Get all 10 Dave Gibb releases available on Bandcamp and save 25%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Feeling Good.....Looking Better, Speed Of The Plough, Story Song, Galena, Motherload, Goldscaur, Avalon, Giggles, and 2 more.
1. |
The Pensioners' Do
05:18
|
|||
|
The Pensioners’ Do
2005 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
The air inside the village hall was smelling nice and clean
With a whiff of Vim and Harpic and a tinge on Windowlene
The floor was swept, the windows washed – it was looking nice and new
All ready for the pensioners and their annual Christmas do
The table lined along the walls were formed into a square
And it must be said the look of it had a festive, yuletide air
There were angels, stars and cherubim pinned along the walls
And hanging decorations made of quilted toilet rolls
One by one they all arrived and settled in their place
Making pleasant small talk as they waited to say grace
They talked about the weather and were desperate to hear
All about the operations each had suffered since last year
The Brownies brought them bowls of broth in fancy patterned plates
And they got stuck in with their pinkies out in a sophisticated way
But one old guy who, I have to say, was terribly uncouth
Quickly slipped his false teeth out and started slurping soup
Now one old dear who had noticed this said – In the name of god
Will you take that spoon out of your face and put your teeth back in your gob
But the old guy just looked puzzled and said – If there’s one thing I hate
It’s bits of beef and lentil getting stuck beneath my plate
And a bald wee guy sitting next to him with a fancy hearing aid
Said – Is that yon moaning woman on the bloody moan again?
She’s always giving someone grief ‘cause she’s crabbit right enough
Don’t take any of her nonsense man, just tell her to shut up
Well the woman’s hubby took offence at this insulting slight
Although he didn’t disagree too much, well he knew what he was like
But he knew he must defend his wife against such common scum
So he threw a buttered bread roll at the guy with the shiny gums
His aim had never been too good it really must be said
And the bread roll missed the gumsy guy and hit a granny’s head instead
It went bouncing off her silver hair and she shouted – What the Heck!
If it wasn’t for this catheter I’d come and wring your neck
Well one thing lead to another and before too very long
I suppose you’d have to say there was a riot going on
Brownies huddled in the corner wondering how they would survive
When whistles blew and the door flew in ‘cause the police had arrived
The chief inspector shouted out – All right then that’ll do
We’ve got better ways to spend our time than deal with the likes of you
I’m going to take you to the station and I’m going to lock you up
If you post-menopausal yobbos do not sit down and shut up
Oh get it up ye – one wee woman shouted from the back
We’ll not have some young whippersnapper talk to us like that
The chief inspector huffed and puffed and said – Ain’t that just fine
One more word I’ll shove this baton where the sun will never shine
Well that just kicked it off again worse than it was before
Grannies swinging from the wall bars, police squirming on the floor
But one by one the police dragged them out into the night
And the Brownies looked around them at the remnants of the fight
There were broken cups and saucers lying all around the floor
Zimmer frames and walking sticks and hearing aids galore
False teeth by the dozen and a glass eye by the door
And someone’s blood and guts festooned the wall
At the Christmas do for pensioners in the local village hall
Well things have quietened down again; they’re all friends now one and all
And they’ve pretty much forgotten about the rumpus in the hall
But one thing they still talk about – that to this day makes them wince
It’s that the chief inspector’s baton hasn’t been seen since
|
||||
2. |
Male Menopausal Blues
03:40
|
|||
|
The Male Menopausal Blues
2000 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
I can’t do what I could do yesterday
Though I want to just as much I have to say
The desire is just as strong but the ability’s all gone
Like a rat it jumped the ship and swam away
This body used to treat me like a friend
Now it droops and sags and groans and willnae bend
And when it does it willnae straighten without the organs palpitating
Decrepitude must just be round the bend
Now I’m wearing tartan slippers instead of platform shoes
I’ve got these old male menopausal blues
This mind and body used to be a team
Working well together – like a dream
And I know it sounds absurd but they’ve obviously had words
They’ve started working independently it seems
For the mind is thinking candlelit romance
And the body says – forget it pal no chance
There’s no point in you complaining I won’t rise to your occasion
I’m downing tools, I’m going on strike, I’ve left the dance
I pull my pants up to my armpits so they keep my chest warm too
I’ve got these old male menopausal blues
Well you look at me and you think – he’s not that old
But I’ve started taking flushes – hot and cold
And my chest muscles hurt a lot, they’ve started bouncing when I walk
It’s all down hill from here or so I’m told
Now when I go to get my hair cut they cut my nose hairs too
I’ve got these old male menopausal blues
Now I must include the prostate in this song
Because eventually it’s going to go wrong
Is it the fate of every man to sit for hours on the pan?
