It's 7 in the morning on the day "Cold Blows the Rain" will be released, and I'm sitting in a small terraced house on the outskirts of that town called Todmorden, with a fire I've kept burning for days and a coffee on the stove. I've been sleeping for far too long by anybody's standards, and there's no-one else here but a cat called Moogie, who is the only entity I know who can lie down for longer than I can.
Both of us staunchly refuse to regard the outside world as a viable place to approach since 15cm of snow fell about a week ago, then defrosted, then froze again; yet the cold seeps in through the gap in the curtains and many reports inform me that it's -8 out there. It is from this couch that I spent much of the last few weeks skim reading the reams of publicity that have been sent my way, about a woman called Bridget, who is more known for her wailing scree than her folk voice. I have been lead to believe this woman is me, but I still have my doubts.
It's a strange experience, for someone who has basically been hiding themselves (often even whilst on stage) both visually and aurally, inside music for over 25 years. It was perhaps very foolish of me to think that sound and music could provide a safe hiding place in which to be invisible forever, and I think deep down I always knew it wasn't going to work.
As many of the reviews will hint at, but none will confirm in detail, I made this record to try and impress my mum. She always used to say she didn't really understand what it was I did, or why I did it. She just saw that I was permanently on the breadline, in one precarious state after another, and that I did all this "dressed like a bag lady". There was no way I could justify all the poverty and trauma by introducing her to the delights of my proudest musical moments, as captured by Schisms for example, on "Break apart the Idea of Separation" or the track me and Sam (Mcloughlin) made for her most hated film ever, "The Wicker Man". I learned my lesson years ago when I tried to give her a Vibracathedral record. It sat outside it's sleeve for several years after one short play and went on to accumulate an impressive centimetre or so of dust. (My Dad had said he'd enjoyed it on occasion, but I can't help thinking he was just humouring me.)
Not that her opinion was worthless to me - far from it. She was one of those who when she liked something, she really liked it, and because she hardly liked anything, it felt really special when she did. Musically, she was a very, very brilliant jewel. She never wrote her own material, but she sang other people's songs often much more movingly than they did themselves, with a loose, rolling and rhythmic guitar. I'll never forget her singing "If not for you" to me once, so casually, but so felt. She must've been in her late 70's. No sign of her voice failing; rich and warm with all the love that she held back the rest of the time flowing through her and landing softly on it's target.
Such was her prowess as a singer, and her frequent and often rudely expressed critique, that after we had recorded these 8 folk tunes, I was hesitant to play them to her at all. I was so unsure about them myself (is it too slow? Is my voice finished by all the smoking? Is it too dirgy? etc etc), that it took my brother to break through. He played the recording of "When I was in My Prime" to her without telling her it was me. "Ooh" she said, "Who's this?" with that rare and extreme curiosity that only came out when she really dug something. She rang me afterwards and seemed to feel - for the first time since my school days - like I'd actually achieved something approaching my potential. She sounded bowled over, gushing and in a strange state of disbelief, so much so, that the next time I went, I took my laptop, and left her with the entire 45 minute album whilst I went out for a walk. I thought she'd probably give up and turn it off half way through the first track, but when I came back she'd listened to the whole damn thing. She even seemed to still be somewhat impressed. So, my mission was then officially accomplished.
Well, that was back in the first half of 2024, which seems like a lifetime ago now, as she did not live to see the release of this record. The timing of her death and the manner in which she died could not be more strange for me. My mother, who had been wheelchair bound and struggling to manage to look after herself in the family home for almost five years, suffered (alongside chronic arthritis, depression and insomnia), a secret demise of which none of us were aware. So afraid was she to be put into hospital, that she hid her state from everyone: From the carers, from her doctor, and from my brother and I. By the time I got down to see her she had reached the very end of her life. I had a brief ten minutes with her before the carer arrived and put into motion a devastating chain of paramedic interventions, the details of which I will spare you. I felt her though, floating above the tragic scene. And I have felt her since, at last released from the pain of the ageing body, free floating and pure in spirit. So I dedicate this record to her and her memory, and release it in gratitude for all that she taught me. I forgive her for all her flaws, and I look forward to being with her again in some other life time.
The Northern Lights, which appeared above our family home on the evening of her funeral.