CMAT is an artist who has grafted hard to develop her following since her debut album release of If My Wife New I’d Be Dead (and yes the spelling mistake should be in there). Euro-Country, her Mercury-nominated third album, is a well-deserved nomination. For those who haven’t come across her, she is an Irish artist who blends indie, pop and country into a mixture which is delightfully quirky and refreshing.
She is a wonderful wordsmith whose album contains angst, loss and frustration as well as humour – sometimes all of these within the verse. Within this, she uses a range of imagery and metaphor as well as a mix of English and Irish language. An example of how all this works is early on in the title track where she says:
I went away to come back like a prodigal Christian
I lost a little weight, yeah, and gained it back when I lost him
I learned alot by being here
How I had to be on my own, yeah
And now I feel like Cu Chulainn, I feel like Kerry Katona.
Whilst the incredibly catchy ‘The Jamie Oliver Petrol Station’ may initially sound like a dig at the TV chef’s deli partnership with Shell, it is the singer’s exploration of her own prejudices and the impact of them. She reflects on the impact of her writing about her dislike of the posters promoting this by saying:
So ok, don’t be a bitch
The man’s got kids
And they wouldn’t like this
And therein lies the genius of this album; CMAT doesn’t just go for the easy thoughts or trite comment but really explores her soul and feelings. She identifies, in her songs, the reality of a mind which goes to those places which aren’t easy and comfortable and mixes these deep reflections with some cracking tunes.
And so it is not surprising that within ‘When a Good Man Cries,’ there is a line saying “All my jokes have turned to prayers”. It goes on to include the lyrics:
“Oh, I can feel what I hated in dreams, come on
Give me a hand if you can, Jesus, it’s time
To be real, spin wheels
Kyrie Elesion
Oh I can feel what I hated in dreams, help me
Not hate myself, help me love other people, oh, I’ll
Wear the beads, I’ll read
Kyrie Elesion
When we start to go to those difficult places and experience losses, that is often when we seek to reach out and encounter the divine, God, in some form.
The good news is that God is ready to meet us where we are, not on the basis of what we promise to do, but because the divine loves us unconditionally, and totally.
When members of the Friday Fix team of regulars were approached to listen to and reflect on some of this year’s Mercury Prize nominees, I jumped straight on board. The Mercury is my kind of music prize, with a set of nominees that’s always musically ecumenical, and a range of winners that’s almost equally eclectic (though it’s notable that none of the classical artists nominated have ever won). Anyway, given that breadth of options, I chose to challenge myself. After a little research I picked albums by two artists I’d admittedly never heard of but whose biographies and influences intrigued me: PinkPantheress (Fancy That) and Pa Salieu (Afrikan Alien).
The plan and expectation was that one track might stand out, for good or ill, that I could reflect on. However, that’s not really how it worked out. Across both albums there was one factor that stood out more than any other: track length.
Now, before going further, I want to be clear that if either of these artists win, I won’t be upset. I can clearly hear the compositional skill across the two albums (PinkPantheress tends to use the term ‘mixtape’), and the musical and story telling gifts both artists have. PinkPantheress clearly offers an insight into the life and times of my daughter’s generation (they’re the same age), while Salieu’s merging of Gambian folk and British urban styles speaks directly to some of the most significant political conversations of our time. So what I am about to say is not a criticism of the artists, but more a comment on general themes of life that both albums flag up to me.
In the end I picked Salieu’s track, “Round & Round”, for one reason – across both albums, it’s the longest at just 3:19. Only one other of Salieu’s tracks comes in at over 3 minutes, while all of PinkPantheress’s sit at below 3 minutes long – the shortest being just 1:44 (excluding the intermission track).
Not long after starting to listen to both albums on regular repeat to try and start connecting with them, I ended up at a networking event where I got talking with someone who shares both my interest in music and my slight links with the music business. As part of our conversation, I mentioned how short these tracks are, especially when compared to tracks by those bands that spoke to us when we were growing up: our conversation included Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Queen and The Stone Roses amongst others. In turn, they mentioned that their musician child rarely listens to tracks in their entirety before skipping to the next.
This, it seems to me, speaks of an issue in wider society – what we might describe as the soundbite-ification of social discourse. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve worked in communications (some might suggest that, as someone who preaches, I still do), and I absolutely value the ability to make your point, or tell your story, in short yet clear offerings. I’ve recently offered sermons that acknowledge that if I’m going to give someone a first dip into the Bible I’ll likely start with the Gospel according to Mark because of his relatively short, pithy, even punchy structure. But just because short is good, doesn’t mean long-form communications don’t have benefits. I’ve read great short stories, but I also love wandering around my new home city of Norwich having read the huge tome that is the late CJ Sansom’s Tombland, and my childhood would not have been the same without the joy of reading JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings! Likewise, the album Queen II includes the track “Nevermore” at 1:18 followed immediately by “The March of the Black Queen”, which is more than 6½ minutes long.
