ON THIS PAGE:
Track Listing------Reviews------Lyrics
Pilgrim's Postcard (2010)
Track 1: Pilgim’s Postcard (Barber & Taylor)
Track 2: Made by Hand (Barber & Taylor)
Track 3: The Mojo Man and Josephine (Barber & Taylor)
Track 4: The Catbird Seat (Barber)
Track 5: Birdsong (Letters to Scandinavia) (Barber & Taylor)
Track 6: Drowsy Maggy/Toss the Feathers (Trad)
Track 7: Freedom train (Barber)
Track 8: You Don’t Know Love (Barber & Taylor)
Track 9: The Wrestling( Taylor)
Track 10: Lay Your Pistol Down (Barber)
Track 11: The Queen of King’s Heath ( Taylor)
REVIEWS
‘Folkwords’ Review. www.folkwords.com
The new album from Kevin Barber and Mark Taylor delivers more of their distinct music but this time there’s a difference. The discerning lyrics and faultless harmonies remain, served through keen arrangements. Only now there’s a new edge- it’s the fiddle and voice of Amy Reed- and it’s an inspired addition. So on ‘Pilgrim’s Postcard’ they are now Barber, Taylor and Reed, and this album deserves serious recognition.
So is this English folk, acoustic blues, Americana, country, bluegrass or just damn fine music? Yes, it’s all that and more besides. On this album Barber and Taylor and Reed deal an eclectic fusion that effectively blends disparate styles with musical excellence to create a powerful mix. And if that sounds a wide-ranging remit then that’s a fair description.
As the opening notes of John Bunyan’s hymn slide into the title track ‘Pilgrim’s Postcard’ you’re treated to silky harmonies and mournful fiddle. The mood changes in an instant as they drive into ‘Made By Hand’ – a song dedicated to artisan craftspeople. This could well become an anthem to their efforts – and it should. I can already hear audiences singing along. Their storytelling expertise pours out of ‘The Mojo Man and Josephine’ to fashion a song of lost love, lost youth and reunited hope. ‘Birdsong’ is their tribute to the mystery and essence of St Kilda and it’s a flawless fit between perfectly observed lyric and insistent melody.
Now they have a fiddle on board why not jump into some traditional Irish Music? In their live sets I’m certain this rendition of Drowsy Maggy/Toss the Feathers does exactly as intended – gets the joint rocking and it fits in fine here too. For those of us old enough to remember afternoon wrestling on British television ‘The Wrestling’ is a precisely crafted snapshot into that slightly seedy yet enticing world. Alternatively, if your desire is yet another superb mix of vocals, harmonies and spot-on mandolin duelling with the fiddle ‘Lay Your Pistol Down’ offers everything you’ll need.
On this album the musical responsibilities are: Kevin Barber (vocals, guitar, mandolin) Mark Taylor (vocals , guitar, mandolin, dobro, harmonica, ukulele, keyboards) and Amy Brightling-Reed (vocals, violin). Pilgrim’s Postcard is a combination to savour with critically observant lyrics, harmonies so close that not a gap shows, intricate arrangements and accomplished musicianship – buy it you’ll love it.
Tim Carroll (Folkwords)
FATEA REVIEW www.fatea-magazine.co.uk
LYRICS
Pilgrim’s Postcard
I am a pilgrim; I am a traveller upon these roads,
Looking for the connections, I am a reader of the hidden codes,
I feel the wind at my back now; the sky’s an awesome blue,
I wish you good luck and sweet dreams, and may the road rise up to you.
North and South and East and West,
Punch-drunk wild and free,
Whichever byway suits the best,
That’s where I’m going to be.
You’re Jimmy Dean for a heartbeat, you’re the dude one day the next you’re dust,
Sometimes you wind up in places, make you sorry for your wanderlust,
The road stretches onwards, far away from fear and frowns,
There’s magic happening somewhere, c’mon baby let’s get out of town.
North and South and East and West,
Punch-drunk wild and free,
Whichever byway suits the best,
That’s where I’m going to be.
Someday I’m going to settle down, with somebody who I don’t yet know,
Until then I’m heading, any way that the wind might blow,
Thank you for your kindness, but I don’t know where this road will lead,
I’ll try to send you a postcard, the message on the back will read...
North and South and East and West,
Punch-drunk wild and free
Whichever byway suits the best
That’s where I’m going to be
Made By Hand
There's nothing worth having that's easily made
(You'll be) wanting something that won't break
The eye of a craftsman, the tools of the trade,
I'll show you the best I can make.
(You could) ask me for coasters, a bed for your kid
There's no job too big or too small,
(I'll) use up those pieces that your wanting rid
Just tell me how wide and how tall.
Testing the grain, it runs in my blood
Decisions are made, I fashion the wood,
The bringing to life that I best understand
Some things are still made by hand.
(There's a) company now that sells these close to cost
With things stenciled on them for looks,
(There's) things that are gained and there's things that are lost,
Sometimes I can't balance the books.
