Audio Scrawl

‘That was the first time me and my band played all those songs, and it was still very new to us... we were still very amateur.’

Live At Madison Square Garden is the latest album from Canadian singer/songwriter Shawn Mendes. It does what it says on the tin – a live audio of his performance at MSG back in September of this year. It is a stunning collection for an artist so young, and upon first listening, instantly iconic. If you’ve never particularly cared for him before, I recommend listening to this above his studio records; it will restore your faith in talent.

The tracks vary in genre, from pop to soul to rock and roll. Kid In Love has a warm reggae vibe, reminiscent of hot liquor and late afternoon sun, while Life Of The Party is a pure pop ballad. There is something for everybody, girl or boy, young or old.

Throughout the album we’re treated to improv that’s genuinely unrehearsed, as if Shawn were back in his room for a moment, tinkering with ideas. It is so rare to see an artist do that on stage; it creates a profound intimacy that makes him very easy to love.

“I got this little sing-a-long for you guys.” He tickles his guitar. “Just repeat after me.”

When his voice strains, you can see his flushed face in your mind’s eye, his damp brow, the veins in his throat. He never apologises for a glitch in tone or the rogue slip of a note; he commits himself to his craft fully, even if that means an imperfect delivery, and that is something to be greatly revered. The sexy funk of Ruin tears his voice beautifully at the edges as it follows the rich, souly vibe, and the warbling guitar will have you swaying in no time. If kids still smoked, there’d be lighters in the air.

Shawn is brilliant with the crowd. He tames the mob with disarming compassion and a gentle firmness that many older singers have yet to master.

“You guys OK out there? Everyone still feeling good? Wow, thank you so much for coming down tonight.” He throws in thanks regularly, and you can hear him smiling as he talks. His humility does not go unnoticed and his fans are quick to affirm him at every creative turn.

Bad Reputation, already a passionate song in its own right, is utterly let loose on the audience, shameless and raw. Shawn references this song in an Instagram livesteam, just before the album's release; “It sounds insane!” he gushes. “It sounds crazy...  If you can’t sing a song better live, then you’re doing something wrong.”  

The last track on the album, Stitches, perhaps Mendes’ best known song, reaching number 1 in the UK, is executed with such tenderness you don’t recognise it at first. It’s all melancholy piano and gorgeous wailings, and then – BAM, it’s unleashed without warning, 100% energy, the perfect send off. The crowd screams mournfully as the show dissolves, and your ears will be left ringing long after the fade out. The remedy for that is to do what I did, and listen to it all over again.

©‎ AUDIOSCRAWL // emilysafe

The first few notes of Lights On found my ears amidst the late-night chatter. It was past midnight, and we were snug in my car, hurtling through the dark. I fumbled in vain with the volume dial, my fingers greasy and useless from the hot chips balancing on my thighs. Their warmth, uncontained by the polystyrene tray, pooled unpleasantly in my lap. My whole car reeked of vinegar. I shifted to change gear and a few rogue chips tumbled to the floor.

“Turn it up for me, Gem, would you.”

My best friend, riding shotgun, absently complied while continuing to chat with her husband Arron. He sat behind us in the back seat, stooped and sluggish with booze. I glanced in my rear-view every now and then to check on him.

Ruin came on shuffle and I gripped the steering wheel, my absolute favourite. The song reached its gentle caramel chorus. Arron sat up straight and his bloodshot eyes cleared a moment.

“Is this Shawn Mendes?” His voice was dulled by tipsy contentment but I heard the edge in it, the bristle of a person trying very hard to focus. I felt Gem smile quietly beside me. She cares little for pop singers, but is always gracious and humours me every day. She knew Arron’s comments would please me greatly.

“You what?” I laughed, eyes bent on the black road before us. The name sounded so bizarre in his mouth. “You know this song?”

I knew I was more surprised than I perhaps should have been, as if I was the only Shawn Mendes fan in the world over eighteen. With a full time job and a car, who paid rent and taxes.

“Yeh!” Arron cried, leaning forward. “I love this album so, so much! I listen to it on repeat every week when I drive back down to Cornwall.”

We came to a red light and I stopped the car abruptly. I twisted in my seat to face him. Arron’s a handsome thing, the classic navy lad; clean cut and generous, always an anecdote to hand. Tonight, despite the weather, he wore only a t-shirt, his tattoos aflame in the orange streetlights. He’ll be thirty in April. He gazed at me sleepily.

I grinned. “I thought it was only girls who liked him...”