And drip the night away from dust till dawn
I’ve started wearing cardigans and Fairisle tank-tops too
I’ve got these old male menopausal blues
I’m using Ralgex for deodorant so I’ve nothing left to lose
I’ve got these old male menopausal blues
|
||||
3. |
White Men Dancing
04:47
|
|||
|
White Men Can’t Dance
2004 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
You’ve numbed your bum and you watched the couple who
Plighted their troth for better or for worse
You stood at the hotel and you wished the wee souls well
As the naively stepped out of the wedding hearse
You gobbled down the food that was really rather good
And you didn’t dribble drink all down your front
But you know that you are heading for the moment you’ve been dreading
Cause the band’s arrived and the dancing has begun
You’re sitting at the table wondering how you will be able
To avoid the looks your wife is wont to through
But no matter how you try you’re going to have to catch her eye
So you sigh and shrug and say – All right let’s go
You know there never was a chance you could avoid this bloody dance
You’re just going to have to jive and that is that
But it is very well you know that when you step on to that floor
And you start to move you’ll look just like a twat
White men only look balletic when they’re pissed or paralytic
It’s just the way the good lord had us made
It may be that it’s genetic or just sad and quite pathetic
But you really must believe me when I say
White men cannot dance – No bloody way
The posers jiving in the corner trying to look like John Travolta
With their swivel hips and their fancy flying feet
OK they look like fools but they’re the exception to the rule
At least their feet are flying to the beat
But over here among the squares who are devoid of dancing flair
And whose feet are trained to never move with grace
The only flying thing’s the sweat that’s pouring of your chin
As you try to keep that smile fixed to your face
At last the song comes to an end and you remember once again
What it takes to lift your feet and make them move
It really is astounding as you’re almost damned near bounding
Off the dance floor back towards your seat and booze
The embarrassment dies down, no one’s looking at you now
As you pretend that it was really all OK
You can sit now and relax and let the sweat pour down you back
Until she starts to draw you daggers once again
White men only look balletic……
Well what more can I say White men are not designed that way
To express ones self in the language of the dance
We can’t bend or groove or flow, we’ve got no rhythm in our soul
We’d gladly sit and watch if given half a chance
But we self-consciously gyrate standing tall and stiff and straight
You’d think that someone shoved a poker up our bum
Every single muscle’s clenched and every sinew’s tight and tense
In an attempt to make her think we’re having fun
White men only look balletic……
|
||||
4. |
The Numpty Song
04:52
|
|||
|
Numpty Song
2002 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
She gives a wee shudder as sleep fades away
And awareness creeps into her head
She remembers going out to get plastered last night
But forgets how she got to her bed
She snuggles the duvet and turns herself round
Then snaps wide awake in alarm
Sticking out of the covers with its mouth open wide
Is the head of a strange looking man
His eyes a glued shut with some mattery stuff
Where he’s dribbled the pillow is wet
His top lip has somehow got stuck to his teeth
And he fills up the room with stale breath
He doesn’t quite snore but as I mentioned before
He sleeps with his mouth open wide
She could happily pass a wee hour or two
Counting the fillings inside
Oh no never no more I won’t go out drinking again
Some numpty takes over my body it seems
Whenever I’m out of my head
He gives a wee grunt and a groan and a snore
As he prises his eyelids apart
And his tongue tries to lift his top lip from his teeth
As he waits for the brainwaves to start
He remembers the dancing, the noise and the booze
But he can’t quite remember much more
Then he looks at the ceiling – thinks – this ceiling’s pink
Gone yersell ya wee beauty I’ve scored
He turns himself round to look at his prize
He can’t quite believe what he sees
He stares into a pair of mascara-smudged eyes
Man, she looks like a panda on speed
The lipstick and powders and paint have been smudged
All over her face and her gob
And the overall look is of a painting once done
By a very stoned Vincent van Gough
Oh no never no more……
She pulls herself up, puts her head in her hands
And says – My god I must have been pissed
To let you come in here to spend the whole night
And all for ten minutes of bliss
Oh wait a wee minute, come off it – he says
What you’re saying is not very nice
And what do you mean by ten minutes of bliss
Didn’t think I could manage it twice
Aye right sonny boy – she says -that’s what you wish
But you’ve got to say that I suppose
Well I hate to deflate your wee ego but
I’ve had more fun picking oose out my toes
And anyway if I remember things right
And I’m pretty sure that I do
It’s your turn to make us the breakfast in bed
And get the kids ready for school
Oh no never no more……
|
||||
5. |
One More Cigarette
03:45
|
|||
|
One More Cigarette
2003 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
