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Mike Levon (left) Chris Coombs (right)     photo Mike Levon © Holyground 2001

HG 132
UP TO MCGILL'S
CHRIS COOMBS

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54 Days & Nights (Watching The Costume Drama)

words and music Chris Coombs

"A rushing list-led song with Chris's urgent acoustic guitar punctuated by a wiry organ takes us by the scruff into this album. Like many of the tracks, it has a very English style, quirky, jaunty, and with psych-rock edges: ' a continuum of cats, and a stunning collection of a hundred bizarre hats ' - just one of the worlds, images, inhabited places you will be taken to in the art-rock-poetic journey up to McGill's". [Len Shannon]

I am the sum of my experiences
through the passage of the years
twenty-five Christmases . . .
eighteen thousand beers . . .
thirteen hundred Sundays
at the diy-rama . . .
and fifty-four days and nights watching the costume drama!

three thousand packs of weetabix . . .
three tonnes of news . . .
three hundred pairs of footwear
that took fifty days to choose!
nine thousand sunrises . . .
three hundred full moons . . .
and twenty miles of knives and forks and spoons!

three hundred haircuts . . .
three hundred pairless socks . . .
a hundred chuffin' ‘phone bills
stuffed through my letter-box . . .
two miles of cleaned cat-bowls
for a continuum of cats . . .
and a stunning collection of a hundred bizarre hats!

twenty weeks of beach days . . .
fifty five feet of rain . . .
two hundred thousand problems
but just one brain!
a million solutions
on which we disagree . . .
. . . thirty six thousand four hundred cups of tea!

Chris says : "Happy 25th wedding anniversary, dear! Here is the bill. I can easily work out the price of everything . . ."

Chris Coombs    photo Mike Levon © Holyground 2001

Loving Signs

words Mike Levon - music Chris Coombs

"From the open honesty of the first line Mike visits memories and pulls at the head-strings. From a base of summer sunshine, this song is decked with fruits of countryside, picture-snaps, newspaper headlines which jam and jar with the summer-of-love chorus. And in the midst of all this Chris's vocal rings out Mike's confirmation that even looking back, there are no real regrets, a comfort which is not complacent but which accepts and revels in the usual, but which can explode into spiritual routes the very next moment: ' I could have the symbols of the sun, I see you in me most of all where the kestrel wheels when the rain is done'." [Len Shannon]

all things Astral mean a lot to me
ringing down thru time and space and all
yellow yellow sunshine memories
but those loving signs
those loving signs
mean more
you took me in the fields in early May
with my Irish hair and eyesand smile and all
on a photograph you have stored away
but those loving signs
those loving signs
mean more

I'm just where I want to be today
under the lowering sky
take comfort from the depth of things
I can look you in the eye
in the rounded corners of my room
the pathway to the door is long and wide
many mansions hidden in the trees
with windows open wide

you speak of hopes and fears and history
and endlessly of peace and crazy war
you speak of time and life and vanity
but those loving signs
those loving signs
mean more

yes I could have the symbols of the sun
I see you in me most of all
where the kestrel wheels when the rain is done
but those loving signs
those loving signs
mean more

yes but those loving signs
those loving signs
mean more

Mike says :

"Some obvious stuff here sprinkled amongst the deep and difficult, as ever! 'All things Astral' do mean a lot to me : Holyground is me, I am Holyground. Homage to Daniel Lanois who, on the brilliant 'For The Beauty of Wynona' album, wrote a line that I should have written : 'Massey-Fergusson memories'. One childhood journey I frequently made passed a huge factory full of the red monsters. So I decided the nearest I could get was 'yellow yellow sunshine memories'! Chris did me proud with the tune on this, especially the bridge  . . . 'I'm just where I want to be today'."


