how much I love Madness (they are criminally underrated) and the third-person perspective of that opening verse put me in mind of a Madness character piece such as One Better Day or Mr Apples.

The verse/bridge came easily, but the chorus took a lot of chamfering to remove the rough edges. At one time it shifted pitch to a higher register. And then it seemed far too close to another song, but I could not for the life of me remember which one. And then finally it arrived in the form you hear today. I’m a little bit unsure about the recording of the counter melody backing harmonies, but I like the concept of them. Might revisit at some point. There’s a couple of vocal leaps throughout that I find difficult to sing so you might notice some wavering pitching if you have keen ears.

The ‘middle bit’ (decency prevents me from describing it as a middle 8, as there are actually 22 bars) was actually intended as an outro – but while recording an acoustic demo I lost my place and played it early in the song, only to discover that I liked the effect. Again, I have some issue with the recording of the harmonised backing parts and the spoken/rapped phrases, but I’m in a phase where I have a burning need to get onto the next song.

So: I’m pretty keen on this, although it’s way outside my comfort zone as a vocalist, arranger, and songwriter. I have a strong suspicion I’ll circle back around it in a few months for tweaks. For now, however, it’s chalked off my to-do list.



They say that times have changed
And love is all the rage
So how come all I see
When I turn on my TV
Is people just like me?
They say that nothing’s true
Is that a point of view:
That nothing’s what it seems?
Well I’ll stick to my dreams
And things I can believe

Don’t mind me – ‘Cos I’ve had a bit to drink
And when I’ve had a bit to drink I offer opinions
There’s too much in my head and I need to go to bed
When I wake up I’ll be dead
And I will welcome oblivion
On days like these when I’m barely even here
And the end seems so near
I would welcome oblivion…

Nothing’s meant to last
The future of the past
Has finally arrived
And it’s not as advertised
What a time to be alive
And time keeps rolling on
We’re here and then we’re gone
Bust to boom, and boom to bust
All our hopes and dreams and lusts
Returned back to the dust

Don’t mind me – ‘Cos I’ve had a bit to drink
And when I’ve had a bit to drink I offer opinions
There’s too much in my head and I need to go to bed
When I wake up I’ll be dead
And I will welcome oblivion
On days like these when I’m barely even here
And the end seems so near
I would welcome oblivion…


I have often jokingly described myself as a sad man trapped in a happy man’s personality, but like many such jokes it’s uncomfortably close to the truth. Partly it’s rooted in my own psychological makeup, but worsened by the inescapable background noise of the news and social media. I don’t often express any of this, because why would you – and this underlying personal malaise rarely creeps into my music. As I think I’ve mentioned before, music is an escape for me – so the appeal of writing endless rhyming couplets about my personal misery would seem to defeat the point. So this song is pretty unusual for me in that it directly talks about me. That being said, it’s clearly overstated a little for comic relief – I don’t think I would actually welcome oblivion – but there’s enough of a personal sting in it that I actually feel a bit uncomfortable reading the words back to myself.

Musically, the main part of this tune is actually years old – as is the opening couplet. At the time I wrote it I was working with a band, one of whom was not fond of songs with too many chords on principle, and hated the chorus of this in particular. As such, it never saw the light of day and I’d quite forgotten about it until recently, when I happened across a murky recording I made on my phone while larking about a few years ago.

With fresh inspiration, I found that the construction came fairly easily in terms of structure, but the sound was another kettle of onions. I’m not a keyboardist or arranger, so I’ve spent the best part of a fortnight on getting the sound into the sort of ballpark I was aiming for.

Almost certainly I’m going to have a better guitarist redo the solo. I’m not comfortable at all playing lead parts; although I like to arrange them in my head, I am fundamentally shit at playing, so the solo you hear is the best of about 18 takes – 17 of which didn’t even reach the end.

If you think you hear a Pink Floyd influence at play, award yourself five marks and proceed to page 2 of your workbook. Floyd are a band I’ve loved since my teens but their influence on my music is generally fairly minimal. While I adore them, I am not able to write in the freewheeling, arrhythmical style of the Syd years (and truthfully very few people can). Nor do I have much a feel for writing stuff in the style of their icy 70s stadium pomp…. but this is definitely the closest I’ve come. I’ve droned on and on in these pages about my fondness for stylistic diversity, so this is another little toe in those waters.

And no; I can’t tell you what the outro is all about. It’s just some stuff.

