HERE'S THE CHRISTMAS THINGS

Whilst recalling Thursday, Dec 13th Sessions, I'm inclined to smoke in a devil-may-care fashion, cigarette held, just so, my wrist and spare fingers askew, memories filtering through the lazy haze of smoke. Yes, it was THAT good.

One of the things I love about performers who play the Sessions, is their willingness to try out new material on us, VITA (Niall Cuddy) returned again armed with a beautiful, blinking array of new pedals and a fantastically complex looking loop station.. and a drum. As opening songs go, his first song was a kick-ass, head fuck of a treat, which saw him build up a track of some dark joo-joo using only his voice, after which he proceeded to intimidate the audience by standing loftily, attacking the drum on an off beat and roaring a swampy blues incantation at them. The song had everything! From distortion, feedback and the channelling of the not quite dead yet,  combined spirits of Mick Jagger and Tom Waits. "I want your bohhhhdddeeeeee.." VITA wailed as he stomped and held his arms out to a local gardener sat in front of him, sucking at his soul. The set went on in an intense, joyful cascade of well crafted and brilliantly performed storytelling, with landscapes built from scratch around us, leaving the room suddenly stranded on a shore of ethereal voodoo.

By the end of VITA's set, the scene was well and truly made. The bucket passed among the heaving chests of the packed room, hot with coal fire, Christmas expectation and the after-glow of amazing creations. Cigarette breaks all round, pints, measures, talk, banter, glistening faces, sparkly trousers, jokes, gossip, drama, hugs, catch-ups and a bustling bar... meanwhile, some more magic was being tweaked...

HORSEMEN PASS BY. Also a returning band, one who is, to be honest, bursting with awesome. What's not to like about two blokes creating live soundtracks to classic cult film clips? What could make that a better prescription to gloomy Ireland? Turn it up to the proverbial eleven and there you have it. There's no messing with these lads, their set is a face melting wonderland of samples, digital bits and live surf and classical guitar, how they manage to blend all the elements together, only a wizard of Gandalf proportions would know, but anything involving a lap-top and a degree of timing was enough to warrant awe from me.. and everyone else in the room! HORSEMEN PASS BY have definitely mastered the art of creating a scene, even without the visuals, their music is vision inducing, what's more, is they obviously love creating it. Again, The Medicine room was treated to some new tracks from an upcoming album, distinctly Cowboy and Indian influenced, with flamenco and electric guitars lending a Mexican Bandito chase some extra thrill. Watching films must be an extra joy for these guys, I can't help but wonder if they completely re-write the soundtrack for everything they see.
An extra bonus to their set was given to them by one of the locals, a few too many better for wear, who I danced with at the back of the room and who proclaimed a jubilant "PLINNNG!" at the end of each tune, a nod I think to his appreciation of their surfy, bigsby tremelo'd moments.

So, all's well that ended phenominally! The monthly Medicine buzz is still flowing a little in the veins of everyone who witnessed the delights of last Thursday's Medicine makers.. bring on next year I say... Addiction, I hear, can be a side effect of the good stuff.

THE CUNNING & WILD

Thursday 8th November. 7pm. I was stuck in a school mass. Listening to a priest, get down with the kids (not in the literal sense thank the lord) by quoting lines from "CRRRCREEEANA" and "DE SCCCRIPPED" declaring how; "DEEES ARE DE POHHHETS OF DIS GINHERAAAYSHUN" The generation in question being kids of 12 and 13. Apart from the fact it was cringe-worthy to say the least to hear a skinny Catholic priest trying to relate to the kids, I found it deeply depressing to think that, he was probably half way right. Rhianna and The Script probably are the poets of a lot of 'this generation'. I looked over at my daughter who stood in the back row of the choir and watched as she suppressed the smirk and rolling eyes of a person not impressed with the statement. Parenting win for me!

