A.L. Lacey - Lesson
plus crows, chronic fatigue and betrayal
Alice is my friend. Quite a recent friend in the grand scheme of things, but definitely a keeper.
I met her when she was recording her (forthcoming) album at J & J Studio and I was drawn in by her fabulously deadpan sense of humour, obscene amounts of talent and excellent tastes - e.g we seem to mostly like-and-dislike all of the same things and it’s so easy, really, what more could you want in a pal?
Her debut album “Lesson” will be out on 8th December but is available to pre-order today on pitch black vinyl - you can listen to “Memo” here :
I’m also really very chuffed that she has used one of my photographs on the cover of the album - we spent a few hours last year taking photos in the building where the studio is located, a few more of those portraits are seeable here.
Exhausted and aching with a clenched jaw, I finally head upstairs at about half ten and as I am washing my face, I hear the crows cawing outside in the dark. This is unusual, they ought to be in bed too. But it’s the storm coming. I open the bedroom window to hear them and I can see them against the sky, blacker than the night as they fly in circles. The cold that hits my face is exciting and the smell of the air is glorious, negative ions. It is freezing but I want to let that air into the house. The air the smell and the sound of the birds, my friends in the trees.
Thirty-six years ago, my aunt was in the hospital having her womb removed during a storm. The year I was born.
I can hear the rain on the window. Coco is asleep at the foot of the bed.
I wonder if my aunt was afraid. I wonder if the tiles came off the roof.
Roxy and Coco both knew Jim was home before he was home. Can they really see the future? The crows talk in the trees and the sirens blare. I wish I could hear only the crows.
Drove up to London last week. A good measuring stick - it proves that it’s not all in my head. Not all that long ago, I used to make the journey to and from (or from and to) London pretty much once a week. Sometimes more sometimes less. For years, when I wasn’t on tour, I did that. I could do that.
I’d spend a week in the ‘shire, rehearsing and going out and recording in the studio all day and then I’d drive back to London in the middle of the night, listening to demos and early versions of the songs that would become Songs About Drowning. Singing along, working out melodies and structures. Copper Box looming in the night time.
That all seems unfathomable to me now.
Now, I arrive in Hackney at 4pm after setting off at midday and have to go and lay down immediately. I couldn’t go for a walk in the crisp afternoon sun, look at things, meet a friend. I couldn’t even read a book I just lay there until my husband called to say that he’d finished his soundcheck and we could finally go and eat something. Ramen. Vegan miso mushroom ramen. Delicious.
Admittedly, my careful plans for a restful evening the night before (in the hope of actually enjoying the gig I was going to), had been completely fucked over.