I opened up the packet that holds twenty sticks of bliss
And delicately placed the cigarette between my lips
I lit it; settled back and let my lungs fill up with smoke
And all the pleasure points inside my head went into overload
All the things I’d been concerned about just slowly slipped away
As the nicotine destroyed the cares and worries if the day
I held my breath a moment then I slowly let it go
And all the thoughts that nipped my nut pour out my nostrils with the smoke
Oh just one more cigarette
My brain thought its in heaven as I took another breath
But then I felt a rumble starting in the middle of my chest
It was slowly climbing upwards till it lodged inside my throat
Then doesn’t travel any further and that’s when I start to choke
I tried to breath but couldnae, I was trying hard to speak
But the only sound I made was a pathetic muffled squeak
Still this stuff’s inside my gullet I was trying to cough out
I end up flapping on the carpet like a newly landed trout
Then flying out my gob came this big massive lump of tar
It could take the turret off a Panzer tank at forty-seven yards
I was lying gasping on the carpet really feeling rubber ducked
That’s when I came to the decision – these fags are getting chucked
Oh just one more cigarette
So I was wapping on the patches everywhere that I have skin
Then I’d have a cigarette until the nicotine kicked in
The cravings and anxieties were really hitting hard
And every fibre of my being screamed – come on da geeza fag
I was chewing on the curtains, I was screaming at the weans
I was biting heads of kittens it was driving me insane
I was gnawing on my toenails, I was spitting out the bits
I was swearing at the neighbours who were getting on my tits nerves
Oh just one more cigarette
Well I think I’ve done quite well to go this long without a smoke
I’ve given up forever now – at least that’s what I hope
I’ve stopped so many times before but I’ll make it stick this time
Its been twenty seven minute now and I think I’m doing fine
How the nicotine would hit my brain I still remember yet
And the way the smoke would fill my lungs I really won’t forget
To be a slave to cigarettes is something I won’t miss
I think I’ll have one to remind me just how stupid smoking is
Oh just one more cigarette
Oh just one more cigarette
|
||||
6. |
||||
|
The Night of the Fiery Mitts at The Wanlockhead Inn
2005 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
N.B. A Slippery Nipple is a cocktail of Sambuca and Bailies. It is very nice
It was four o’clock in the morning when I came to on the floor
Wondering how on earth I’d got there – what I’d done the night before
I was lying in the kitchen in that shivery-drunken state
So I peeled my cheek off the lino and tried to sit up straight
Once my head stopped spinning and the heavy breathing stopped
I uncrossed my eyes and tried my best to focus on the wall
Then this blinding light exploded and she was towering o’er my head
And with a look that dripped disgust her eyes said all that needed said
I was not a very pretty sight I really must admit
Saliva caked my cheek and dribbles dripping from my lip
My shirt was stained with alcohol and “stuff” stuck to my clothes
The remnants of some fresh regurgitation I suppose
I thought - I’ll get some pity with a made up tale of woe
But when I put my brain in gear I found my mouth refused to go
It was an incoherent ramble cause the words just weren’t there
But she just said –Shut up and tell me why you smell of burning hair
I thought – Oh no – but I said – Ah yes - as I had become aware
Of a rather pungent singey smell pollute the kitchen air
And the smell brought back the memory, or what was left of it,
Of Moffat’s Slippery Nipples and the night of the fiery mitts
There was a nice wee crowd for a Sunday night – a civilised soiree
James the barman poured the booze - we were quiet and well behaved
But also there, perched at the bar in his understated way
Was a Moffat sitting smiling - mischief pouring from his face
He said –I’ve found a drink you’ll like - have a go at one of these
Its Sambuca topped with Baileys, it slips down your throat a treat
And as you’re off tomorrow Gibb here’s a chance you cannot miss
In fact line up those Slippery Nipples James – we’re going to get him pished
Aye and pished I got believe me I could hardly say my name
A drink called Cheeky Vimto? – It got hammered just the same
We were talking drunken drivel – which of course we thought was wit
And then occurred the incident that led to the fiery mitts
A Slippery Nipple’s wonderful it really must be said
But when James ran out of Baileys it was Sambuca straight instead
I was far to drunk to notice but even so it seemed all right
But no one ever said they set the bloody stuff alight
I grabbed the glass to down it in a oner like a man
Unaware that I was holding an inferno in my hand
And as I turned around to answer someone calling out my name
Some fire jumped out the glass and Whoosh! My hand went up in flames
I shrieked and moved the glass of flame from my left hand to my right
And to dowse my fiery burning mitt I flapped the air in fright
But this just shook my other hand – and you’ve guessed it I can tell
Some stuff spilled from the glass and my right hand went up as well
Quick as a flash I placed the glass of hellfire on the bar