Holyground    photo Mike Levon © Holyground 2001

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Wyndham (The Bridge)

words Mike Levon - music Chris Coombs

"Chris' trademark pounding piano chords stamp along underlining the resigned air in this song: 'the best thing I can do is not begin'. Chris' confidential vocal tingles the hairs, makes you feel you, or he, are right there right this moment. Mike's quite revealing in this song : about religion, children, optimism, depression, even the writing process." [Len Shannon]
I'm right against the limit
with a swallow in my veins
can't think clear for a minute
can't even feel the pouring rain
my glass that's now half empty
used to be half full
and what seemed elementary
and so very meaningful
it's hollow now
it's hollow now
and I just walk away . . .

there are days when I should leave it all alone
the best thing I can do is struggle home
the best thing I can do is not begin
walking against the wind
walking against the wind

I've lots of starts
lots of lines
it's going on
that's getting harder all the time

never had religion
don't believe I will
don't know who you're kidding
it doesn't feel too real to me again
any son and daughter
comes as some surprise
and realising mortal
and so far through a life
it slips on through
it slips on through
and I just walk away . . .

it's the human condition
I'm interested in
I'm interested in
the condition I'm in

Mike says : "I was born in the small market town of Grantham, home centuries previously to Isaac Newton the mathematician and scientist. The town boasts two parts, Dysart - brash new and zappy; and a stately older park: Wyndham, where I used to fish for crawfish on sunny days. It's often a struggle, sometimes against the bitter winds over the bridge, sometimes against hidden enemies, sometimes against early propaganda."

Chris Coombs    photo Mike Levon © Holyground 2001

Café

words and music Chris Coombs

"A love affair with caffeine and the restful atmosphere of a café; and balancing in the air the harmonica cries and the reassuring strings. If Chris is being taken to the Café, I want to tag along, whistling this catchy tune as I go! I've really got something to say Chris, baby, wait for me!" [Len Shannon]

if you really got something to say
if you really got something to say to me
take me to a cafe, take me to a cafe
on the Edgeware Road, the Champs Elyseés
First Fifty-Fourth, the Mancunian Way
if you really really really really really got something to say
take me to a cafe

the video's on hold and the screen is all flurries of snow
my radio plays gold, it's just old and it's past and it's slow
the scratched records I play seem to make sense no more, and they jump
the cassette spews tape off the heads and comes out in a lump

you frantically faff through a freezer of packs all the same
you uncork a bottle, unlabelled . . . insipid and tame
the candles just splutter and gutter . . . four minutes of light . . .
it's a warning to talk in the morning . . . just don't try tonight

I'd take the dog walking . . . take the lead . . . don't have the dog
I'd take the lead talking, but wander, just lost in the fog
we could talk in the car . . . just drive . . . not arrive . . . no road found
running on empty . . . driving a flat . . . just round and round and round

Chris says : "It was going to be called “Cafe de la Paix”, but, hmmm . . . states the bleedin' obvious . . . and if I thought  Peter Starstedt's 1969 saccharine waltz around the Latin Quarter was naff . . . well, I'd better not make this some exclusive little brasserie!"

Chris Coombs    photo Mike Levon © Holyground 2001
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Driving Into The Wind

words and music Chris Coombs

"Rock-folk-psych lives! Strangely echoed vocals and a real driving guitar take you into the head-winds, to be surrounded by virtual sheep from the mind of Chris' with it's English-quirky sense of humour. " [Len Shannon]

you can feel the desolation of a nation fallen on its knees!
virtuous sheep hiding wolves of self-interest and sleaze
how we love the national flutter . . . it's a moth washed down the gutter . . .
that's the best that we can do, and very few from fifty million will be pleased

. . . and I'm driving into the wind, driving into the rai
stuck among the commercials in the fast lane . . .
up to the axles , up to the sills , up to the windows , up to my gill
driving . . . into the rain

did you start on a career? within a year you're on a restart scheme
the shelf-life of some simple skills? placebo pills . . . a stupid dream
for those that have there's always more . . . the rich stay rich; the poor, poor
the dogs can lick their wounds, but it's the fat-cats that get to lick the cream

. . . and I'm driving into the wind, driving into the sleet
can't feel my head. can't feel my hands or my feet
up to the axles, up to the sills, up to the windows, up to my gills
driving . . . into the sleet

“the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate
He made them high and lowly, and gave each his estate”
just give my children jam for tea, not just some well-heeled family
who can drive past cardboard-city without pity, but flash tenners in the plate

. . . and I'm driving into the wind, driving into the snow
my wipers won't slice through the ice, and it's 20 below
up to the axles, up to the sills, up to the windows, up to my gills
driving . . . into the snow

Chris says : "I truly, honestly believe that successive governments strive to create an egalitarian society in which want is as irrelevant as greed. Incidentally, the working title was ‘Pissing Into the Wind”. . . Oh, and I know fifty million is a bit approximate, but  free efs in a row . . . I fort it was worf it . . ."

