We Were Here by Turin Brakes Review

We Were Here – Turin Brakes

(cooking vinyl records)

 Since 1999 Turin Brakes have been stalking through the undergrowth of the music jungle. They burst into view with the Mercury nominated ‘The Optimist LP’, but have steadily receded into the deep woods ever since; establishing a loyal cult following along the way. ‘We Were Here’ might just create the clearing the 4-piece need to achieve wider recognition once more.

In many respects this is a return to their roots; re-establishing ethereal harmonies with dark, forbidding lyrics. At times the ripping lead guitar of Gale Paridjanian bursts through the melodic rivers flowing with Ollie Knight’s vocals.

There is an organised chaos to the excellent ‘Blindsided Again’, which is entwined with David Gilmour's influence. It builds to a raucous crescendo that could leave you breathless. In complete contrast ‘Erase Everything’ yearns with an aching sadness. Turin Brakes have managed to develop a sympathetic  eco-structure within ‘We Were Here’ creating a perfectly balanced environment. The Kings of the jungle are ‘Goodbye’ and ‘Guess You Heard’ that weave Eddy Myer’s lilting bass through devilishly addictive choruses. The songs grow and flower constantly creating new landscapes on every listen.

It remains to be seen whether Turin Brakes’ 6^th album creates the same splash as the 1^st, but for the great music hunters ‘We Were Here’ is most definitely a trophy worth having.

Mmm...Biscuit

I think I mentioned that I've been obsessing about biscuits!

Mmm...BISCUIT

Mmm...a chocolate chip cookie
Custard Cream and Garibaldi,
Nice or nice! I never did know.
Dessicated coconut snow
for Christmas munchies,
Choc and nut crunchies,
Plain or milk digestives,
Fruit jestives and festives.
Hob-nobbing with hob nobs,
Stick 'em in your gobs,
Mum pigs out when no-one is in.
Dad always raids the tin.
And the kids just drop it out:
"I wanna biscuit!" they shout.
Malted milk and happy cows,
Broken bits cause the rows.
Rich tea slim, plain oblong,
Last one left, best one's gone.
Ooh, tartan-packed shortbread
Or ginger snaps instead,
Bourbons and crunch creams
Lemon puffs for sugary dreams.
Smiley, creamy, happy faces,
Munching through the Wacky Races.
Jammy Dodgers, yicky, yucky,
Gooey fingers, sticky, stucky.
Kids in bed, watching telly.
Chomp away, crumbs on belly.
Dunk them in my cup of tea
Or alternatively...my coffee.

Biscuit Boy

I've been thinking a lot about biscuits lately!
This is about a boy I used to see walking to school every morning. He was known by the kids and I as...

BISCUIT BOY

The languid stride runs loose and fallow
His banana skin hangs sick and sallow
then from his pocket - it's time to risk it.
Custard Creams - a packet of biscuits.

He stuffs them in one after t'other
and offers one to his brother.
A Peak Frean Teen - he likes a McVities
investing in Type 2 Diabetes.

He pours the crumbs from the packet
stuffing the debris in his jacket
Wipes his mouth, licks his lips
Now he's off to buy some chips.

The Tin Sack - I'm glad I'm not an onion

I’m glad I’m not an Onion

 

I’m glad I’m not an Onion

Wearing an onion sack

Like an orange string vest

In a multi-buy pack

With a label saying Paraguay

Or somewhere like that.

 

I’m glad I’m not an onion

Making people cry

Spitting out caustic acid

And getting in your eye.

Cut me, cook me, peel me,

Steam, sautée or fry.

 

More rattlings from The Tin Sack - A life less complete

A life less complete

Solitary souls
weaving their single lives
like cats cradles
on the fingers of a child.
Dipping and dancing
with simple minds
into worlds they share
with nobody.
Lines on a platform;
faces on a train
numbing the incessant pain
with medicine made
from the same
homogenised,
pasteurised grain.
Paths crossing,
but never collide,
heads turning,
mentally deride
the castaways
stood outside
the narrow social parameters
of our blind alley times.
So many sad faces,
bearing the lines
of stresses and strains,
worried about nothing
in the grand scheme of things.
And the fragile
bubble burst
of our petty,
pointless lives;
becoming a mist of a memory
when the eyes have dried.
The friends that miss us
will rot as compost and peat
leaving nothing but
a name on a family tree.
A photograph;
some words,
a story misheard,
wisps of a memory
for a life less complete.

Kid again

I want to scuff my knees

And climb up trees.

I want to eat cherry lips

And sherbet pips

From a white paper bag

Tied on a piece of string

From the end of thing

That has the black jacks

Fruit salads

and flying saucers in.

I want to watch TV

When there was only three

Channels.

I want to spend hours

Watching silverfish scuttle

On the hearth.

I want to be Chief Brody

Chasing Jaws in the bath.

I want to read Scoop

And struggle to tie the loop

And the knot in my laces.

I want Christmas

To be a wait forever

And when it comes

It goes

 like it never happened.

I want to not have the words

When I’m trying to describe

The thing that I’ve never felt

Or seen or heard.

I want to be innocent

I want to be ever so naughty

I want to be a kid

I don’t really want to be forty.

From Tooting to Tulse Hill

From Tooting to Tulse Hill

She hung a DIY forget-me-not
around her turkey gobble neck,
scrap ends of string tied together
in a knot of careless abandon.
Stained years of sallow pain
were etched into her Marlboro face;
tracing paper thin skin,
pock-marked and aching
whilst she remembered him.
She still travelled to Tulse Hill
every Friday in sun, snow and rain
to sit on the park bench
where he never returned again.
Wallowing in her lonely life
with tears welling in her eyes.
Before that day,
she used to say
she could see verdant green leaves
waving from the trees
and the glass blue sky
with scarred jet smears
carrying far flung lives.

Now she only sees grey.