And I stood and stared at my burning mitts – well you know how slow drunks are
A thought came slowly to me – Why are your hands now spouting flame
Followed quickly by – Its only cause you’re drunk you feel no pain
Panic – said another thought – and get these flames put out
So I raised my arms in the air and started flapping them about
With my burning hands above my head I was shrieking in alarm
Like a blazing ballerina without the grace, or style or charm
Well the flames went out and my hands came down I was glad to be alive
But my hands were bald up to wrist not a follicle survived
My mitts were like a burned out stretch of wasteland – warm and bare
Where wisps of smoke rose silently from blackened crispy hair
Well it all goes blank from there on in – I remember nothing more
Until I woke up in the morning with my face stuck to the floor
With my peach-pip standing over me awaiting my reply
I’d better tell the truth I thought so I gave up trying to lie
I went to the pub for one wee drink I grovelled through the pain
But I met a big bad man down there and he led poor me astray
It seems that I got pished, dear heart, and my hands were all aflame
But it wasn’t me it was Moffat’s slippery nipples you’ve to blame
|
||||
7. |
A Gypsy Called Davy
03:13
|
|||
|
A Gypsy Called Davy
2003 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
A gypsy called Davy went walking one day
Not far from his dad’s caravan
A lusty pubescent he’d just reached that stage
Somewhere between boy and man
He walked through the trees and the bluebells and thought
Of the glorious wonders of spring
And a soft-scented breeze wafted down from the trees
And ruffled the fluff on his chin – I say
Ruffled the fluff on his chin
Now little did he know he wasn’t alone
Because also out walking that day
Was a wee village maiden with dyed yellow hair
Either that or she dyed her roots grey
And when I say maiden I use the term loosely
She was quite fancy-free for the times
And she didn’t set snares for rabbits or hares
It was young bucks she had on her mind – I say
Young bucks she had on her mind
She glimpses a shadow - she hears a twig break
So she pricks up her ears to make sure
She hears someone approach – she gets down on her knees
A position she’s been in before
And as he gets closes she huddles down lower
And gets herself ready and set
When he’s in range she leaps out at her prey
Like a lion at a wildebeest’s neck – I say
A lion at a wildebeest’s neck
Nine months down the line and she’s flat on her back
Trying to get this wee baby to shift
She’s puffing and panting and pushing and swearing
Ah! The glorious wonders of birth
She claims that a gypsy, a soldier, a sailor
A lord or some other male swine
Took advantage of her naive ways
And copped more than a bunch of her thyme – I say
Copped more than a bunch of her thyme
So if you’re out walking alone in the woods
And you spy a wee maid with dyed hair
Forget about fun boy – you just turn and run
As fast as you can out of there
I’ve heard that these woods are infested with maidens
Who’ll set upon all the can get
Well I’ve walked these woods now for twenty five years
And I haven’t been set upon yet – I say
I haven’t been set upon yet
|
||||
8. |
A Drone's Life
02:09
|
|||
|
A Drone’s Life
2005 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
He wrote a song about the well bred-bees of Wanlockhead
But he never thought about us poor wee drones
He spends time penning lines about the women of the hive
Precocious wee princesses every one
With their fancy Gucci handbags and tiaras on their head
Their makeup, perms and freshly painted wings
As daughter of a queen each thinks the sun shines out its bum
And it might if it wasn’t for the sting
While they’re out in the sunshine buzzing round the place all day
Enjoying all the nice clean air and getting tanned
They keep us locked inside with just our booze and cigarettes
Watching telly with our doofers in our hand
Well there’s nothing much to do if you’re a drone inside a hive
The way they keep us in our place - it never fails
‘Cause there are very few of us and there are millions of them
This is a sisterhood and these sisters don’t like males
So you very quickly learn to keep your feelers to yourself
And don’t ever try to look them in the eye
Don’t ever buzz your wings at them or whistle at their stings
Or you can wave your wee bee droney bits goodbye
You wonder why they keep us – it’s not for our repartee
We’re just sperm donors with a buzz and nothing more
A quick zoom round a royal bee and that’s your life’s work done
They take your booze and fags and kick you out the door
So you’ve got to make the most of it while waiting on your turn
To be a plaything’s just your lot if you’re a drone
They use us and abuse us till they’ve finally had enough
They only want our wee bee bodies nothing more
So the well-bred bees of Wanlockhead work on from day to day
Buzzing round the heather as has always been their way
But us poor drone inside the hive just mosey on along
With nothing in our future but one hump – and then your gone
|
||||
9. |
2 a.m. Fish Supper
03:39
|
|||
|
The 2 a.m. Fish Supper
2005 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
We had a little falling out, my loveykins and me
Probably about some show to watch on the T.V.
