In this episode of Radio Cymru’s Diwydiant Sŵn, Heavenly Recordings artist – and friend of Caught by the River – H Hawkline (otherwise known as Huw Evans) takes an abstract abseil down the faces of some of Wales’ most prominent industries: wool, coal, slate and renewable energy.
Focusing on the sounds of these industries and their possible effects on the melodies, rhythms and vocabulary of music and songs from the surrounding areas, Huw weaves a half hour tapestry for the ears, combining interviews with those involved with the industries, the sounds of the machines and the workplace, voices from the past and contemporary and old music, along with the occasional original piece of instrumental music inspired by the sounds heard on this journey. (more…)
after the song by Linda Perhacs & Oliver Nelson
Birds in the wire cage of an open shop
singing of grated tin and rusted wind.
When the city turns it turns into a dream
of water, all the red dust turned to blue.
The thing is, I walk past this chalk graffiti
so often I now answer to that name –
I’ve been belonging somewhere else,
maybe here, since the city turned. (more…)
…In which, as we enter a new year, our friends and collaborators look back on the past twelve months and share their moments;
As 2015 drew to a close, things were very different to what I’d envisaged they would be a few months previously. I had, perhaps self-deprecatingly, assumed that both my expensive English degree and my brain would be laid to rot as I whiled away the hours at a supermarket checkout in Liverpool, where I had been planning to stay for the sake of my bank balance and my relationship. But if I’ve learnt anything in the intervening year, it’s that you never know what the stars have in store for you: Jeff Barrett of this very parish offered me a job I couldn’t refuse, and I moved back into my parents’ tiny, terraced ex-council house in West London, leaving a trampled heart in my wake. 2016, then, started a little tentatively, as I waited for the dust of drastic change to settle around me. (more…)
The door stood unhinged,
in the black garden, egg shelled
with the stormy birches.
The petrel emergency
of the bleached, ribbed sloop.
His free will robbed from him
like Friday, good, a billy goat. (more…)
Words and pictures: Jennifer Lucy Allan
Last week I cycled along the coast from Southend to Leigh-On-Sea through a dense fog. On this route I can usually see the Kent coast across the estuary. Sometimes I can make out the metal frames of the gas holders at the power station, and in summer there is an oblong field of yellow rapeseed on one sloping hill. Today that landscape has gone, the fog so dense that even the green hats marking the end of the beach groynes are obscured.
Elsewhere, planes are grounded, trains are on the slow down, and cars on the M25 are crawling through a swirling midday mist. This part of England – a basin around the Thames – is naturally prone to fog. Here in Essex, cars disappear as the road slopes up to Chalkwell and further on, the Crowstone obelisk that marks the end of the City of London’s jurisdiction is just a hazy grey shape out in the water. The world I inhabit has shrunk in line with how far I can see. I exist now in a bubble, not a landscape. (more…)