Analogue Tales: Sounds From Arden

by James Summerfield and Darren Cannan

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    A CD copy of the album, plus a book of the poems that made up the lyrics. Also includes a download of the album and the poems. Limited to 500 copies.

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about

BOOK and CD. “I don’t do covers. However, I needed a new approach. Drawn to Darren Cannan’s Midland’s themed poetry, I asked him if I could use some of his works to fit to music. 5 songs emerged with an E.P imminent. Later, over a couple of pints, we thought we could take this further by adding 5 or 6 narrated poems with soundscapes. Importantly, narration would be performed by influential Midland-ers.
These would include: Ranking Roger (The Beat frontman);
Robin Valk (Radio presenter); Paul Murphy (local song writer,
poet, actor and promotor); Catherine O’Flynn (author);
Mike Gayle (author and columnist). The non-narrated tracks
were mostly recorded at Highbury studios: a 100% pure analogue
studio.”

credits

released June 22, 2015

Ranking Roger (The Beat frontman);
Robin Valk (Radio presenter); Paul Murphy (local song writer,
poet, actor and promotor); Catherine O’Flynn (author);
Mike Gayle (author and columnist).

license

all rights reserved

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about

James Summerfield England, UK

PRE-ORDER THE NEW ALBUM NOW


From "Analogue Tales: Sounds from Arden", the new album by James Summerfield, released on Commercially Inviable Records, 22nd June 2015. Available on vinyl, CD and download. ... more

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Track Name: The Block
1. Enter the lift, a lozenge moving vertically in the throat of the block,
always swallowing and coughing up, it never stops.
Soundproofed silence, changed only when the shaft is climbing or falling,
in a riot of clicks and hydraulic groans.

2. Jaundiced, dead air sewn with Bisto and bleach smells, are blown in your face,
like an annoying friend trying to irritate you into action,
from dormant fire hydrants and unused exits.

Quilted analogue sounds,
a quilt of analogue tinny sounds;
only single numbers leave at once.
Beware loan sharks; notice common room opening times;
call the mobile hairdresser after 2pm.
Do you remember the ‘50s?
Foyer messages disappear as you rise.

Fifth floor bare-walls-paint-in-’9-7 with European money.
It won’t last.
Suspended lives on high, no front doors are ever opened fully.

Quilted analogue sounds,
a quilt of analogue tinny sounds;
only single numbers leave at once.

Seventh floor: he worked for The Times, they say.
He wears a cravat after 6.
He doesn’t watch television.
He listens to analogue sounds on the radio.
Track Name: Stechford (Iron Lane)
Verse 1
On Winter's timid offering for a day,
the air is a trench, from which she can’t erase.

A ride in her car is a type of escape- when stranded is
(quick) snared by the shadows from-the dis figured snooker club’s face,

It’s a stalemate of immovable conditions pitched against unachievable wisdom.

Verse 2
She avoided the collage of Iron Lane's
windowless buildings,
graffiti tats were third-rate,
offering promises,by looking down
at the fresh-lit cigarette rolling around

no hand could manoeuvre.
Bright hot ash pit,
-like sparks from an anvil traced behind it;

Instrumental mid-8

Verse 3
she just had to join dots,
and follow the path
to the teenager,
who had fell upon the grass

Her bravery is no servant to mediocrity.
Leaving her car alive --and ru--nning,

she can prevent death ---from smearing its
intended consequences---- on him and
others, by holding the boy--- firm to her body,
as she waits ---for the mania --of the convulsions to hide.
Track Name: Feral Cats Of Longbridge
Twilight rain is sprayed on the sweaty pewter-stained window panes
from Portuguese man o’ war clouds,

The entrails of the North Works and South Works being gnawed nightly by rats
Decaying veins of computer cables of Austin’s motor masterplan
So the feral cats go hunting - working for the rat race

Feline after beast after dark: a manmade Mother Nature hunt
Humans hail the feral outsiders as ‘miniature lions’
And they wait and claw, and claw, and wait
Standing with stillness
by the toilet door
Scanning the tea-coloured urinal,
Silently moving on down the oily corridor

The rats days were numbered, but then so were the feral cats,
Because the plant’s owners see their pest controllers
As an untidy and unnecessary waste of cash
Track Name: River
Zeal and money didn’t win.
The Avon’s banks were without footprints and windows
its lands remained unconquered
The Avon’s banks were without footprints and arguments
it revelled alone in the Forest of Arden
with no crooked landowners,
or dying visiting monarchs
who’d ruin its poise
by building a bridge
in their swollen names.
The Avon’s banks were without footprints and voices
but it had dragonflies
in arching flight,
embroidering the shallows,
stealing sunlight,
caught in their stiff,
sugar syrup wings.
Track Name: Knuckles On The Window Of The Cross City Line
The lost water’s
camino is
subsumed at Salford
Park into a clash of scrap yards.

What would the (tom ser at)
and (pen ser at) tribes say
of the lost water?
Sewed beneath
the ugly usefulness
of the present.

The efforts to
castrate it
culvert it
canalise it
are all completed.
Its tributaries
act as tourniquets
on its journey.
What a thing to do to a river,
in the plait of planes
of (con va lesing) gritters
and a brewery for potent cider.

Punished for flowing;
guilty of nothing.
Being in the wrong place
all of the time.
Knuckles On The Window Of The Cross City Line

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