(But) when things look chipper, I might sell the van,
And learn to make good mandolins,
Measuring twice is the mark of the man,
With just splintered hands for his sins.
Testing the grain, it runs in my blood
Decisions are made, I fashion the wood,
The bringing to life that I best understand
Some things are still made by hand.
And yes I still dream that I might sell the van,
And learn to make good violins,
Measuring twice is the mark of the man,
With just splintered hands for his sins.
Testing the grain, it runs in my blood
Decisions are made, I fashion the wood,
The bringing to life that I best understand
Some things are still made by hand.
The Mojo Man and Josephine
He met her on a demo march,
They shared a joint by Marble Arch,
She Liked Bolan,
When he played her 'Hot Love', man, her heart was stolen.
But when her heard her sing the blues,
It all made sense, the road to choose,
Rooms would lighten,
As they played the clubs from Soho down to Brighton.
The Mojo Man and Josephine,
I hear that they were good,
His picking hand, her honey voice,
Stars in their eyes,
And music in their blood
But soon the scene had hit the skids,
And punk and disco made the kids,
That much wilder,
a long, long way from incense, hemp and cider.
She left him for another man,
Who kept a cleaner camper van,
Who could blame her?
The bottle makes a selfish entertainer.
The Mojo Man and Josephine,
I hear that they were good,
His picking hand, her honey voice,
Stars in their eyes,
And music in their blood
She meets the kids in town at noon,
She hears an old familiar tune,
Skips a heart-beat,
The Mojo Man a' buskin' in the high street.
And there's small talk of small worlds and how time files,
There's some words unsaid and pale white lies,
Time's been kinder,
But ain't it love that makes our sore eyes blinder.
She doesn't really have a choice,
When he starts to sing, she gives her voice,
Her kids wonder,
Why their mother seems to change to someone younger.
The Mojo Man and Josephine,
I hear that they were good,
His picking hand, her honey voice,
Stars in their eyes,
And music in their blood
The Mojo Man and Josephine………..
The Catbird Seat
Cat’s in the birdcage looking at me
Big old crow sitting in my tree
Everybody’s sitting in the place they wanna be
Pigs in clover playing it cool
Making me look like a busy fool
Everybody laughing how life just treats me cruel
I was hoping things were getting better
I was hoping things were on the up
But every time that I take two steps forward
Something comes to knock me on my butt
Fox in the henhouse licking his lips
All those chickens gonna have their chips
He’s got an old lady and you know for chicken she flips
Jack’s on the beanstalk keeping it real
That golden egg is looking like a steal
I gotta tell you I know how that giant feels
I was hoping things were getting better
I was hoping things were on the up
But every time that I take two steps forward
Something comes to knock me on my butt
Wish I was sitting in the catbird seat
The whole wide world there at my feet
I gotta tell you I think it’s got me beat
YODEL
Birdsong (Letters to Scandinavia)
Taste the salt air, fulmars set dancing
In wild array, the mail boat arrives
For the taking of rent, and to bring Jesus’ blessing
To strangers as yet to His love.
Merely a man, the minister falters
His good clothes get soaked, as he wades in the water
Three strong Christian men, resolve to his rescue
His body as frail as a bird’s.
Our throats are electric with Birdsong
We bend the air with beating wings
White feathers are carried
By air and tide water
Like letters to Scandinavia
Hardy as fools, the St Kilda birdmen
One slip and you’re gone, the spiralling silence
They plunder the crags, with rags in their hands
To gather their harvest of birds.
Is that why my heart, beats with such fury
For kindred and kin, unhappy migration
To table or twine, the minister’s duty
To marry each lad to his lass
Knows well that all things must pass
Our throats are electric with Birdsong
We bend the air with beating wings
White feathers are carried
By air and tide water
Like letters to Scandinavia
Instrumental
See the wee boat, a sheep’s bladder casket
With letters for help, set on winds prevailing
To mainland or north, to some Viking shore
Where arctic terns laugh without mirth
Knowing we shall inherit this earth
Our bodies electric with Birdsong
In places where only birds sing
In strange tongues that carry
On air time and tide
like letters to Scandinavia
Freedom Train
I’m waiting for that freedom train
It’s heading for the station, I’m standing in the rain
I’m waiting for that freedom train
Everybody gonna get on board
Freedom train gonna get here soon
All the coaches they got plenty of room
The conductor treat everyone the same
Gonna ride that freedom train
And when that freedom train it comes
Be enough room for everyone
Doesn’t matter who you are
Everybody gonna get on board
Freedom train always gets here
Freedom train, right on time
INSTRUMENTAL
And when that freedom train it comes
Be enough room for everyone
Doesn’t matter who you are
Everybody gonna get on board
Freedom train always gets here
Freedom train, right on time
I been waiting for that freedom train
All my brothers and sisters they’re the same
We’re all waiting for that freedom train
It’s been a long, long time
And when that freedom train it comes
Be enough room for everyone
Doesn’t matter who you are
Everybody gonna get on board
Everybody gonna get on board
Gonna ride that freedom train
You Don’t Know Love
So we’re sat in the bar of an old hotel
You’re telling me about the way things fell
We’ve been here before and I’m sorry to tell
I think you don’t know love at all
Well it’s been a gas, but it’s come to an end,
And I’m always the one with a shoulder to lend,
To tell you the truth it’s wasted time, girlfriend,
I think you don’t know love at all.