We left as soon as the first year mass ended and entered The Medicine Room, where I found a roaring fire, my mother, Joe the wandering song collector and medium of the muse, The Ronald and Stuart Wilde, who was just done sound checking. The Kid (my daughter) said a hello to everyone before leaving with my mother to be fed and watered. I felt grateful that my kid has some exposure to what music is all about, a cosy room, friendship and some genuine character and sharing of stories.

Myself and The Ronald had packed our guitars that night, as the poet had to drop out, so we decided to give our new band name a trial run in the quiet time between waiting for the room to fill and the first act. As Batteson Ind, we received about as much interest as we did in our old incarnation, that is, vague amusement. We really have spoilt the Medicinners with too high a calibre of performer for us to even get a look in.. Hey Ho!

Catherine Cunningham arrived just in time to get set up and quickly sound checked before launching into her set. I was impressed by her slightly beaten up guitar, a good sign if ever there was one. Catherine has more than a passing resemblance to Woody Guthrie with a  hint of Joni Mitchell'esque, her songwriting occasionally straying into protest song terrain and back again into the intricate storytelling folk singer/songwriter tradition, with a couple of gentler spiritual sounding pieces. Catherine's songs sometimes border on pieces of academia, intelligently complex stories which demand to be listened to, something which she was not afraid to do when some mumbling in the room got a bit too loud. Catherine's set was widely admired, her distinct brand of wittily cynical, historical facts and mathematical fictions and strong personality leaving a definite impression on the Medicine audience.



After a break, where-by Medicinners drank, smoked, laughed, roared and bantered, Stuart Wilde took his spot. Perched on a stool, a stomp box at each foot, his hollow body electric guitar plugged into a battered Vox amp, waiting to growl. The first song, "Black Crow', instantly transformed the room into an intense cavern, corners drew darker, the floor closer, the ceiling lower, the audience began to crouch, hypnotised by Stuart's charismatic placement on the stage. The last time Stuart played the Sessions, he was accompanied by a violin and piano. Together they were fantastic! I was interested in seeing Stuart perform on his own though, as it's easier to be powerful with friends at your side. If anything, he was even better, compensating for the lack of band with an extra dose of stage persona. His glare was wilder, his voice growlier, his delivery during his gentler songs, projected so delicately that the the whole room held a collective breath.. and only exhaled after the very final plink of guitar string had finished resonating. To be honest, Stuart's first time round at The Medicine Sessions won the praises of the Medicine audience, but this time round he won their hearts too. Next year, if he chooses to return, he'll be offered their sacrificed souls or something..

KILLING TIME, LYNCHING & A SORT OF SEIZURE.

Well, it's moving into the dark. Early black nights, star strewn frost mongering nights that are inclined to throw rain (more of it) at you or slap your face with 60 mile an hour gusts. Lismore takes on an odour of swollen river and foot trampled leaves, which slowly wilt in the gutters for six seconds before they're hoovered up by the council sucky machine.
 There was something abroad in the air last Thursday night, something inwardy and hibernationy and curly-up-in-a-ballness. Again the Medicinners were slow to crawl out of their warm homes and make the slow commute up the staircase into the equally, warm Medicine Room. Arrive they did though, bringing with them a few new faces and a sleepy demeanour.

Rob Carlile started the evening, with an enthusiastic medley of his quirkily penned ditties about the ups and downs of youthful heartbreak, possessiveness and outrage. Utilising a hand whittled stompbox and a tambourine at his feet and an occasional harmonica, he galloped through his set with a verve in keeping with the songs. Rob's voice would not sound out of place on a vinyl record from the 1950's, indeed, one of his songs (an attempt to write an evil Roy Orbison inspired track) had all the hallmarks of the three minute pop song from back in the day and also possesses more than an ounce of Morrisey'esque tendencies in his sound. He also takes a fairly obvious nod to Woody Guthrie with his guitar tip-ex'ed with "This guitar Kills Time"... and his name, (Rob Carlile) presumably just in case he lost it  Rob has a very appealing set of songs and deserves to get some good gigs on the back of them.

