If Devizine is a voyage of discovering artists new to us, ones who pop up time and time again do so because they’re both more than worthy and have become friends. A nice Friday spent watching Phil, Tammy and Jamie live stream from a garden, as The Lost Trades debuted lockdown set in, and well, a video helps in some small way to shield the fact we miss them, miss them all.
George Wilding isn’t one for a live stream, least if he has it was a covert operation. A new single though, I’ve been meaning to mention, Postcards from a Motorway. Postcards being apt, perhaps, while most of us would send a text, George is quaintly old-fashioned. But it’s a fashion which fits, drawing out a mobile phone a decade out of date, his “that’ll do,” ethos inclusive, except with his music. For while archaic style from a bygone youth culture, his music transcends the borders, is unique and refined to exceptional standard.
Here’s the sort of poetically balanced, orchestrated masterpiece we’ve come to expect from George. It’s silky Velvet Underground, arty and nonchalant, drifting through mummers and shards of thought, and entirely, it’s beautiful. It’s as wildly romantic as Tchaikovsky On The Tambourine, sombre as My Backwards Head, as he acoustically cries of paper walls, perpetual drunkenness, pondering without motive, and rambles from winds to lines swearing about the president.
Feels as if George has pumped as much in as he can with this, but rather than overloaded, it rolls in manner only the greats could accomplish. Example, remember first hearing Springsteen’s Philadelphia? To have seen the plan written you may’ve said whoa! But when that synth drumbeat kicks in, it only assists the ambiance. Yeah, experimental is Postcards from a Motorway, a minute and half in and there’s a clonk of drumbeat, but with married to the subtle piano, and simple acoustic guitar loop, it remains unmistakably George Wilding.
Rather late to publish some words on it, of which I apologise to George, who celebrated 12.3k Spotify streams and 12 playlist features with it this week. I’m posting it here, if you’re not one of those 12.3k, as I wasn’t, because I’m afraid of spotty-fly; old fashioned just like you George, see! Or just plain old. Though when I pointed this out, his response was, “try YouTube,” and I was like, “oh yeah, will do.” Not much of conversation, but his music speaks a novel.
Gorgeous as ever, but only enhances my want to walk through a pub door and see him perched on a stall asking the audience what they want to hear.
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