Chapter 10: Westmouth

While He’s In The Shower

Saturday, January 18 2014 · 8:38 a.m. · Westmouth · Private

I woke up with my arm across Paul’s chest and no idea where I was for about two seconds. Then I looked at him. I could get used to that part of the morning. I love waking up with him.

I was early. Far too early. I suggested we go back to sleep. We didn’t. And somewhere between kissing him and making love, I asked how I was meant to stop myself falling in love with him all over again.

He said he’d been asking himself the same question.

That ought to make me happy without any complications, and it does make me happy. But I asked if he’d loved me before he left Nashville, and he said he thought I knew the answer. He still believes he had to leave because staying would have hurt me worse. I told him he hurt me when he left.

We held each other for a long time after that. I didn’t need us to settle the argument this morning. I needed him to hear that leaving hurt, and I think he did.

The shower’s stopped. If I put my phone down quickly, he might think I’ve been lying here looking mysterious.

Breakfast And Other Revelations

Saturday, January 18 2014 · 10:24 a.m. · Westmouth · Private

Imogen made breakfast, then asked how the album was going. I tried to explain that Harry, Ellie and I have spent the week learning how to work with each other and trying to find out what the record could sound like. We’ve got songs left over and songs half written, but I don’t want to finish them all in the same shape I would have given them in Nashville last year.

Mark announced that all country music sounds the same. Imogen slapped his arm. I was about to give him the answer he deserved, but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to explain why this matters to me. I love country music. It’s in my voice even when I sing something written for a film. I want to find out what else can sit alongside it, and whether somebody who says they’d never listen to a country record might hear one of these songs and stay.

I don’t know how to make that record yet. Saying so at the breakfast table was easier than I expected.

Imogen has been listening to both my albums. She prefers the first because the second makes her cry. Then Mark told her who most of those songs were about. She looked at Paul and said she loved and hated him in equal measure. That’s a fairly accurate review of parts of my writing process.

We’re going to hear Lana’s quartet at one. I’ve never been to a classical recital. After five days of asking what four of us in a studio might make, I’m looking forward to sitting still and listening to what four people have already made together.

The Sound I Didn’t Know I Was Looking For

Saturday, January 18 2014 · 2:53 p.m. · On the train to London · Private

Paul’s beside me, the guitar is safely stowed, and we’re on our way to my show. He asked if I was thinking about the set list. I am, a little. Mostly I’m still hearing Lana’s cello.

I should write this down while I can hear it clearly.

The recital was in the Arts Centre foyer, with little tables instead of rows of seats. Lily had saved us a place. She was rather cool with me when we met outside. I couldn’t tell whether I’d done something wrong, and there was no chance to find out before the music began. Paul bought me a small glass of rosé, and then we sat at the front with Mark and Imogen. The programme listed five pieces. I knew the composers’ names, though knowing a name didn’t tell me what the next forty-five minutes would feel like.

The quartet walked out in black. Lana sat with the cello between her knees, settled her bow against the strings, and the room went quiet.

I’ve heard cellos before, of course. I’ve heard them on records and in film scores. I don’t think I’d ever sat close enough to watch somebody draw that sound out of one.

The violins could rise above everything and catch my attention at once. I could hear the viola moving with them, filling spaces I hadn’t realised were there. At first I thought the cello was simply holding them all up. Then Lana played a phrase that came forward on its own, and I stopped thinking about what job each instrument was doing.

It was almost like a human voice, but without words.

That’s the best I can put it. I could hear a question in one passage and something like an answer later, though perhaps Lana would laugh at me for saying so. The sound could be warm one moment and so raw the next that I felt it in my chest. I had no idea what story the musicians meant to tell but I found myself listening as though somebody were telling me one anyway.

Near the end, I began imagining my own voice with a cello underneath it. Then I imagined giving the cello a line to itself, and coming back in afterward as if I’d heard what it said. I want to try that with one of the quieter pieces Harry and Ellie have been helping me pull apart. Perhaps the cello would make the song too heavy. Perhaps it would show us where the song wants to go. I can hear the possibility, and I need to get back in the room with them to find out.

I don’t want to rush in on Monday demanding strings on every track. We spent a week learning to leave space where a song needs space. This feels like another reason to do that. I keep thinking about Lana playing while the others made room for her, then listening as she made room for them. Four musicians, each with something to say. I wonder whether we could bring even a little of that conversation into one of my songs.