top of page


...since the release of Drain Pipe Dreams over 7 years ago, I have rambled between stages, bars, festivals, bus stops, stations and ports, trying to work out what on earth this is all about.  A fork lift driving poet from Choctaw, Oklahoma; a peanut porridge seller by a burned down record shop on Orange Street, Downtown Kingston; a barman weeping and singing in his bar, the baptist choir across the road, and the brass players ripping it up in Central City, New Orleans.  These are the good people, the ones that have brought tears and revelations and something towards the beginning of answers but maybe just more questions, but better and deeper ones... from Jamaica to Glasgow there are belters of people and artists all around us... sometimes you have to go and look for something to find out what was around you all along.  The words of highland rock n roll poets, the cry of 10 fiddles in a room playing reels and laments as one, the soul of a lone banjo and story, and all the good people, animals, art, mountains and seas, here, beyond, and in between.


I have decided to make Govanhill in Glasgow my home and writing base, and have now released my second album, written in collaboration with writers, artists and musicians I am lucky to call my friends.  The brass has been swapped for accordions, banjos and fiddles, the gospel singers for friends and poets, the street jazz for bar room ballads and the raw Jamaican ska for our own Celtic soul music.

Songs of pigeons sleeping with lawnmowers, albatrosses falling for French girls, burnt deserts, bubbling sea graves, borrowed lovers and stolen wine, nursed loneliness, the biting cold, shotguns, old dogs and tire marks... weary-eyed goodbyes, teary skies, rivers dried, life sentence lies....

bottom of page