As usual she was winning and I thought – enough’s enough
So in a very grownup manly way I stormed out in the huff
Well I ended up down at the pub and quite before I knew
I’d had one pint too many and was really rather fu’
But I hung around till closing time just boozing on my own
The barman shouted out last orders so I headed off for home
Luigi’s deep fry restaurant was beckoning to me
So I stepped inside to see what deep-fried food there was to eat
I bought a nice fish supper when a thought flashed through my brain
I’m going to get one for my peach-pip so she’ll talk to me again
I don’t know why I do it - it’s a mystery is this
The things I think will make her happy when I’m absolutely pissed
So I made it home and settled down to tuck into my food
It was getting cold by this time but still it tasted good
But hers had just congealed into a lump of fish and chips
I thought – She’s going to be so happy when I wake her up for this
I crept upstairs and slowly opened up the bedroom door
And the only sound I heard was a contented happy snore
I shook her by the shoulders and I burped into her ear
Waken up because I’ve brought you home a feast fit for a queen
I don’t know why I do it - it’s a mystery is this
The things I think will make her happy when I’m absolutely pissed
I don’t know what went wrong but, well she wasn’t very pleased
She shrieked and then she shouted – Are you aff yer piiggin’ heed
She hit my hand quite viscously - I thought a tad unfair
Then fish and chips and wrapper tumbled through the bedroom air
It’s been weeks since it happened though it’s never talked about
But I steer clear of Luigi’s any time I’m going out
And although I cleaned the bedroom - even underneath the bed
I still find chips behind the wardrobe and I’ll bet there’s more there yet
I don’t know why I do it it’s a mystery is this
The things I think will make her happy when I’m absolutely pissed
|
||||
10. |
Bombed Out Bucky Blues
03:10
|
|||
|
The Bombed Out Bucky Blues
1999 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
N.B. This is about the wine, not the place (Buckie). The place is nicer.
They tell me there are mountains somewhere way up there
With bens and glens and kilted men and shepherds everywhere
They say that they’ve got heather there of every shade and hue
While I’m stuck here in Muirhouse with the bombed out bucky blues
The bombed out bucky blues, the bombed out bucky blues
I’m stuck down here in Muirhouse with the bombed out bucky blues
They took me up there long ago to try their rural ways
Their nights crammed full of emptiness and their long dull boring days
They drink this stuff called whisky there – an evil tasting brew
So I buggered back to Muirhouse and the bombed out bucky blues
The bombed out bucky blues, the bombed out bucky blues
I buggered back to Muirhouse and the bombed out bucky blues
It’s thick and red and sickly sweet what makes me love it so?
