She loads the CD. Puts on some relaxing music. We sit in silence for a few seconds. “Why are you here?” she gently asks. We look at each other for a moment. The moment becomes a longer moment. It’s an interview question. It’s how a lot of counselling sessions begin.
A clock ticks. It separates an infinite past from an infinite future.
Misery. Dejection. More misery. More dejection. It’s the guilt that makes me particularly uncommunicative. The guilt of being born. The helplessness in the face of emotional catastrophe. The unbearable weight of existence. I flinch at the unforgivable sin of being open, vulnerable, exposed!
My eyes are red and raw. My adrenaline’s dancing a tango. My resolve is failing. My broken romanticism turns back for one last glance. I apologise and leave.
I think I need a drink. I think that’s quite normal for an adult defeatist like myself. I think that if I have to talk to anyone, it’ll probably be my best mate - and it’ll probably be down the pub, over a beer.
It’s hard to open up. That’s just how it is for most men. Sometimes it’s just easier over a beer. And that’s what is at the heart of this gem from York (UK) based musician Aaron Ward. Your best mate allowing you to vent, to offload, over a beer.
How many times, and we’re not including past lives
have you actually been sure of who you are?
Because there’s been nights, and I know it’s rare I share an insight
but there’s been nights that I’ve felt Pretty Fucking Dark
Meet me for a pint, we’ll throw it down
and you can call her what you want...
It’s a song that’s more powerful than it has any right to be. Simple guitar. Intimate vocal. Atmospheric synth programming - a singular mood that intensifies hugely for the home run. There’s a jewel-like cathartic beauty to it. Its simple truths spawn poetry - unmediated by metaphor - like some missionary infection. There’s an economy in the writing that allows the characters to fill the void as a curtain draws itself around you; a semi-transparent envelope that confines you to this pub, this bar, this drama.
Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this son of York, this disarming mender of broken hearts, this articulated architect of straightforward propositions. A son of Yorkshire and Yorkshire traditions indeed, but with some musical motivation from the likes of Justin Vernon, and maybe a little lyrical lucidity inspired by Mike Skinner?
You can learn more about Aaron Ward here:
About The Curator - Phil Shaw
The world is wrong about music…
and I want to change it’s mind
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings
Look on my playlists, ye mighty, and despair