Thea Gilmore – Small World Turning
Shameless – 17 May 2019
I’ve said it before, but it’s worth repeating: right from the start of her career, Thea’s always been one of the most proudly uncategorisable of those artists who by default tend to get all-too-conveniently tagged “singer-songwriter”. Her output has been one of an extraordinary consistency, both in terms of artistic quality and vision, and even though each new album may turn away from the mainstream to explore a slightly different musical path there’s always Thea’s resolute and distinctive voice and writing shining through loud and clear with her message to the world. – which we ignore at our peril, of course. Having already (over the course of two decades now) given us some of the most memorable and thought-provoking lyrics of and for our age, it might be hard to envisage that Thea will still be able to deliver the goods with each new collection of songs – but she does!
Small World Turning is Thea’s 16th collection, following on the heels of three successive Top 40 albums (Regardless, Ghosts & Graffiti and The Counterweight) with absolutely no diminution of impact. Each and every song is a masterpiece of economy, inhabiting its own “small world” you might say and with totality. Two whole years have passed since the release of The Counterweight, and our own small world has continued to turn – in some ways out of control or unrecognisably. In direct response to which, Thea once again proves herself the most acute observer of humanity; her commentaries-in-song being both insightful and air-punchingly right-on while couched in memorable poetry and memorable hook-laden music.
The album’s main menu is framed by two very different lullabies. The first thing we hear is the traditional children’s lullaby Mockingbird, here sung unaccompanied by mother-of-two Thea, but this is little more than a snippet of memory, childhood innocence that’s soon (and hastily) brushed aside, faded out well before its conclusion, to be supplanted by (and forced to yield to) the real world and its driven complex of barriers, restrictions, regulations and rules.
Indeed, the concept of barriers (literal and metaphorical) forms what is the most pervasive, and probably the most crucial, of the album’s thematic connecting threads (for all that on a purely musical basis Thea’s songs tend to transcend, rather than observe or epitomise, any barriers and boundaries of genre). Cutteslowe Walls tells of the building, and removal after 20 years, of the physical boundaries of the walls dividing Oxford City Council’s Cutteslowe estate from private housing, and Thea cleverly expands this into a recurring motif, symbolising division that’s both fuelled by and giving rise to disaffection. Thea’s unbridled blazing anger at the needless barriers created by endemic racism rages through The Revisionist, whose swaggering, tub-thumping beatscape depicts the flag-waving motherf***ers (and yes, that word still has the capacity to shock), the marching fools of the New Right. Shake Off Those Chains is a brooding, pulsing bluesy-gospel piece (kind of reminiscent of an old prison work-song), exhorting us to “crawl out from under that thumb”, break free and set each other free from the chains of command. In total contrast, the album’s closing lullaby Dreamers is a thing of delicate, hymnal beauty that contains some of the album’s most lovely imagery. It’s a song of great reassurance, sung as by a mother aspiring to cross the Mexican border with her child.
Dreamers is one of a handful of songs on the album demonstrating that Thea’s anger and defiance are also a kind of barrier in themselves, a defensive one that may appear to overwhelm or even conceal the Thea within, her considerable tenderness and intense humanity. It may well appear that these qualities are being held captive by the invective and the need to constantly rail against and defy what’s happening all around her in this small world as it turns inexorably. The truly gorgeous Don’t Dim Your Light For Anyone is a kind of companion piece to Dreamers, a deceptively simple statement that tellingly combines tender, entirely necessary reassurance with a tough resilience, rather in the manner of a spiritual. And at the centre of the disc rests a real jewel, the piano-backed ballad Karr’s Lament, being the most exquisite expression of Thea’s deeply melancholic yearning. It’s stacked with unforgettable images in lines like “the water’s sewing sequins on the glass” and “let the darkness wrap its arms around my waist”, coming to rest on the hope-filled assertion that “somewhere there’s a song I haven’t heard”, as “the road rolls on”.
The album’s other principal thread, of course, is one which runs right through Thea’s whole œuvre: her barbed critique of contemporary society, social interaction and social media. Here, the incisive commentary is often couched within a deceptively cheery musical setting (a time-honoured device latterly associated with the mighty Chumbawamba); for example, the punchy anthem to the power of music The Fuse (Let It All Come Down) is chirpily ushered in à-la-Whistling Jack Smith, and the catchy, rowdy-pub-chatter-bedecked character-portrait Blowback uncannily recalls Small Faces classic Lazy Sunday. The two modes alternate on Glory, where the condemnatory rhythm-fuelled mantra of the verse yields to a more melodic chorus. Then, on the other hand, Grandam Gold (the title being a back-reference to Chaucer’s description of hoarded wealth and the grip of misers on their gains), heralds a surprisingly lyrical call-to-arms encouraging us all to take a stand against these rogues, to “accept what is simple and defend what is right”.
Another recurring trait of Thea’s writing which is strongly in evidence on this latest offering is her way of drawing us into the argument through canny quotes or near-quotes of, or quasi-references to, familiar song lyrics from our collective memory. To mention just a few instances: “It’s all over now baby blue” occurs on The Fuse; the Hard Rain refrain “where will you go, my blue-eyed son” runs through country-flavoured The Loading Game; and the riposte “livin’ ain’t easy” introduces Shake Off Those Chains.
Having concentrated thus far mostly on Thea’s lyrics, I need to turn the spotlight on Thea’s collaborators for this latest project, whose bright, alert and creative settings so brilliantly tune into and match Thea’s vision. Her core backing troupe consists of multi-instrumentalist husband, producer and “fuel to engine” Nigel Stonier, bass player Matt Owens and percussionist Michael Blair. Additionally, nailing their own distinctive colours to the mast so to speak, we find a select handful of illustrious names from the UK folk world whose contributions impart something of an affectionately rootsy-folky flavour to the proceedings and genuinely enhance rather than detract from the import of Thea’s words. These extra musicians include Cara Dillon (whistle on Don’t Dim Your Light For Anyone, voice and whistle on Grandam Gold), Ciaran Algar (fiddle and tenor banjo), Sam Lakeman (piano), Seth Lakeman (violins on The Loading Game), Liz Hanks (cello), Matt Burke (trumpet), Seadna McPhail (percussion) and Nigel’s son Egan (fiddle on Dreamers), while Katriona Gilmore and Jamie Roberts provide backing vocals on the first couple of songs.
Small World Turning is another splendid collection of songs from one of the UK’s top songwriters, still very much at the top of her game and still refreshingly unafraid to tell unpalatable home truths and speak out in defence of her uncompromising take on today’s world. Only one small mystery remains – the puzzling omission of the brief composition that gives the album its title. It turns out to be a poem, one which pithily encapsulates the album’s concerns; fortunately, you can find its text, along with Thea’s own robust rendition, on her website. Completion assured, then, and mission accomplished.
Small World Turning is out now available on Digital | CD | Vinyl. Order via Amazon