Phil Lynch travelled to The Medicine Sessions from all the way up the country. A well seasoned reciter and writer of poems, he utterly changed the vibe of the room into something intense and hardly breathing. His poems aren't for the faint hearted, dealing with topics such as the loss of Ireland's heritage/hope/dreams, post-apocalyptic Utopias and his own struggles with illness and the loss of friendship. Phil delivers his poems with 'gravitas' and his stage presence reveals a slight vulnerability which tends to make the listener more attentive. It's obvious that Phil Lynch believes in every single word he is delivering and this makes him a poet who can utterly lay waste to an audience.

After the bucket, the Medicinners went and refuelled and digested the information and tonics they had just received, while Kevin, one half of Versives (pronounced versivvs and not versiives like I had been pronouncing it) fine tuned his beautiful black Gretsch-complete-with-Bigsby.

I had presumed Versives were going to both turn up and do their electronic thing, but no matter, part of the Medicine Sessions is to create a space where performers can try stuff out in a nice environment with an open, cool as fuck audience. Hearing the tunes laid bare was an interesting experience and on meeting Kevin, it was obvious how much of of the band's personality are woven into the tunes. Singing with a high, fragile tone and delicately sparse lyrics, reflected the fact that Kevin comes across as a slightly mysterious character. Introverted but charming, his dedication to the band Versives, is all encompassing. He seemed to be working out small details, ensuring he delivered the songs as precisely and beautifully as possible, which he managed to do in spades. His contemplative set was perfect for the audience that night, who had already entered from the start with a degree of Autumnal weariness. Kevin of Versives managed to stroke quietly, the brow of the onsetting long winter, saying, relax, light the fire and snuggle down.. think about stuff and plan your path to next year.. if there is a next year.

TULL, COSTELLO AND SYNDROME OF THE GOLDFISH

So there we all were, gathered again after a long month, the time in between including a blue moon,  'amazeballs', 'mummyporn' and 'floordrobe', being made into recognised, look-upable-in-the-dictionary words and Ireland won enough Gold medals in the Para-Olympics to almost pay Angela back. We also had the chasing of moments of sunshine and bitching about the lack of it, the same old generic and mundane worries about money and the lack of it, time and the passing of it and moments of momentary concern that perhaps, the Mayans might be right after all and didn't just run out of space on their roundy rock calendar. It didn't matter now anyway, because there was the smell of Autumn in the chilly air and a fire lit and a bar full of nice things and an evening of potential ahead of us. Lismore sat snug on the Blackwater valley floor, safe in the knowledge that it was the home to the most epically splendid night of original entertainment in the whole of Whaaaterforrd.

Matthew Tull is a friend of ours and has been waiting for a long time to play The Medicine Sessions. for the last couple of years, myself and The Ronald have been nagging him to perform his own stuff and stop playing Albatross. It's an easy rut to become stuck in, learning the guitar well and performing your favourite songs, particularly when you start getting gigs and people react well to you performing them. That's fine. But personally, I would say there must come a time when you need to push your comfort zone and create your own sound, speak or sing your own songs, make a new universe, instead of borrowing the well worn path of the cover. I'm happy to say that Mat's creations are far better than I think even he imagined they could be and his reception at The Medicine Sessions was the most enthusiastic and genuine I've ever seen for him. His writing is reflective and heart felt, avoiding the usual cliches involved with broken relationships, general malaise and self discovery and also manages to include a healthy dose of ironic wit, all wrapped in more than competent guitar work. Sitting somewhere between Blues, Folk and Jazz, his set never gets tired, the songs switching between strumming and picking, all delivered with a voice that changes from ever-so-slightly unsure, to loud and  boisterous, depending on the context. It did him good I think, to prove to himself that his own songs are worthy things and he can well and truly do them justice.

