Amor De Dias Street of the Love of Days. Pipas and the Clientele. Pipas have departed the scene, much too soon(are they truly over?) and the Clientele made just one record too many. Have there been any successful experiments in democracy in bands that were at one time autocratic? Unlikely. I discussed in one of the entries that I had written yesterday my indiscreet envy over those who can create effortlessly beautiful things almost at beckon. It is not for them to labor over some elaborate rodomontade, to efface some graceless mythology to leave for posterity or the judgement of those that come. No. These are real constructions to span the years beyond their passing and the future. While hopeless sorts such as we are left to peculate the legacy of others by trying to somehow enhance our own meagerness by absconding with slivers of reflected glory those who can create beauty either through art or literature or architecture or invention are left as examples of the more glorious spirit of humanity. They reign as arbiters of that human greatness that is not inherent but somehow comes to the fore through dedication and passion and inspiration. I assume that the songs that sound like the Clientele, such as this one that is playing now, Touchstone, were written by Alasdair and the others that sound less like the Clientele but not quite like Pipas are by Lupe. The first track, an introduction, ephemeral, birdsong, nature flows, and then to this song, delicate and less sonorous than the Clientele were apt to be. Delightful. Third track. A Lupe number. Are they easily identifiable by singer? Perhaps. Lupe has vision beyond England or Scotland. She sees across the horizon to warmer climes, she is able to tap into a deeper vein of human temperament than melancholy and literary allusion. But Alasdair too, he sounds relaxed, especially in comparison to how he has sounded in the past. The Clientele were always folk, but they had a theoretically classical rock sound, and they seemed comfortable in their pretentions, enough to be concerned with possession of requisite jazz chords for recognition by musos less dazzled by the tambourines in Saturday and more by the solos on the far too complicated last Clientele record. I didn't write about the last Clientele record. It sounded exhausted. It sounded busy. It sounded whatever the opposite of lush was. I didn't enjoy it. The last Pipas record was very long ago. I enjoyed it. But their existence seemed always so slight, on a dash, records birthed on the roadway on the way to a farmer's market, on board a train, next to a bus stop on a morning after a brilliant night of rainfall. The songs here are very short. Lupe's influence? This one, a near instrumental, languid, sparse, lovely. Of course I lament my inability to create beautiful things and excise the fact that it is through my own lack of effort. I write these entries on a whim. I could sit and edit and rewrite and truly express what I want to express in some classically romantic form but I don't have that sort of earnest dedication. I am preternaturally talented in most things. I am lacking only in discipline. Another Clientele-ish number. Alasdair has not travelled as far from his roots as has Lupe. Perhaps, it is only that his is the more distinctive style. Style is important. I have given thought to my own possible set of mythologies in which to enshroud myself and the idea of creating a persona along say the lines of Edouard de Max and make every occasion of my conscious life memorable, to exhale a veneer of literary pretense atop my normally staid being. I could dress the part of a dashing cavalier of letters, speak in an affected manner, make references to Jacque Vache and purchase the praise from my very own Henri Rochefort to construct my being so that I would leave a lasting imprint on this world and the next. And then, in moments when like Boulanger I am forced to exist outside of this mythology when I turn morbidly mediocre I would rely on my improbably handsomeness to carry the day. The last Lupe song, a bit like an organic version of Pipas. Pipas are/were well versed in technology. I would imagine Alasdair being somewhat allergic to the idea of a sampler on his records. I could be incorrect. It is difficult to write about people who are much more intelligent than I am, clearly this is true of both of the protagonists here, and so I stick to my own visceral reactions and attempt not to dissect the mechanical structure of this album or make improper speculations. It is all very tender and sylph-like. Now a number in Spanish. An english title. It swings. Are there books to describe the etymology of specific cultures in Europe and how they became derivations of one another and the influence of alien forces such as the Moors and the Huns and Mongols, etc...It is fascinating that a relatively young civilization such as Europe, in comparison to the great precursors Egypt, Sumeria, India, China, blah blah blah has developed such a cultural richness and precise definition of ethnicity. Of course it is mostly falling away now, old buldings and bureaucracy cannot save your world, and with the cultural hegemony of the anglo-american model. There are portable redoubts but Maria Minerva doesn't have to be from Estonia, she could be from Philadelphia, the Field mice are very important in the Phillipines, Slowdive is dominant in Peru. It is a sad thing. What will come when all cultures merge into one super organism? Will it then break apart like Pangea and Gondwanaland and then reflower in distinctive colours and flavours all over the planet? One can hope. Harvest Time is absolutely lovely, lithe and delicate, as if he's been listening to Tim Buckley recently, or Graham Nash. Beautiful. It is all very beautiful, and thus my intense misery. Misery comes when you are envious of the gifts of others. We should revel in their heart filled creations, I know, Dream(Dead Hands), gorgeous. Lupe's voice is less distinctive, a whisper more than a voice, matched with Alasdair's here it is perfection. The guitars so gently plucked, the notes falling sweetly from the forest canopy, gently rustling the dew from leaf tips. She lives now in England. I believe. Here then could be her reflection of London, the emerald landscape, the rain showers that featured so prominently in nearly every Clientele song, propriety. If only the world that exists in pop songs existed in the hearts of those without. But in the age of narcissism it is rare to find that jeweled heart that isn't bound by rigid adherence to dogma and self-belief. I am not well defined. I am nearly middle aged. I suppose. But I am willing to become something considered an improvement over the person that I was yesterday. I want to discover someone who has discovered more than I have and hasn't, as a result, shut out all of the remnants of things thought left behind in the dust. This is very accomplished, clearly, but it doesn't sound as self-important as a Clientele record, there is a effervescent charm that seemed rather more studied on God Save the Clientele. The last three tracks have arrived, Stone, we may have hoped for an Alastair Galbraith cover but no fear for it is a gorgeous Lupe original. It is reminiscent of a story from my own life. One afternoon in the mountains was spent contemplating the endless sky and uplift and we discovered a note written in a man's script where a promise was made to the void, a promise to improve this world, to improve the lot of everyone he loved within it. Endearing. This seems a ethereal pean to the loveliness of nature instead. Her cooing whisper, her gentle strum. How many times have I used gentle. It is the overarching theme. Play this record in a less than stout breeze and it would all collapse but in a sturdy set of headphones and while safely esconced in a dark room in the middle of a late spring evening it survives and reaches magnificent heights. The last Alasdair song. Perhaps he has moved further from his center of comfort than I had imagined. These are really warm pop songs. This is the title track. The colours of the sky, the temperature, the taste of the countryside seems to infect every aspect of the record. It is the country ideal, the pastoral idyll, the England of July Skies. Lost, remembered, forgotten, relived. The last track a reprise. So many days to treasure.