We Don't Eat

Do you ever have days when randomness disappears and commonality replaces it, if even briefly?

When my brother came to visit me last November, he introduced me to an Irish singer called James Vincent McMorrow, as well as a host of other artists. I remember liking McMorrow: a calm, silky voice, and interesting song arrangements.

Before Curtis returned to Edinburgh, he wrote down the names of artists and their album titles and I promised I'd buy them and have a listen. I did the former but as for the latter, I never quite found the time.

Fast-forward to a few days ago. As I was walking to work, I decided to change the playlist on my iPod and selected 'Casey's and Coves'. This is a playlist from when Curt and his wife were here: they had come to see me play at Casey's and we had spent a lovely morning down by the beach at Cove Island.

The first song that came on was McMorrow's version of Steve Winwood's Higher Love. It stood out. I became intrigued and decided to listen to some more of his songs. The next one was pretty decent, as was the one after that.

Then a song came on that, well, just made a difference.

Off-tempo piano notes appeared, spitting like rain. Then his soft voice clouded the sky and wrapped around the words he uttered. Within moments I was back in Seattle, the song continuing like a heavy scent in the air.

They say 'scent' is the most formidable sense to remind us of memories. McMorrow's song 'We Don't Eat' did just that. I remembered Seattle.

I remembered completing the seattlecameraclub website; going to the University of Washington's Special Collections and holding in my white-gloved hands photographs taken by Kyo Koike, Iwao Matsushita and Frank Kunishige; visiting Japantown (Nihonmachi) and discovering the Panama Hotel with its post Pearl Harbor suitcases still in the basement; writing Seattle Mornin' in a hotel room; seeing whales on the water and Mount Rainier in the sky.

Whilst listening to Morrow's song in headphones, I reached for my Dictaphone and started to record some thoughts.

As McMorrow's song progressed into the chorus, I heard him sing 'we don't eat until your father's at the table; We don't drink until the devil's turned to dust; Never once has any man I've met been able to love; So if I were you, I'd have a little trust'. It was nice to hear the word 'Father'.

The song eventually finished, and during that time I recorded what I had to, then got on with my day.

It's now Saturday and, whilst doing music work, I decided to have some cable movies play in the background. The third movie that came on was called People Like Us. The film was about a young salesman in NYC who learns of his estranged father's death and eventually of a sister he never knew about who, herself, never knew their father after the age of eight. The film made an impression.

As the film was finishing the credits came up on screen and a song started to play. Off-tempo piano notes appeared, spitting like rain. Then the singer's soft voice clouded the sky and wrapped around the words he uttered 'we don't eat until your father's at the table; We don't drink until the devil's turned to dust; Never once has any man I've met been able to love; So if I were you, I'd have a little trust'.

I couldn't help but smile and wonder about the randomness of it all. In the space of two days I had heard this song, which reminded me of two different times-and-places of which I was very fond.

It was quite wonderful how the song fitted both ?. Music can do that, you know.