Chris Coombs    photo Mike Levon © Holyground 2001

One Born Every Minute

words and music Chris Coombs

"I just LOVE Chris' voice on this - he's trying out several different vocal styles on this CD and this one is different. Quiet, almost mumbled, and deep, deep! It sounds despairing, giving up, resigned. It's wonderful, and fits his words like a well-worn and well-loved pair of gloves. Glove -rock yet! Plus some beautiful harmonica to punctuate the litany of failure. Wow!" [Len Shannon]

there's one born every minute
so they say
there could be something in it
but I was born yesterday

let's put our cards on the table
or just play poker on the floor
I'll show you what's in my hand
if you'll show me yours

a new handful of secrets
a new pack of lies
before I've even got my feet wet
you're bringing tears to my eyes

I felt you tugging at my heartstrings
I felt you pulling on my bell
now every time the ‘phone rings
an alarm bell rings as well

guess I'm in love with you baby
this time I know what to do
just stay cool and maybe
I won't end up telling you

Chris says : "No, no . . . I won't end up telling you . . . I won't . . . I'll just write about it, set it to music, record it and release it."

a surprised Mike Levon in Holyground's control room!    photo Robert Taylor © Holyground 2001
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Brown Wire Blues

words and music Chris Coombs

"Chris tells me that at one time he was thinking of this song's title for an album title, yin and yang, black and white, positive and negative. Domestic words, full of gender irony, hard and distant at the same time as being strangely tender and close. A beguiling song, and a song which is more complex than it seems - dig for the treasures.'I don't understand these brown wire blues' - live was easier before when everything was in black and red, wasn't it? wasn't it?Chris layers this one with organ and strings and a dislocated stabbing harmonica. I love the way the strings take over and waft the rest away, taking you down, down, down and ready for the next track, the outstanding 'Nothing Rhymes With Lonely'." [Len Shannon]
which? what? when? where? how? why? who?
do I wanna bolt? do I wanna screw?
you can fix my thing . . . any time'll do
cos I don't get that brown wire? blue?

watcha doin' mummy? . . . I'm cookin' honey . . .
where's dad? . . . oh, he's out earnin' real money . . .
ma, fix my system, something just blew . . .
c'mon, you know that I don't know that brown wire? blue?

mama, fix my light bulb . . . fix it for me ma . . .
can you fix a new string on my guitar? . . .
I'd fix them if I could, but I don't know what to do . . .
takes a man to understand that brown wire? blue?

take me to the pool ma . . . take me to the game . . .
come and watch me play . . . hear them shouting my name! . . .
don't understand the rules, babe . . . haven't got a clue! . . .
guess it's just another case of brown wire? blue?

which? what? when? where? how? why? who?
do I wanna bolt? do I wanna screw?
you can fix my thing, any time'll do . . .
cos I don't get that brown wire? blue?

Chris says : "I truly, honestly believe that girls should play with dolls and boys with train-sets. It takes a man to understand."

