I have been a dedicated lover of James Yorkston’s gentle singing since our long past summers spent in the muddy fields of Green Man Festival, when it was just us and 2000 other stinky revellers.
All heaped together in the Big Top, a fug of smoke, with the rain dripping steadily off the canvas door, relaxing to his gentle humour, circling guitar, and the surprise beatbox accompaniment of a particularly keen soundman.
I defy anyone to not fall in love with JY’s music. His songs have stuck with me all through my fickle musical swings, like a ship’s mast in a storm.
So, this wasn’t to be any ordinary tour diaries. And yet, his ordinary stories were exactly what made it so wonderful. The natural, poetic patter that is so evident in this tune came through in his writing.
Yorkston pulled out delightful details from his touring days – things that weren’t intricate plot devices or building to some greater symbolism, just interesting things that caught his eye. A perfectly lovely read from a not-exactly-rock-star.
For November I’m indulging my love of nature writing with this beautiful recent hardback (awarded the Samuel Johnson prize only yesterday!) My November shall be full of visions of hawks and austringers.
With thanks, as always, to Laura who inspired this year of books.
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