I knew Fergus would be good, but nobody was prepared for the sheer ferocity of talent of his performance. "bollix actor" was how he sold himself to me and that is very true, he is a fine one. What kept creeping into my mind though, as I hung on every word, sentence, syntax, pause, inflection and roar of his delivery, was "punk Alan Bennett". If Sid Vicious had pro-created with the great writer of monologues and the child grew up in Cork for most of its life, then I think Fergus might have happened. His strange, tappy, plucky, New World music way of playing the mandola (Joe Foley I think his name was), made a very ethereal backdrop to his verbal landscapes. His pieces are extracted from his head using clever internal rhymes, rhythm, and sneaking repetition, which intelligently emphasizes the irony of the various situations in the story and provide killer punchlines. There is a reason why Fergus Costello has won so many poetry related finals, because he is just fecking amazeballs!
Watch this space for news on a one man show Medicine special with Fergus, coming soon.

                                             

I didn't envy the lads who had to follow Fergus, he had gone down an absolute storm and the room was  buzzing. But I needn't have feared for them, as Goldfish Syndrome absolutely kept the buzz alive and added to it heartily! These guys are one of the tightest bands I've seen and performed their set with genuine professionalism, with a proper amount of joy. Their songs are perfectly put together pieces of rock/pop with a distinctly Irish something. It's always brilliant to hear harmonies and these guys have the art down to a tee. Each member of the band lends their talent perfectly, with a drummer who was able to deliver the goods on a greatly reduced kit and sing, the most relaxed bass player in the world, chunkied out some great bass lines whilst thrown, almost vertically, in a chair. The lead guitarist didn't need a mic to add his vocals as he had a voice loud enough to carry above his noodling guitar bits and the front man performed the songs with a voice strong and pitch perfect standing with a great stage manner, bantering away between tunes and not afraid of a bit of interaction. The Medicinners lapped up their set like puppy dogs and were completely impressed by their tight delivery. It never fails to amaze me how much talent is out there, working their arses off for little financial reward, the least we can offer is an atmospheric venue and fill it with good heads who appreciate original music and can feed the hearts of the artists for a little while. These guys deserve to be fed lots!

A GOLDEN (black & green) DAY IN AUGUST

It all began with a blindingly sunny day, the first to show its face for weeks, the sort of sunny day that turns anaemic skin tones flushing pink and makes ladies perspire. Then Katie Taylor did her thing later in the day, pucking the head off of her fellow competitor to gain a coveted wadge of gold. As I stepped from the car onto the street outside The Red House on Thursday evening, a gentle heat rose to meet me, with a slow coming night sky turning the remnants of the blue into a hazy, dusty, harvest.
The end of the day fell lazy, despite the bands turning up in super good time to sound check over pints and banter (and chips).

For the first time since the sessions began, I had a particularly nervous wait for Medicinners, the sunshine and Olympic gold, stupefying senses and halting people from venturing away from their chairs. But all went well in the end, by ten o'clock, the room had built to a nice bustling level again, ensuring that Polly Barrett ended her set to a nicely full room.

Polly is a lovely human. This is evident in her off stage persona as well as her on-stage one and shines through her songwriting, which are lovely, quietly quirky things, full of snippets of personal experience. She manages to write about the very small aspects of relationships that usually get ignored. The secret crush on the owner of a bookshop, walks in countryside whilst reminiscing, the second guessing self doubt after a broken relationship, nothing hugely intense of screeching of passionate lovehate, just lots of gentle commentary about life stuff. She happily informed the room of the context of the story she was about to sing, delighting in the process and genuinely enjoying the act of performing, smiling, gently dancing sometimes with her particularly lovely sounding Martin. With a voice of warm, sweet honey.