In the The West Wing episode, “Game On”, part of the plot revolves around the question of “ten word answers” – the summation of a political position in ten words. At one point, a senior diplomat comments that such things are anathema to diplomacy, a discipline that “requires all the words it can get”, while later, in a barnstorming debate performance, President Bartlett skewers his opponent as he acknowledges that his opponent has come up with ten-word answer he should have and then asks what the next ten words would be – both inferring that his opponent doesn’t have another ten words, and waxing lyrical on the fact that a complicated world requires answers longer than ten words.
Music, of course, isn’t necessarily political discourse. While I definitely believe music makes the world a better place, I don’t think it will solve all of the world’s many problems. But the fact that two albums up for a significant music prize can barely scrape together two tracks between them longer than 3 minutes does concern me. Not because of the quality of the music per se (they’re perfectly acceptable albums and there’s a skill in producing ten-word answers and ten-word stories) but because it highlights a growing inability to handle complex discourse in a complex world just at a time when the ability to do so is vital.
If the future of music is tracks no longer than a TikTok video, I think that’s a sad state of affairs. More seriously, if the future of politics is discourse no longer than a soundbite, I think that may well be the end of the world. In an Iona liturgy, we are called to remember that Jesus came because words were not enough. They aren’t. But we still need words, and right now we need as many of them as we can get our hands on!
One of the things I love most about the Mercery prize is the range and breath of musical genre and one of the founding principles of the prize is that all music is treated equally regardless of genre. But sadly, folk music hasn’t had many nominations, so I was delighted when Martin Carthy’s album Transform Me Then Into A Fish, his first solo album for 20 years made it into the nomination list this year. I find it irritating and quite odd that our traditional folk music never seems to make it into the line-up of those big concerts to celebrate national events. It would be fabulous to see The Unthanks or Kate Rusby in a line up with Queen, Coldplay and the rest…
Martin Carthy released this album on his 84 th birthday making him the oldest person to ever be nominated for the Mercury prize and incidentally the first to have his wife, Norma Waterson, and his daughter, Eliza Carthy, both previously nominated. Transform Me Then Into A Fish is a remake of his debut album in 1965 with some new songs interspersed in-between old favourites.
The two that stood out for me were Scarborough Fair and A-beggin’ I Will Go. Scarborough Fair is a well-known song made more famous by Simon and Garfunkel (it was Carthy who actually taught Paul Simon the song) but this rendition has a sitar playing in it, giving the traditional English folk song a kind of Indian vibe. This really spoke to me of a multicultural musicianship – of how a traditional English folk song is re-mastered for a multicultural 21 st century Britain. It kind of works.
I’ve often wondered what songs we sing now that might be sung as the traditional folk songs of the future. A-beggin’ I Will Go originates from the 1600’s but Carthy has re-written the lyrics to fit the present day.
Chorus (repeated after each verse): And a-beggin’ I will go And a-beggin’ I will go
I was on my bike round Carlisle I went everywhere south to Crewe I slept on every paving-stone from there to Waterloo
I got breakfast off the Embankment and that was my lunch and tea And only the finest cardboard made a home that was fit for me
We sat on the stair at Leicester Square from seven o’clock till ten Then round the back of the Connaught Towers to dinner from out of a bin
There were three young fellows jumped out of the rubbish, they’d clipboards all a-flutter They said poverty has its pluses, you know, and you could present it better
For we’ve got funds and we’ve plans, and we’ve got time in hand So we’re launching a drive for the market place to take begging to all the land
For we’re Poverty PLC we are, we’d have you all to know And everyone says that our share of the market will grow and grow
Then they dressed us in all of their merchandise—’d a logo all over my hat It said Poverty rising above the time—but the others all thought it said Prat
Now I can rest when I am tired I heed no master’s bell A man’d be daft to be a king now beggars can live so well
For I’m a great Victorian value I’m enterprise poverty Completely invisible to the state and there for all to see
Of all the trades in England the beggin’ is the best For when a beggar’s tired he can lay him down and rest
The reappearance of beggars on our streets or outside our supermarkets should, as a matter of course, warrant some response from us and I think Carthy has captured this well.