Sometimes the white knight shows
Sometimes you ask him to stay,
Sometimes a cold wind blows,
And scatters us adieux and away
I’m sitting here listening to this junk,
Keeping my counsel like a plainclothes monk
Regret is your poison and you’re here to get drunk
I think you don’t know love at all.
Instrumental
You’re telling me that you’ve seen everything
You’ve danced with devils, supped with Seraphim,
If you’re asking me, you don’t know the first thing,
I think you don’t know love at all.
See it breaks my heart to see you this way
So little you earn, and how much you pay
And the one that you need is just a thought away
I think you don’t know love at all
Sometimes you ask me to show
Sometimes you ask me to stay,
Sometimes a cold wind blows,
And scatters us adieux and away
Because I’d do anything in the world for you
I’d live for your love and I’d die for it too
But being this close will just have to do
I think you don’t know love at all
I’ll play this role and ‘till you can see through
I think you won’t know love at all
The Wrestling
You can keep your football, kick it into touch
Speedway and Snooker never bothered me much
I’m making time for the grand pantomime
Oh-ho watching the wrestling
Who’s that grappling on my TV screen?
The fattest man that I think I’ve ever seen
With his tight red trunks and a slick of ‘brylcreem’
Oh-ho I’ve seen it on the wrestling
The Boston Crab, the fore-arm smash
The stooge and the set-up and the easy go cash
Turn on your telly, un-plug the phone
The wrestling’s on you grunt and I’ll groan
There’s a man with a Japanese name and a mask
To get him in a headlock an Olympian task
Is it all a fix? Do you even have to ask?
Oh-ho watching the wrestling
Little old ladies watch him fall to the floor
They beat him with their brollies ‘til he’s sorry and sore
They say he’s going to pay for what they did in the war
Oh-ho i’ve seen it on the wrestling
The Boston Crab, the fore-arm smash
The stooge and the set-up and the easy go cash
Turn on your telly, un-plug the phone
The wrestling’s on you grunt and I’ll groan
When I was young all the world made sense
Narrated by a pundit in the present tense
But now it seems that the fight’s not clean
I thought i was the straight man in this tag team
Heroes and villains and clowns and kings
Never seem to get quite enough of those things
There’s always someone shady waiting in the wings
Oh-ho watching the wrestling
I search for the truth but i never get the knack
Like looking for a needle in a giant haystack
When the innocence is gone can you ever get it back?
Oh-ho i’ve always been a-wrestling
The Boston Crab, the fore-arm smash
The stooge and the set-up and the easy go cash
Turn on your telly, un-plug the phone
The wrestling’s on you grunt and I’ll groan
Lay Your Pistol Down
Tony lay that pistol on the ground
We all know you shot your Lucy down
She was always fooling, with some guy in town
Tony won’t you lay that pistol down
Tony put your pistol on the ground
I can hear the police coming round
If they see that pistol, they gonna shoot you down
Tony won’t you lay that pistol down
Preacher laying Tony in the ground
The police came and shot poor Tony down
Tony held his pistol, he never put it down
Tony and his Lucy in the ground
The Queen of Kings Heath
Take your great paws off me,
Lay off the ‘fiddle-de-dee’,
All your attention I’ll spurn,
I’m a stranger here in your land,
And you think the sport’s grand,
Trying to see if I’ll turn,
So you ask who it is that I serve,
One so fair, that I scarcely deserve,
Oh, Her Majesty of Moseley is a dark roving eye,
But it’s not for her honour that I’d lay down and die,
The Sultana of Solihull says she’ll give me no grief,
But there’s none that compare with the Queen of Kings Heath,
No there’s none that compare with the Queen of Kings Heath,
So that’s the tall and the short,
I’m a ward of her court,
And used to more hallowed ground,
And here’s where our ways they must part,
Mine’s the heavier heart,
‘Till I’m Birmingham bound,
In my Hootenanny suit and cloth cap,
I know the road, but I still need a map,
Oh, Her Majesty of Moseley is a dark roving eye,
But it’s not for her honour that I’d lay down and die,
The Sultana of Solihull says she’ll give me no grief,
But there’s none that compare with the Queen of Kings Heath,
No there’s none that compare with the Queen of Kings Heath,
Oh, the Baroness of Bourneville says that she’s honey sweet,
And the Countess of Cannon hill hates to sound the retreat,
But to carry your coronet, they’d give their high teeth,
No there’s none that compare with the Queen of Kings Heath,
No there’s none that compare with the Queen of Kings Heath,