Joe Power has been a regular 'open floorer' at the sessions since we started and does the job so well that  I had to book him. Although he doesn't deliver his own material, he performs the work of others with such passionate, enrapturing ability, that he passes the originality test. Joe is a born performer and as close to a medieval minstrel as you will find in modern Ireland, hitching from session to session, collecting stories, songs and poems, new and old, all of which he keeps stored in his head for later use. For the sessions, he deliberately chose some crow based pieces to perform, the character of crow moving through his body as easily as his blood. "a black rainbow" he inhabited Ted Hughes' words as he lived them out on stage.

By now, the room was bustling, a table of revellers had moved in, looking for craic and luckily, on this night, we had just what they were looking for. The Buachaills, a raggle taggle crew of young fresh faces and a couple of hardened, well gigged ones, wielding Uillean pipes, a Cajun, a mandolin, a guitar and an accordion, ready to raise shouts and whoops and clapping in time with their delivery of hoolie inducing music. They tore out tunes, all four of them crushed together in the bay window, the nighttime street outside back lighting their frames while the blue stage light shone on their sweating, beating brows. This is a band that plays for its keep and is about as genuine Paddy green as you will find. When the world goes tits up and money becomes valueless and unattainable, this band will grow fat thanks to their playing, with pies and pints being thrown at them by the poverty stricken plebs who's houses they will enliven with sound.

EXPERIMENTATION, BLUES AND MICHEAL FASSSBENDER'S COCK

The dawning of The Medicine Sessions idea came after reading Patti Smith's 'Just Kids'. The book was inspiring to me, not because of  Patti Smith (I knew hardly anything about her until that point), but because of the spirit in which it was written and the sort of time in the world it captured. I was delighted by the free thinking of the characters who appeared in the book and wondered what it must have been like around the Chelsea Hotel back in its day, how thick the air must have been with creativity, experimentation, out of the box thought, how must it be to be in an environment that encouraged the ability to try things, to have people who would at least try and understand where you were coming from. The world has become so cynical now, myself included and the book made me re-evaluate my approach when listening, watching and hearing 'art'. It made me want to try and recreate that scene, I felt there must be others of a similar disposition as to want to try and eradicate all the blandness that surrounds us. The Medicine Sessions was born.

Thursday 12 July bore witness to the most experimental night so far. Composer and teacher of the Oss Gwealghhaaa, Bren O'Ruaidh opened the night with a set that he had prepared especially for use in The Medicine Room. He has long been a member of the alternative/experimental sound scene, but rarely gets a chance to perform this side of his music, The Sessions seemed to be a perfect environment in which to dabble, play and test an audience. Beginning the night with a six minute long tonal sine type noise, with him bandage headed and masked. I interpreted it as a direct confrontation to the audience, to test their devotion to the act of spectating. Not being able to see a performer's face is unnerving, making you question your interaction with what they are doing. It gives them the power, they own their own performance. Breaking off the piece just before people began to panic left the audience wondering what was next, which happened to be a darkly witty Waits'esque number. His set also included a spoken word piece and a puppetry animated song. It was a brave thing to put himself in line for potential ridicule and it was a reflection of how open minded the Medicine audience are that they were appreciative of his set. There really was a feeling in the room of discovery, a small bit of the Beat club's pulse being momentarily rekindled.

Stephen Murray travelled from Galway to perform his way with words for us. Electrifying the room with his ironic wit and straight to the point poetry on everything from eavesdroppings in Swansea, underage sex, the hateful job experience and Micheal Fassbender's cock. His delivery is urgent and stubborn with more than enough ability to articulate the nuances of emotion within his poems. Poems such as 'The Hare' are even traditionally beautiful in their use of language and rhythm and made a refreshing finish to a reading that had just about everything.

Aine Duffy ended the night, unaccompanied but for her electric blue electric guitar and later, a ukelele. She had an easy confidence on stage, with pure Cork banter and a quick smile and when she began to sing she turned into a deeply powerful thing, summoning vocals not unlike a young, female Howlin Wolf. Her guitar playing perfectly complimented her delivery, understated but full of underlying power, ready to add texture when needed. Even when armed only with a uke, she held the audience's attention, grimacing and vocally soaring through her repertoire, eye's closed, body swaying, a picture of some Delta Blueswoman on a porch somewhere. She ended with an encore to a hushed crowd.







