Several years ago, in my pursuit of Scandinavian aural transcendence, I went to a music festival in Gothenburg. Fleet Foxes were one of the headline acts that year, and while their dreamy jingle-jangles were appropriate enough a soundtrack for a sunset in a park, my lustful incantations at the sight of their drummer on the big screen most certainly were not. Reader, I think I actually bayed at the moon. This man was so composed, so elegant; yet was imbued with the essence of ROCK. After some careful internet stalking, I discovered that the familiar man was J Tillman, a musician and songwriter of some note whose albums had been forced upon me years earlier by a hippie Canadian colleague in the vegetarian whole food cooperative where we both worked at the time (yeah, I know – you can sack me off if you want). He’s once again solo, once again brilliant, and more beautiful than ever. Do your vagina a favour.
(For you, Lizzie. A tough week deserves some #metime fodder. Xxx)