Martin Carthy is classed as ‘royalty’ of the folk world. This may well be his last recording. He’s a talented guitarist and still sings every note perfectly in tune. The music may not be everyone’s cup of tea or easy listening, but it definitely deserves to be on the nomination list, as there can’t be very many musicians who are still releasing music six decades after their debut.
Even as I write this first sentence, I have to confess a bias – Mercury Prize or no Mercury Prize, ‘More’ by Pulp is already my album of the year.
Tracks such as ‘Spike Island’ and ‘Tina’ have been recurring earworms over the summer as the band have made their return – still eccentric, still acerbic, still holding up an ironic, insightful and sometimes wistful mirror to the world.
Last time round, in the 90s Britpop era, Pulp soared with epic public singalong anthems such as ‘Common People’ and ‘Disco 2000’ before developing interesting but less commercially successful material.
Returning now, older and perhaps wiser, More is a wry reflection on middle age, changed perspectives, lost loves and the realisation that there is still potential for joy and surprise. Life can be just as much about having a conversation with Jesus as it is about jumping around in a field or shopping for groceries.
Because there it is on ‘Slow Jam’. Jarvis and Jesus, Jesus and Jarvis, the Son of God and the man who wiggled his bum at Michael Jackson at the Brit Awards, having a tete-a-tete.
The context appears to be a reflection on a failing relationship – “slow death, that’s what our love has turned into”….
Pondering difficulties, an imaginary conversation with Jesus unfolds:
“Jesus said, “I feel your pain God knows I share it too Slow death Now you know just what I, what I went through”
It’s a mini exploration of crucifixion and the idea of free will – you can’t make someone love you – and in this version, Jesus is remarkably resigned:
“So how about we talk about something new? Because there’s not a great deal that I can do”
It’s a song of yearning, a prayer of sorts, a plea that a slow death should instead be a slow jam – a more romantic, meaningful vibe than what is obviously playing out.
And then a twist:
Here comes the Holy Trinity Behold the crown of all creation Come on, let’s have a threesome, baby You, me, and my imagination
As much as this could be read and understood in different ways – physically, emotionally, spiritually – I find this take intriguing.
What is going on in Jarvis’ head here, and is he onto something? How are creativity and imagination expressed in our relationships with each other and in the world? How are human relationships life-giving and sustaining, and what do we do when they’re not? How do sex, love and spirituality hold together?
The NME called this whole album ‘wonky pop’ and it’s a definition that fits. But maybe sometimes it is in the sideways glance, the wonky aside, that we see glimpses of something different, unexpected insights that makes us realise something more is at work.
I’ve talked before of my incredible fondness for Liverpool and its music. Another city on a river that holds as much attachment for me is Newcastle Upon Tyne (well, Tyneside to be honest – and further into the wilds of Northumberland). Perhaps it’s because my Grandad was Gateshead born and bred so I feel the place in my bones; perhaps it’s because we spent nine years living in South East Northumberland and birthed a child who has adopted a strong Geordie identity which includes following the Toon and worshipping Sam Fender.
Which brings me nicely to the Mercury Prize-nominated album from aforementioned Sam. I’m talking about ‘People Watching’ – an album that I found to be rich in social commentary, grittiness and gravitas. I could have chosen any of the songs to reflect on, but the one I felt drawn to this week is Crumbling Empire – a song with echoes of Bruce Springsteen’s music. If I was to sum it up, I would say it is both raw and prophetic.
It captures that sense that so many people carry right now—that the world feels shaky, that the structures and systems we trusted are collapsing around us. He sings of greed, decay, and injustice, holding a mirror up to a society that seems to have lost its way. It’s a gritty social commentary, but it’s also deeply human: the sound of someone naming the brokenness out loud (which is why it reminded me of Bruce)
The song not only makes me ponder, it also feels so familiar. It reminds me of the prophets who railed against corrupt kings and unjust systems and the psalmists who wept over ruins and cried out to God when hope seemed thin. Crumbling Empire feels like it belongs in that tradition—a secular song which is a lament for a world in decline. It wouldn’t look out of place as Psalm 151 in the NRSVA edition of the bible.
Yet I can’t help feeling that in amongst the bleakness, there is something more: a yearning and some hope. Fender’s music often carries that ache for connection, redemption, for something rising from the ashes. l guess that Christians would see it as a hunger for God’s kingdom—the promise of justice, mercy, and peace that cannot be destroyed.