The Medicine Room heaved again with the bodies and souls of the Lismore contingent and even contained some new faces who had travelled twenty miles or so to see what it was all about. Talk in the beer garden in the early hours was excitable, folks saying how there would be potential of a Medicine Festival in a year or so, how refreshing it was to see experimentation happen, how much of a buzz the whole night is... and some twat who said he didn't know what the posters were about, "wot duz it mean!? Medicine Sessions.. me and my mates fawt it wuz some druggie club... "*insert beavis and butthead laughter... evidently, there is a night suited better to him and his mates with "all night cover bands and cheap lager" written on the posters... the rest of us can be happy knowing something different is in the air.

LOOPS, DIRT, WISE WORDS & OVATIONS

Perhaps it was the deluge of weather that had been pummelling the roofs of Lismore for two days straight. Perhaps it was the spirit of Ireland travelling over mainland Europe from the joined voices of unrepentantly lost Irish fans. Perhaps any number of things that imploded into an atmosphere of a quiet rebellion. Despite the weather and 'the match', The Medicine Room began to fill, some new faces, some regular faces, all taking up arms of drink and expectation and good will. For one night, fuck the economy, fuck the lost football, fuck the government, fuck the council, fuck the rain! It can all go to hell! We're here for ourselves, for each other, for tonight, at this moment. Now. So it began...

The bands had arrived earlier in the evening, walking in the door anointed by weather. Hands were shaken, greetings greeted with warm smiles. An easy charisma entered with them and the feeling some of us had met before. I always enjoy listening in to sound checks. The sneak preview of what's to come, watching the artists in the bit of their work that isn't really considered. The act of utilising ears. The technical tweakings that make the difference between a good performance and a great performance. Plus you get to hear things like Muppet's songs being beautifully delivered and played on a piano, in heart rending tones.

VITA (Niall Cuddy) began the night, seated for the first two songs at the piano. His tall, quietly spoken frame folded neatly, his hat cocked back a little to accommodate the proximity of the microphone. It is always a joy to watch a person transform themselves, become a character almost unrelated to how they present themselves when off stage. From softly spoken and contemplative Niall, to VITA, a growling, grimacing, beast of a figure, tormenting itself with rhythm and minor chords and dark landscapes built from copper pipes and moaning. I have never seen a loop pedal used so inconspicuously, VITA seamlessly added layers without even a casting down of an eye, leaving you suddenly ensconced in an entire world. One song in particular, a new work, built such an atmosphere that everyone was enraptured and just as souls were collapsing into it, the loop stopped and immediately launched into a chunky strumming song. Something that jerked everyone to the fore again. VITA really is an interesting artist to witness and one of the few who can get away with performing six minute songs live.

After the stunning start, the poetry section began with Niamh Bagnell, a fellow blogger and seasoned performance poet. Niamh is an intelligent, quirky Cork poet, with a millionmileanhour delivery and clever internal rhymes. She stands earthed as she performs, hands crossed like a communion girl, but her face ignites as she speaks, her Cork accent firing out poems about one night stands, trying to dump eejits, ignorant bliss, festival going and the mobile phone, a poem which sees her utilise the prop very well indeed.

Peadar O'Donoghue is also a blogger and long time tortured soul. After being made redundant after many years working shit jobs, he turned to poetry, a world that he both loathes and loves in equal measure. He is very much a man on the street poet and performer and despite his nervousness in performing, he comes across very well. His poetry is rooted in punk ethos, but is without the shouty ego and pointless anger.