Pete Taylor, who recorded the piano & Rhodes for 'Up To McGill's'    photo Mike Levon © Holyground 2001

Nothing Rhymes With Lonely

words Mike Levon - music Chris Coombs

"For me the highlight of the album. As stripped down and as pared as you can get really: just Chris's unadorned voice, sounding like crystal, over the smooth Fender Rhodes chords and notes. Apart from the bleak and keening gob-iron solo, that's it. And it is so, so, so, down. It's not about loneliness really, this IS the blues. I gather the lads are so pleased with it that they intend to use it on the next Chris Coombs in Aeon CD with a string orchestra too - I can't wait . . . a little gem."
[Len Shannon]
when I'm on my own
and I am lonely
when I stare into the dark
while the night runs free
and there's nothing there
nothing rhymes with lonely
only me

and no words you sing
can stop me thinking
when I'm out there on the water
black water deep
and there's nothing here
nothing rhymes with lonely
only me

long sung days and the pressure's falling
the snow loft rising in the skies
earth and water fire the air
in the pull of the starling cry

winds blow by and the glass is falling
storm clouds stretch from sky to sky
thin grey sheets of silver thunder
and the break of the eagle's cry

now in the dawn
of early morning
sun strikes through the dark
there's nothing anywhere
nothing rhymes with lonely
nothing rhymes with lonely
nothing rhymes with lonely
only me

Mike says : "Chris made these words, words I already loved on the page, really live: 'When I'm out there on the water, black water deep', - what a song! There's nothing more to say".
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These Are The Hands

words and music Chris Coombs

"Reverent, spiritual, revealing, superb, and no doubt a lot of other words which begin with R and S. A lovely quiet, contemplation of a song. Chris plays a wandering uplifting string part in this to compliment the acoustic guitar and the confidential close to your shoulder voice. It's a lovely subtle song, involving and it grows on you: 'These are the hands that hold a hand in a hand,  mmmmm' - t'riffic stuff".  [Len Shannon]
these are the hands that couldn't do much
these are the hands that waved and that clutched
these are the hands that felt and that touched . . .

these are the hands that seized
these are the hands that squeezed
these are the hands that were pleased . . .

these are the hands that played in sand
these are the hands that got beautifully tanned
these are the hands that were held in a hand . . . these are the hands . . .

these are the hands that built up towers
these are the hands that picked some flowers
these are the hands that had magical powers . . .

these are the hands that lent
these are the hands that sent
these are the hands that tried to invent . . .

these are the hands that invited
these are the hands that got excited
these are the hands that writed and writed . . . these are the hands . . .

these are the hands that got confused
that scored, explored and accused
these are the hands that got bored and mis-used . . .

these are the hands that strayed
that unfolded the news . . . and that paid . . .
expressed the views . . . and that prayed . . .

these are the hands that dared
these are the hands that cared
these are the hands that shared . . . these are the hands . . .

these are the hands that signed the deeds
that hold, that fold . . . that pulled up weeds
that mould . . . planted seeds . . . made pipes out of reeds . . .

these are the hands that wind the clocks
these are the hands that unlock the locks
and these are the hands that put fuses in the box . . .

these are the hands that shake out mats
these are the hands that try on hats
these are the hands that stroke the cats . . . these are the hands . . .

these are the hands that hold a hand in a hand
these are the hands that hold a hand in a hand
these are the hands that hold a hand in a hand

Chris says : "Bernard Bresslaw did feet. De La Soul, Fashion, Chaka Khan, Karel Fialka etc. did eyes. Pulp and Wet Wet Wet did lips. Freddie Mercury did fat bottoms. I should have done noses . . . or ears . . . seeing as Max Bygraves has already done hands. Ah, but then he didn't do his hands digitally . . ."

Chris Coombs    photo Mike Levon © Holyground 2001

Coming Up For Air

words Mike Levon - music Chris Coombs

This, for me is the other standout track. Oddly, or p'raps not the lads tell me this is also to me worked on for the next Aeon release. Love like, rushingly optimistic with that dark underbelly, it is like 'Forever Changes' in that respect too. Brill![Len Shannon]
I'm running down hill
my arms open wide
a smile in my head
I'm all right

with the moon on my face
stars in my eyes
my arrows and bow
by my side

and I could live forever
ringing down the times
eyes on the wild horizon
out of the darklands
into the sun
and I'm alright
still alright

heading for the door
walking thru the night
no cloud in the sky
I'm all right

the skies dye blue
the fields a-glow
behind these eyes
I'm alright

I can paint the wide horizon
ride on wings and flutt'ring eyes
I can paint the turning of the night