So maybe the invitation is this: don’t be afraid to name what’s crumbling. Let yourself lament the brokenness of our world. But also dare to look beyond the ruins, to imagine the new thing that God is building. Because while empires fall, love endures.
I knew absolutely nothing about Emma-Jean when I started listening to her Mercury music prize nominated album. So as soon as I knew she was mine, I was listening to “Weirdo” while I was chopping the veg for my tea, doing chores and walking along on my evening constitutional.
I have to say though that it wasn’t until this track that I really warmed to it. The other tracks are atmospheric and interesting with a sort of jazzy groove but others downright weird(o). They are growers but ‘Thank You….’ hit an instant spot. I have to say I walked faster while listening to it, and also the words dug deep into me and enabled a bit of reflection on all that had gone before I set foot outside the door.
The whole album is borne out of being in a state of profound grief and is about how she found her way back in to the world as far as she could. Thank You is the last track. She says in an interview with “The Line of Best Fit” (an online music website) “When I was writing [“Thank You for the Day”] it was because I wanted to get back to that place,” Thackray says. “I wasn’t in that place, but I wanted to get back to it. And I was like, ‘Well, I need to put that at the end, then, because I need to give people a sense of hopefulness at the end of this journey.’ It could be quite heavy for some people, especially if you’ve been through heavy grief yourself.”
Thackray likens the track and its placement on the album to a club night finale. “It’s an end-of-the-night dancefloor-filler, where you leave people wanting to go home to bed and wake up refreshed,” she says. “You need to do that with a DJ set. You need to take people on a journey and then, at the end, leave them with some joy and some hope.”
I love the sentiments of this track and her list of things to be thankful for is a rich one
• The day
• Open skies
• Sunset
• Love never ending
• Breeze moving through the trees
• Birds and bees
• Ice & snow kissing your face
• Walking through rain
• …… and more
I wonder how often, even the fittest and finest of us, pay attention to saying thank you.
Showing gratitude for anything let alone the day and the obvious things we are blessed with. We know the psalmists encourage us to praise God in everything and that definitely isn’t always easy but let’s make it a mission to say Thank You today and maybe even immerse yourself in this tune as you do it. It is very very dancy!
This week, we thought it might be lovely to revisit a Fix from the past as a little tribute to Rick Davies from Supertramp, who died this last week.
Michael writes:
For centuries in the West, artists of all mediums have explored the darker side of socialisation. Be it William Blake and the romanticists, Oscar Wilde and the aesthetics, Stewart Lee and the so-called ‘liberal-elites’, Banksy and his fellow punk-satirists or – in this case – Supertramp and the hippy culture from which they emerged, there are countless artists and movements who have trodden the path towards status-quo rejection. Often, on their way, they set up dichotomies between apparently competing notions: freedom vs conformity, childlike wonder vs adult cynicism, creativity vs progress, magic vs rationalism, individuality vs imperialism.
‘The Logical Song’ follows a similar road. It laments the desolation of the singer’s wide-eyed childhood by establishment education. Their sense of wonder and beauty has been all but stamped out. Where once there was an openness to the magical and miraculous, now there is only clinical – even cynical – intellectualism. The song’s conclusion is that, in its pursuit of progress and the maintenance of the status quo, society has raised up individuals who have lost all sense of self. Their identities have been so diluted in the name of sensibility, responsibility and dependability that they’ve become vegetables who have no idea who they really are. Their education, ironically, has led to them learning nothing.
It is a well-worn trope. And one I have identified with and expressed myself at various times too. But I’m not convinced it is necessarily helpful to take such an un-nuanced axe to the tree of socialisation. I’d like to raise two quick points of reflective pushback on this song and one point of praise:
1) We have been created for collectivism.
Within this song, and works of art like it, there is an inherent individualism at play; an ideology that is suspicious of collectives and considers them a threat to personal liberty. In contrast, the history of Judeo-Christian thought has placed great value on the collective. After all – it is not good for us to be alone. It is in the bonds of relationship that we have our best hope of founding a just and caring society. There is, therefore, a place for responsibility, practicality, dependability. In fact, not just a place, a great need for this. These are amongst the greatest resources of humanity. Our lives and prospects are significantly improved when we can draw upon them. As such, we shouldn’t resent the call from others to develop these in ourselves too. Developing the knowledge, skills necessary to exist well within and – where possible – contribute towards the collective requires no level of education. This might feel uncomfortable. It might even feel like losing something of our childlike simplicity. But is that childlike simplicity a virtue requiring eternal preservation? Surely, there is a need for us to no longer think and reason like children, but to grow and mature. Is socialisation really the enemy? Or is our true enemy the rejection of reality in pursuit of romanticised naivety?