After a momentary break, where the Medicine minions descended to pee and purchase drink in equal measure, Stuart Wilde graced the stage, a phrase applied in the literal sense. You know a band is going to be good when they go to the effort of changing into 'stage clothes'. Again, mild mannered, friendly humans transformed themselves into bohemian Gothic characters, clad in black scraggy jackets and top hats and diamonte shoes and the lady amongst them (Cathryn Doehner) resplendent in a black dress, black feather boa, high heel boots and black gloves. Stuart took on an easy glare as he spat and crooned through the dirty guitared, blues painoed (Tiarnan O'Corrain) and gypsy fiddled songs. The rapport between the band was obvious, the fiddle playing and piano frequently playing off each other, grounded by the rhythm created by Stuart's guitar and stomping on a home-made stomp box. They blew the night out of the water with their final song, "devil's in the house", receiving roars and standing and demands for more, which they delivered in a poignant and beautiful final song with the lines, "goodnight my friend.. goodnight".

I expected the night to be a bit empty of audience, all things considered, but it turned out to be one of the best nights so far, true Medicine indeed. Everyone was brilliant, the artist's and the audience! Sound heads, thank you all.

JUNE 14th MEDICS.

VITA MUSIC, aka Niall Cuddy, will alert your weary brain and make you wonder where you have been  on the planet until now.



STUART WILDE, join his universe and rejoice in his magical dirt.

PEADAR O'DONOGHUE, will read good Medicine from his new book 'Jewel'

NIAMH BAGNELL, poems about life, love, stuff and phones

PAPER CLIP MAY 30th

Niall Cuddy, aka VITA music, is a Cork based musician and artist. His most recent musical creation ‘Oh The Beautiful Bovine’ is a mad collection of genres, thrown into the Hobgoblin’s hat and pulled out in turns by the various members of the Finn Family Moomin troll as soundtracks to their pen and ink world. Vita’s voice can switch from Tom Waits rough to something like Brit Pop in an instant, delivering lyrics that are an intense smoke of Beefheart’esque poetry, obscure, secretive and full of dark imagery, a perfect storytelling medium that slots into the atmospheric and sometimes horrorfull (Wonder Bore) musical arrangements. Each song sneakily blends into the next, sometimes halting arrestingly before raging into Wilco style guitar riffs as in the tune Ray Davies Sais, a glorious po-going stomp of a song which wouldn’t sound out of place on any independent gangster movie soundtrack. From punk to chill out room synth, from Tijuana Brass silliness, to Beck style deviance, Vita’s mind is an interesting and truly eclectic, experimental place.

Another Cork based artist Stuart Wilde, delivers a joyous crunchy guitar, gypsy fiddled assault on his album Black Crow. The top-hatted troubadour sings songs set in a gothic landscape of old post apocalyptic coffee houses and river banks. You can almost follow a story through a day of an other world life, set in a purple and brown animated land, the main characters, a crow and a boy and girl dressed in suit tails and faded victorian linen. Digging In The Pit is undeniably a Nick Cave sounding track, but holds its own lyrically and musically with an intense plodding rhythm and bleak imagery and songs like Hot Damn display a raunchy, dirty side to the music. Stuart Wilde has a definite sound which ties all the songs on the album together nicely and Wilde’s voice is a hearty, sure, thing, with a tiny edge of uncertainty, making it sound like he could fly off into a maniacal screech at any moment, the world of his creation sucking him into its dark river water forever, with the Black Crow of the title track watching, laughing his revenge. 

Both of these performers can be seen at The Medicine Sessions on June 14th, where they will perform their stories and create their universes for all.

LINKS THIS WEEK.

Vita’s album Oh The Beautiful Bovine and his back catalogue, can be downloaded at: 
http://vita.bandcamp.com/album/oh-the-beautiful-bovine

Stuart Wilde’s Black Crow can be purchased from €8 at : http://stuartwilde.bandcamp.com/


The Medicine Sessions is a once monthly original music and spoken word event, held upstairs in The Red House bar, Lismore. For more information visit and ‘like’ us at:

www.facebook.com/themedicinesessions next sessions June 14th.