Mike says : wow . . .
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Looking Back On Gillian

words Mike Levon - music Chris Coombs

A romp on the homeward straight - a gentle Betjemen type poem set to seaside umpahs, and milked by Chris for every wry smile. It is wry too - some regrets but ones to accept and move on from. Lovely again, a vignette of gentler and more innocent times, times when Cuban missile crises were forgotten in hot summer days and the grass of the Rounder's game."
[Len Shannon]
she was the first
her name was Gillian
a cliché queen
one in a million
oh oh oh y'know what I mean?

up on the mere
we played at rounders
when she was near
I kinda floundered
oh oh oh y'know what I mean?

now she see me
she see right through me
she smile her asp'rin smile
she fit me up
and she undo me
no where to hide
between earth & sky

she made a move
I must have missed it
just one chance
to take the biscuit
oh oh oh y'know what I mean?

her legs were there
her hair was tinsel
she took my word
she kept her counsel
oh oh oh y'know what I mean?

so we rehearse
what might have been
a universe we've never seen
an older curse
that each time brings
stone murder on each house of kings

my cover's blown
she knew the future
it's wearing thin
it doesn't suit her

Mike says : "Well, some of this is just reportage. There WAS a Gillian, and she was pretty much the first girl I ever fancied. I was 15 I think. She filled my thoughts for weeks, and one day, 'up on the Mere, we played at rounders' and she responded to me, gave me 'just one chance', and I blew it! I was so shy! I spent some of that summer reading 'Les Enfants Terrible' in the sun at Dysart swimming baths and fancying her like mad. But there are other women and girls in this song: the cliché queen, the sexy one whose 'legs were there', the one with the pharmaceutical smile . . . it's a jigsaw, and the feelings for others are deeper, more mature, and even reciprocated AND accepted".

Mike Levon    photo Chris Coombs  © Holyground 2001
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Still Life ( . . .Still Life)

words Mike Levon - music Mike Levon & Chris Coombs

"An image-fest : art-rock again, a psychedelic ferret through night dreams and day-mares. Intoxicating, it gets into your head and fresh images form - like a film spawning new shards of negative, spilling out. Rocky guitar and sung chorus from Chris pile drives through the repeating and building choruses, leaving the hypnotic spoken poetic verses to dance freely in and out like a focussing image on a screen, in the dark, softly . . ." [Len Shannon]
it's a soul index on mornings like this
I see you in the mirror, see you on the heath
oh it's so good to be without a care
someday, lonely skies, and clouds where we fell to talk
he made extensive maps of the backs of her knees
feel like there was nowhere to fade to
she kept a blue and black milady
she practiced sleight of hand
Trudy worked in the casino, she cleaned up in there
where she made her insolent stand
sure I believe what you're telling me right now
straight from the heart
but I get another story, another point of view when we part
I lived in a small town till I moved up here
dim the lights, breathe in, look up at the stars
I'm certain, sure, this is the time to go home
time to say good night

come thunderstorms of reason and my eyes are open wide
don't know what I'm feeling, don't know why I cried
you made my dreams
you made my dreams
in pools of blonde I surely fall
you made my dreams
you made my dreams
and hung them on the wall

it's a simple game of dominance
butterfly from side to side
there's an orange on the coffee table
in the sunflower season as the fires die down, coals glow
there's a red light in the public window
and the cavalier with yellow pills and tales of Leeds
and bamboo chairs and shields of war
there's music on the radio
in the garden as the darktime fell
french badges on the edges
she was murdered but only in the song
the warming bells, the queen of swords
distant tunes from long ago
I'm five, ten, seventeen, hard to tell
I'm still excited by the night
so much I have to do, it's warm in here
the wind outside presses on a crow sky

the purple cloak of cover, the invitation fires
and burning in the ashes, on the edges, by the sides
you take my dreams
you take my dreams
in pools of blonde I surely fall
you take my dreams
you take my dreams
and hang them on the wall