2) The use of personal freedom in the service of others is what fullness of life is all about.
If we believe that Jesus was the ultimate example of human being – the firstborn of creation, the design pattern for all of life – then we are at our most human when we’re prepared to utilise our individualism in service to others. That doesn’t mean we have to set aside or lose ourselves when we take up the call to become learned, responsible, practical, dependable, etc. Rather, we gain the opportunity to express our individualism in a self-sacrificial way. Neither leads us into a vegetative or cynical state. Instead, paradoxically, I think it helps us recover a sense of the beauty and wonder of life; as we lay down our lives, we discover and experience a new vision of what ‘fullness of life’ means. And it is truly precious, magical – even miraculous!
3) The collective is there for the thriving of the individual.
What this song does get right is its critique of the abuse of individuals in the name of preserving the status quo of the collective. As I’ve outlined, I believe that individuals are made for community, but the community is reciprocally there for the benefit of its individuals. Societies are never perfect and should never be static. History, culture and lived experiences are constantly evolving. So therefore, should communities and their practices be.
This process of collective development requires voices of critique. There is a deep need for prophets who challenge and shape and develop society through creativity, lateral thinking. To serve a community this way is an act of great sacrifice, which should not lead to unfair demonization. The use of labels such as ‘liberal’ or ‘radical’ can be an unkind way of silencing those who might be exactly what the community need.
I sympathise and resonate with the words of this song. But increasingly I feel the need to critique art on the basis of how careful its engagement with a subject matter is. In this instance, I want to suggest that there is more to the story than Supertramp suggest. Despite their conclusions, I’d suggest my desire to be a bit more logical about this particular matter actually propels me into a sense of wonder and beauty about the calling to give myself for the collective. And as I do this I believe I will discover who I truly am.
—
*PS: As a child of the 90’s I have a confession to make… despite the fact that Supertramp are a major band in the history of pop-rock I only came to be aware of this remarkable song thanks to Scooter sampling the first 4 lines for a (baffling pro-Siberia) clubbing anthem in 2002. That version of the song is substantially less philosophical but still worthy of a shout-out and a listen! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YxTa1AUqps
I’ve just completed a course about Understanding AI and I am quite conflicted about today’s Fix because it’s been written by Claude, an AI system. But one task we were given was to ask AI to ‘reflect’ on something through a particular lens. So I wondered what Claude’s Friday Fix might look like if I asked for a reflection on Frente’s version of New Order’s Bizarre Love Triangle.
I’ll leave you to ponder with me. Here goes:
Frente’s ethereal rendition of “Bizarre Love Triangle” strips away the synthesized urgency of New Order’s original, revealing something more vulnerable beneath—a soul crying out in relational confusion that mirrors our deepest spiritual longings. In the song’s tangled web of desire and uncertainty, we find an unexpected parable about the human heart’s search for authentic love.
The “bizarre love triangle” becomes a metaphor for the complex relationship between self, others, and the divine. We often find ourselves caught between competing loves: the love we think we want, the love we believe we deserve, and the love that God offers freely. Like the song’s narrator, we struggle with timing, with knowing when to hold on and when to let go, with understanding which voice to trust among the many that call to us.
The repeated plea “Tell me why” echoes throughout scripture—from Job’s anguished questions to the psalmist’s cries for understanding. It’s the honest bewilderment of a heart that knows something is missing but can’t quite name what it is. This spiritual restlessness, what Augustine called our hearts being “restless until they rest in God,” manifests in our earthly relationships as we seek in human love what only divine love can fully satisfy.
Frente’s delicate, almost whispered vocals suggest the intimacy required for spiritual breakthrough. God often speaks not in the earthquake or fire, but in the still small voice that requires us to quiet our hearts to hear. The song’s vulnerable tone reminds us that spiritual growth often comes through confusion and questioning rather than certainty.
The “bizarre” nature of love—both human and divine—lies in its defiance of logic. Grace makes no sense to our merit-based thinking. Unconditional love challenges our transactional expectations. Like the narrator caught between conflicting desires, we struggle to accept a love that asks nothing in return yet transforms everything.
Perhaps the song’s greatest spiritual insight is found in its embrace of mystery. Faith doesn’t always provide clear answers to our “why” questions. Sometimes the bizarre triangle of longing, confusion, and hope is exactly where God meets us—not after we’ve figured everything out, but in the beautiful mess of our seeking hearts, teaching us that being lost can be the beginning of being found.
The Friday Fix 