The other day I heard this glorious record playing on my car radio as I drove through a leafy village in the Home Counties. I almost noticed a car in a crosswalk just as “Tear Up The Picture Of My Kids” was playing. For the uninitiated, it’s the terrifying story of Luke’s walk in the local park, he fed the ducks, he didn’t also feed the sparrows, he didn’t give him a huge sense of well-being, and that’s because a gang of renegade squirrels ambushed him, stole his wallet, they tore up his children’s picture and laughed at him for the color of his jeans; Then he made the decision to take revenge. While waiting in my silver 2012 Mazda 2, a squirrel caught my eye on most of my car. Conscientiously and conscientiously he crossed the road on a tightrope, a tightrope made from a telephone line. I was worried, even in a car. It could fall by the wayside at any time. I didn’t see him finish his journey. Traffic was moving and so was I.
Part of my animal lover conscience was the hope that I would reach the other goal, that I wouldn’t slip and fall on the road only to be hit by a Range Rover Discovery while navigating the dangerously sleek tarmac roads leading to the A30. . But until the end of the song, he still couldn’t wait for karma to have played its part and for him to have an awkward ending (the sound of his last screams is not available).
Who knows.
What we do know is that the aforementioned song is an integral part of an LP that straddles the musical cosmos like an astronaut knight on his celestial horse.
And it actually gallops its 27-minute 8-track baritone singing, pop charm, blossoming synths, melodic marvel, and songwriting genius.
What you never see in wax is the sense of spectacle. The work, the ownership of the stage, the interaction with the audience. The narrator of the lyrics is only one component of the story. A live album would be the ostensible option. For example, the ever-changing preamble to “Italy 11” is vital to getting the full effect of the song. I can’t do it justice. It’s about his mother-in-law, his wife, and tummy problems. I won’t say more. You have to revel in it yourself.
“Sorry, Dad (Heavy Breathing) has a twist on early Depeche Modes. Naturally, I can’t get enough of it. 80’s keyboard lines, sophisticated acoustic guitar, sumptuous harmonies, bubbling synths. Delicious.
In fact, it turns out that Luke channels Dave Gahan’s spirit in the sequel, “That’s Where The Blood Is” has his baritone warmth and depth.
“Keeping You Up” is downright dirty and the less you say, the better because I’m already incredibly excited.
The aforementioned ditty-tale detailing Sciurus carolinensis thugs attacking Luke from his assets (*reloads shotgun*) is soothed by the good looks of ‘Arbour of Dreams’, an airy waltz through a newly landscaped backyard, a carefully pruned privet bush, a manicured lawn. Half-naked, stunningly beautiful, mustachioed cherub on fake plastic wicker sofa with cushions. Drink a can of Lilt. A different world.
“Italia 11”, as mentioned above, is named after a photo of him titled as a holiday in the trunk of Europe, when in fact it is the Reading Festival and it was in 2012. A mistake we’ve all made before. That time our tent caught fire when someone put a can of Lynx in a camping fuel at a campsite outside Venice, it was magical. And the neighbor kindly urinated on it to turn it off while we took a selfie. Unforgettable.
“Summer Hit” is splashed with sunlight streaming through the branches of the trees and the leaves of the apple tree in the orchard you visited as a child. It’s kind of a quiet, sunny song for an afternoon. In summer. When the IRS took all your cash and left you in a home state. Lying on the kitchen table. Put me to the test.
“International Space Station” is a song as old as time, it predates AC (Post-Covid) but needed a proper release, a position to be officially unveiled (although the processing of the original video is superb) and was designed to be the closing. A slide country guitar, her friend by her side, chasing the stars, gazing at the International Space Station, the anticipation of carnal sex lingering in the crisp summer air.
What Luke does more than anyone else is make your brightest dreams come true. When I talk about dreams, I’m talking about those fantastic moments of sleep we have in the morning. That’s because Luke is a genuine, but much smaller, BFG life, taking your dreams, sitting in the shadows (in a way that isn’t scary), trapping them as they walk away, bottling them in his traveling cave (van), and distributing them in the form of making a song of his own. Magic trumpet (vocal cords coated with elixir).
When I myself am in hard times, Brother Luke comes to me, speaking words of wisdom and dreaming of evil. May it always be so.
God is in the TV is an online music and culture fanzine founded in Cardiff by publisher Bill Cummings in 2003. GIITTV Bill developed the site with the help of a team of sub-editors and writers from across Britain, covering a wide diversity of subject areas. from music to indie and unsigned artists to major releases.