still 20 inside and just then
put out the light and shut the night away from me
a man in a red car
eyes glaze over
crying for his mother again
a girl in a green cabriolet
Annie June
don't think she'll get far
meeting her boss for a drink in a bar
a man on a sideline taking it easy
taking it in through a straw
he doesn't dare, standing there,
to say what he feels
pick the wrong ideas
slice the sky with green and grey
I'm down by the tracks
you're on the other side
in the thrill of night
I'm holding out for security
draw the curtains carefully
something has begun
on stage left a thousand ships
stage right a thousand more
and in between uncertainty

hear the trumpet buglers sound the last resort
remembering both you and me, everything we thought
you build my dreams
you build my dreams
in pools of blonde I surely fall
you build my dreams
you build my dreams
and hang them on the wall

she's a sentient being, the other side of strange
thoughts of her own
she played violent robin
looking up she caught my eye
you know I'm from the old country
I kept it very quiet
you crept up on the near side
there for the uncovering, oh yeah
left the golden screen
big car worshipping vision skirt
ever since I heard you in an old man's voice
and a young man's heart and a tune so true
and now the glass falls
I press my fingers to the rim
I see right from both sides
there's something to be said for your view
and something for hers
still winding up her portcullis, her business and her friends
she looked fine to me, she smiled
what a time to be alive
she had green eyes

the fires grow dim and rosy, smoke is in her smile
the hills are shining violet, there's static in the skies
you fire my dreams
you fire my dreams
in pools of blonde I surely fall
you fire my dreams
you fire my dreams
and hang them on the wall

I'm going down slowly through Etruria
you can see I held on to most of me
while you travelled to the stars
the carmine box in the corner gently fluorescing
comes round again, the sky looks thin
images of Christine on the holy roman graves
a grin and bear it acrobat rides high
he says he knows his future so much more than mine
she is the queen of swords
her feet entwined in silver may, chains of celandine
I'm spending all my time gazing in a blue hand glass
covering a sixpence, vistas of fields, expressions of dreams
the carriage moves with silver wheels
she sitting there held by her stare
she can't pull back, her life misruled
from pages in an almanac
she still believes in god and other artifacts
describe the sulphur skies
number the numbers, speaking treacle
gilded angels hold the street outside
filled with wild horizons of painted silver plated suns
filling up the spaces, joining up the dots
you set your face against the wind heroic
an A line smile to soothe your eyes
my nerves shot thru
it's morning, walking down the road I'm disillusioned, no solutions
who knows where Kennedy was when I was shocked?
a light goes on in a window way across the street
what's written in a day cannot really age
stuck in the gate, flare
burning acetate

now I'm quietly lying here, trying to get some sleep
there for all uncovering, really what you see
you are my dreams
you are my dreams
in pools of blonde I Shirley fall
you are my dreams
you are my dreams
you hang them on the wall

we are our dreams
we are our dreams
from nothing we pull them from the air

Mike says : "This takes me back to my early Holyground days when I experimented with loops of tape - shame I didn't continue it really - I could have invented dance 25 years early! There are real and lived images here: the Hans Vall portrait of 'The Laughing Cavalier' and mixed up radio reports of dangerous pills being found in a strange far off city called Leeds - well it was far off to a 9 year old having nightmares in Garntham in Lincolnshire, some 110 miles south of where I now live. And to think I ended up working in Leeds! Strange world.

And this song is strange worlds - real, realistic, but odd, at an angle, not quite connected: 'slice the sky with green and grey'. So much of this means something to me but I could not for the universe and all that's in it actually EXPLAIN. Where did 'the orange on the coffee table in the sunflower season' come from? But I know it had to come, I know what it means.

The only image-moment where the reality is weirder and less explainable than the words here is "in pools of blonde I Shirley (surely) fall" - I had split up with Shirley at college, I'd left and she, being a year younger was still there. I went back one night to Kennel Block where the student bar was, and the WHOLE ROOM dimmed, and there, in a blonde halo, sharp, defined and beautiful, was Shirley. It really happened - and she isn't even blonde! - 'we are our dreams, from nothing we pull them from the air'. And she came back and we are still happily together".
 
 

Mike Levon in the studio    photo Robert Taylor © Holyground 2001

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May 30th 2001 © Holyground.