Kevin Young (Painted Sun)

Album Review.

— Kevin young — painted son (sun)

His debut release, but to be honest it’s like listening to a finely weathered folk musicians weekend project, recorded on a run of Sundays in a chic ass studio in the Oregon mountains.

It’s a masterclass of execution and production and the maturity of both parties leaks out of every corner of this four-track wedge. The weird-ass lo-fi feel, the double vocals, the position and the variety of percussion in the mix, the ease in Young’s delivery is a deliverance you never knew you needed. It’s old-fashioned, it’s fresh, it’s a country bound, folk contradiction, and it works.

These are solid, honest songs, they’ve been chewed up over many hard winters and regurgitated for a mature listeners ears. There’s so much going on, yet at times nothing at all, without distraction like it’s just one man and his axe.

Kevin’s story as a songwriter is an education in the following of dreams. He barely played the guitar when I first met him in 2011, but he’s a melodic grandfather in his musical taste, especially to those know him and have played in his beautiful little cafe over the years.

His love within that fold for local music and its practitioners is unmatched when it comes to hosting a band; his evangelical super clubs in a rural village in County Down (often to less than 30 people) were some of the fondest shows I ever had the pleasure to play.

Young knows what he’s doing and he’s doing what he knows, he’s hard-working, honest and kind and he has the talent, the songs and the passion I believe, to carry him as far he wishes to go. A man in the second half of life, with nothing to prove, nowhere to run and a good time his only ambition. I honestly believe if he gave it up tomorrow he would have already exceeded his own humble expectations.

But the man’s a talent, and his expectations were too low, to begin with.

Jude Moses

Biography for @folk&lorepod

Stephen George William also known as ‘Jude Moses’ is a Musician, Songwriter and Producer from Charlotte North Carolina.

With the bulk of his time spent on the road as a session musician, Stephen talks to me about navigating life whilst on tour and  how he curates space within a packed and often crowded schedule to implement rest and quieten his inner radio.

This southern subatomic multi instrumentalist was raised in the stoic simplicity of a Toombs County Onion-town; his sound crafted amongst Georgia Pine and Dusty Pale Horses.

I first met Williams back in 2009 whilst living in Fort Mill, North Carolina and in 2011 he moved to Northern Ireland on a songwriting expedition and to flesh out our collaborative musical project ‘Sons of Caliber’.

His connection however to this Island has been strong throughout his life, with friends from the province often frequenting his family home and town growing up; his understanding of Northern Irish culture and its people is by now fairly accumulative and his effortless adaptation of our tone, accent and humour rolls from his tongue like he went to a school somewhere in and around South Derry.

With a decade of friendship between us; he and I have been intermittently collaborating together for the last ten years to varying degrees, breaching our Oceanic Atlantic Divide to trade secrets, working on each others creative projects and weaving together stories and sound in an exchange of melodic cultural currency.

Williams’, is a walking symphony, he does everything with a harmony attached to it, from fixing breakfast to laying down, he is an sonic installation. He is an instrument.

His debut album ‘We Won’t Die’ is a full length American folk, rock hybrid.

Incorporating a ream of proficient Charlotte talent within its musical corridors. And reading between the lines I sense a new collection of songs immanent.

The Georgians vocal range is immense and although a few years my junior his creative influence on me as a songwriter and singer has been both immeasurable and incomparable.

Ghost Apples

Pic: Andrew Sietsema

In the heart of Ulster

Amongst the wren

Augments a tree

In Reubens Glen

That fashions fruit

Not ripe for men

A malus wrought of cold

For it’s considered that in

The nines of years

It’s apples crab to ice and tears

To mourn the wolf

They called Ailithir

Who’s buried at its feet

Essence

Where does essence fit

Where is its place in amongst the realms of men

And where at the table is it seated

If even it is offered a chair at all

As around tables where once we would break bread

Now we barely break breath

From either side of a splintered river

That gulf between the them and the us

An empty alphabet

The hollow hoard

Of a monotone spectrum

Now used to collate the aggregate of educated tribalism

To inflict a wound

And build a wall

Where they can’t get in, but we can’t get out either

Arrows forged on the anvil of the heart

As the hammer of intent strikes its blow

On overheated terms of exchange

And breath is fractured and cracked in two

To let words cram and backfill the space between

And occupy the ether

As they become flesh in the form of you

Born into this world by vibration

From chords at the back of the throat

Polished on tongues of colloquialism and the verbal influences of infancy

Where does essence fit

Maybe just amongst the swings and the roundaboutery

Perhaps only in conversations with my grandmother

Or someone else from an earlier time

Who’s known me all of my life