It clears my tubes and gets to places other wines can’t go
It sends me to oblivion with those blinding headaches too
It makes me slaver just to think of these bombed out bucky blues
The bombed out bucky blues, the bombed out bucky blues
It makes me slaver just to think of these bombed out bucky blues
And when it hits my stomach man it gives a mighty heave
And everything I’ve just poured in decides it wants to leave
It hurtles up my gullet and pours down my nostrils too
Its not all fun and laughter – these bombed out bucky blues
The bombed out bucky blues, the bombed out bucky blues
Its not all fun and laughter – these bombed out bucky blues
These monks are praised where bucky’s drunk and praised quite rightly too
Well I’ve often shouted on their boss with my head rammed down the loo
Monastical theology night mean naff all to you
But to the monks of Buckfast Abbey it’s the bombed out bucky blues
The bombed out bucky blues, the bombed out bucky blues
To the monks of Buckfast Abbey it’s the bombed out bucky blues
|
||||
11. |
Cowboy Song
02:52
|
|||
|
Cowboy Song
2002 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
My lady don’t do nothin’ she just sits around all day
Watchin’ country music on TV
And now I feel neglected cause she disnae want to play
Aye, she’ll go down on the bayou but she won’t go down on me
And I would like to meet the numpty who told her she could sing
Now she’s learning country ditties by the score
And I’ll never understand why she sings Don’t Fence Me In
When we’re living on the twenty-seventh floor
I watch the cowboys round our way as they mosey on down the street
With their John Wayne walks they really are a sight
They like to think they’re outlaws in the Wild West frontier
Then again they come from Stonehouse so it could be that they’re right
With his cowboy hat upon his head and his boots upon his feet
And his pair of bullhorns nailed above the door
He would love to buy a pony if he could fit it in the lift
To take it to the twenty-seventh floor
I’m sick of kid-on cowboys and their sentimental songs
About their horses, dogs and wives and weans and beer
They dream of roping doggies and branding all day long
I’d like to see them try to rope and brand the cows you get round here
With his spurs that jingle jangle and a roll up in his face
He nonchalantly leans against the door
He would love to buy a cattle ranch if only he’d the space
In his wee flat on the twenty-seventh floor
|
||||
12. |
Doggies
01:02
|
|||
|
Doggies
2005 Dave Gibb MCPS/PRS
The thing about wee doggies are those little pile of jobbies
That somehow always seem to end up underneath your shoes
They jobby here, they jobby there, they jobby every bloody where
You cannot walk along the pavement for the piles of puppy poo
Now I don’t know why folk keep them unless it’s just to skin and eat them
Like they do in south East Asia where they keep their mutts for food
The don’t groom them, they don’t spoil them, they just casserole or boil them
And they say you’ve never lived until you’ve tasted puppy stew
When they talk about good dog food – they mean Labradors that taste good
And I don’t really think it’s up to us to criticise
They let their food run round their home then whack! It’s puppy on the bone
And when they say they’re going to wok the dog they don’t mean exercise
But over here they take them walkies all these owners and their doggies
I really find it hard sometimes to say who’s walking who
I’m sure you must have seen them with not a lot to choose between them
They start to look like one another – some even share the same I.Q.
All those different shapes and breeds – the way we’ve bent them to our needs
It is never wise to interfere with evolution’s course
They say in time I’ll learn to love them but the only way I’d have one
Is stir-fried in a bun with lots of HP sauce
|
||||
Dave Gibb Wanlockhead, UK
Left Handed, Balding, Post Menopausal, Songwriting Folky from Scotland’s Highest
Village.
A singer of songs and a teller of tales from the hills of Dumfries & Galloway who happily fingerpicks his way through life’s travails.
Songs funny or sad, happy or grim, meaningful or meaningless played fast or slow (sometimes both at the same time)…….He likes a giggle.
... more
If you like Dave Gibb, you may also like:
The Edge of the Land
by Katie Spencer
Spencer's indie folk sophomore album was recorded live in the studio over the course of two days.
go to album
Isasa makes contemplative and emotionally rich fingerstyle guitar in the mode of John Fahey and Jack Rose.
go to album
Sorry I'm So Sensitive
by Bea Stewart
The second EP from Northern Irish singer-songwriter Bea Stewart runs from gentle folk to pillowy pop ballads, all perfectly executed.
go to album
Michelle Stodart’s folk music captures hope in melancholy, addressing the transformational aspects of the most challenging times.
go to album
Veneer (20th Anniversary Deluxe Edition)
by José González
featured on Bandcamp Radio Aug 29, 2023
go to album
Once Upon A Time In Montréal
by Murray A. Lightburn
The folk artist explores grief through these smooth and soulful tracks.
go to album
Our Blood Is Red
by Luke James Williams
Emotive acoustic balladry from this UK musician with heart on sleeve and hushed arrangements.
go to album