Apothecary Man


Well welcome – come inside
Let me slide into your mind
And I’ll see what can find
What you’re hiding deep inside
You’re looking tired and you look stressed
So just lay down and get undressed
And have a rest (excuse the mess)
Sorry – I digress

Now tell me all your secrets
And I’ll tell you no lies
What you want is what I got
And I’ll keep you satisfied
I’m the Apothecary Man, I keep it all up here
So listen up my dear
Cross my palm with silver now…

Look – read the prescription
My description isn’t fiction
Isn’t that an accurate depiction of the friction in your mind?
I got blue pills I got red ones
I’ve got body ones and I’ve got head ones
From a book? Oh sure I’ve read one
And my mistakes? Oh sure I’ve made some

Now tell me all your secrets
And I’ll tell you no lies
What you want is what I got
And I’ll keep you satisfied
I’m the Apothecary Man, I keep it all up here
So listen up my dear
Cross my palm with silver now…

Oh look who’s back again
It’s good to see you here my friend
I see that there’s no end
So I’ve made you a special blend
Just open up your veins
And let me pump it straight to your brain
I know it sounds a little insane
But it’s the end to all your pain…

Now tell me all your secrets
And I’ll tell you no lies
What you want is what I got
And I’ll keep you satisfied
I’m the Apothecary Man, I keep it all up here
So listen up my dear
Cross my palm with silver now…


Well this is a bit… different, isn’t it? It’s actually been simmering away for a couple of years now so I’ll share with you how it started life as an acoustic number without much sense of purpose, to give you some idea of how long it can take me to bring something close to fruition: in this case 2 whole years.

So, that’s how it began life – more or less as a straightish blues-y kind of number, without any lyrics or direction. But… the riff and the swing stayed with me, and I’ve revisited it on and off ever since without ever being satisfied with the results. The main problem being that while the verse and the chorus were both good, I couldn’t find a way to give it any dynamic changes… meaning that it was headed into a bin marked “songs that are quite good but also somehow boring” until I re-listened to Peggy Lee’s Fever and had an epiphany.

That song also is centred around that famous swinging bassline, which repeats over and over. The genius of the song is that it changes key after each verse, which gives a climactic, constantly-building power.

In most modern pop music, the key change is normally reserved for the final chorus. Famously, the final repeat of the chorus of Penny Lane steps up a tone and that change is glorious. Of course, the trick has been done to death now to such a point that it is a running joke to wait for the moment in the X-Factor Christmas single when it happens – as it always does – on the final repeat of the chorus.

But Fever does it constantly – as does another famous song: The Who’s My Generation. There, the effect is to increase the perceived violence of the music – a constant tension of How Much Higher Can This Go? I love it.

And so, my epiphany arrived, and I structured the song in the way. After each verse it steps up.

  • Verse 1: F# minor
  • Verse 2: G# minor
  • Verse 3: A minor
  • Verse 4/fadeout: B minor

Pleased with that pattern, and probably inspired by Fever, I worked out a rolling bassline which really emphasises the swing (in fact, if I had the skills, I’d love to rework it as a big band number) and layered it over some electronic drums. I deliberately played it live in one take so that it had an organic feel – so there’s some mistakes in there because I am not a great bassist. The eerie weeee-oooo keyboard part was happy accident that sparked another train of thought: there was something potentially sinister in the sound.

And so came (finally!) the lyrical idea. I’ve been thinking a lot about drugs recently and how medicated we are as a society. We decry the quack doctors of the past for their snake oils and charms, but in truth huge numbers of us now are on narcotics to either bring us up or bring us down. Now – I’m not about to deny that they work or anything – but the psychological impulse to seek relief from life’s ups and downs through the pharmocologist’s cabinet is at the very least… interesting.

It’s not hard to believe that the medical system is at least in part swayed by the interests of drug manufacturers, or that doctors are confronted by irresolvable personal problems and reach for drugs as an answer because what else could do they do?

And so I imagined a kind of medicine man figure, peddling his wares to troubled souls… first identifying their problems… then saying ‘I have a cure for that’… then upping the dosage… until the final ‘special blend’ kills the patient.

OK, there’s a lot of dramatic oversimplification in there, but hey – storyteller’s prerogative.

Which leads me (finally!) to the vocal performance, about which I am horribly conflicted. Having conceived the character of the Apothecary Man, I decided to try and sing in a consciously stagy manner – almost as if it were a musical number from a film. As such, it is part-sun, part-spoken.. sometimes using a sort Southern US accent.. sometimes slipping back into my usual Yorkshire tones… and. Well. I sort of feel that it’s a mess. I just can’t decide whether it’s  beguiling mess or horrible mess.

So, I’ve decided to let this version simmer for a while, and then try a straighter vocal in a couple of weeks and see which plays better.

I’ve not half waffled over this one, but as a creative experiment it’s been pretty interesting for me.