Scratching around for something to say about this album, which I neither love nor hate nor am indifferent to, I considered telling the double-Valentines story of how both Lucy and I came to buy it, but I see I've already told it. I could mention how, along with Tom Phillips and Indigo Moss, Billy is one of my few cultural points de capitons of South East London. Well, there you go: now I have.
I went downstairs this morning to where Lucy was playing her iPod at high volume through the old Sanyo C3, and Billy's cover of Mellow Yellow from this album cropped up in her playlist between Françoise Hardy and Doris Day. I asked her for a quotable comment to make up for my lack of inspiration as a listener, and she said she didn't have one either. She said if I had nothing to say, I should just admit it. I'll take her advice, next time.
I wonder what's going on in Billy-land these days. Time was when I'd see him three times in a year, but it's been 16 months since the last gig I saw. He doesn't seem to use his email list for updates any more, preferring — strangely, in my view — his MySpace presence, from which he was kind enough to send me birthday greetings last year. But he has no dates listed in this country, and doesn't seem very cheerful in his most recent blog. I hope he doesn't read this, because he may not be pleased to hear of Lucy listening on shuffle. For myself, of course, I stick to the linear experience, tracks 1-16 in order, taking the rough with the smooth, the meandering Invocations punctuating the Billy-lite smooch of the cover versions.
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