I've sprained my ankle working at Festinho, and have come home to heal; mostly I've been on the sofa with a to-do list, a leg in the air, and a creaking old borrowed laptop. It's been cold and windy here, sun bright, rain blustering, air fresh and sky a tumble of blue, white and grey. Listening to some voice at the back of my mind and to keep me company in a quiet house while I wrangled with code, I put this on.
Hanged is a riot of crackling noise, nothing like the Tunng I've seen lately. It's the wind-battered trees outside the window; the chilly sunlight. It's almost September, and I'm not at home with that. Not yet. Still embedded into my memory are the cold days at the start of terms. Here's that tension, of snapping of leaves, cold concrete paths, but also new, good intention.
I took this album on a long train journey one July a few years ago, to London then Suffolk…