“No!” Arron replied gleefully, “He’s got a great voice!” He leant back in his seat. “Yeh... such talent... I love it...” His head found the window and he relaxed into the glass. “I really like... what’s it called..?” He frowned with his eyes shut. “Three Empty Words...” He trailed off and his breathing slowed considerably.

Gem stretched over and prodded him. Satisfied, she grabbed a chip from my lap and skipped to Stitches. “The light’s green you know,” she whispered.

GOOD CHARLOTTE, Birmingham O2, August 27th 2016

Down in the back alley of one of the city’s many arteries, I stood inline. The air was leaden, close, but still with a bite that only the British summer can afford. I spotted some simple graffiti, a name scribbled in white across a shop's rear: Snape. The loaded word stood out stark and colourless along the red brick street, quite alone. 

Every five minutes or so, a fresh group of devotees would pass me on their way to the back of the line. A man in a tatty Def Leppard shirt flashed me a shy smile. The people here were nice. Seven on the dot and the queue juddered into life. I whispered goodbye to Snape and disappeared round the corner. As I was being frisked by security, I let my mind wander...

This band, what if they weren't my boys anymore? OK, so eleven years my senior they'd never been my "boys", but I mean - what if they'd spent a little too long naval-gazing off in their ironic LA mansions? What if they no longer recognised us? My friends back home were preparing my funeral: death by cringe. But heck, I hadn't driven a hundred and sixty miles for nothing, so I shook it off and even grinned as the female security guard ran her hands over my backside. “You’re all clear,” she declared, pushing be gently onward. I entered the delicious gloom and secured a place up high on the balcony, dead centre.  That evening, from my perfect view, I was witness to a thing quite beautiful. A whole ninety minutes so utterly unrushed it felt like a cosy black forever, and five men who played for us out of something I think may have been love. Good Charlotte are the best band I have ever seen live. Picture it, an inked-up quintet with almost twenty years of experience under their bandanas, a guitarist that still manages to pull off That Fringe, and a pair of twins who sing like two fallen angels with bad throats. It sounded incredibly good.  

With six angsty pop-punk studio albums, it was a pleasure to find that, in the flesh, their sound is heavy and mature; pure punk rock with a heart of gold. They even managed to deliver the emo acoustics with a kind of timeless energy - real emotion that, evidently, does not weary with age. Each track was sent out with a lingering note from Billy's guitar and a bewildered expression from Joel. He absolutely could not believe that we knew every word, let alone pay our hard-earned cash to come sing along with them. “Thank you,” he kept saying, “thank you for believing in us.” He shuffled on his feet, characteristically insecure. “We thought, you know…” He sighed. Benji picked up his thread. “Yeh guys, I mean, when we took a break in 2011 we were in a pretty bad spot.” He rolled his shoulders beneath his guitar strap. “And er, yeh… When we made this new record, we thought, would anyone even care if we came back?” My ears rang as the screams erupted around me; my heart lifted in my chest.

It occurred to me that from up here, I could quite easily climb down, crowd-surf the twenty yards to the stage, and give them all a cuddle. Grown men, still anxious about how they would be received by a mob of sweaty ruffians, some who weren’t even born when the first album dropped. You could call it all a bit sentimental, cliché, but to me it was only endearing. Too many bands see fit to punctuate their sets with a profound twaddle, but this was something else, this was real. I’d go so far to say I’d happily buy a mix-tape of all that vulnerable chit chat, never mind the killer songs. 

Good Charlotte, I love you.

© AUDIO SCRAWL // emilysafe

JUSTIN BIEBER, Birmingham BC Arena, October 17th 2016

With two words, my friend’s mother set a sickness to seed in my belly:      “Performing monkey.”

     That night, up high and in the dark, I watched as Justin Bieber performed his two hour circus, and quietly ruled the grim description to be true. He looked so small on stage, a half-pint superstar, with all the weight of the world on his shoulders. His enormous clothes swamped him, and I pictured him drowning. The onslaught of light and sound seemed to conspire against him, swallowing him up to the deranged screams of the crowd.

     Justin only sang about four songs in their entirety. The rest of the tracks relied heavily, if not totally, on play black and lip syncing. Once or twice he quit pretending altogether, the mic hanging limp by his thigh as he gazed out at us, his own recorded voice booming suspiciously about the stadium. When he remembered to dance, it was with tired limbs and a deadpan face, made all the more disturbing by his backing dancers who swirled and jiggled about him, caressing him, teasing him. But it was like Justin could not see them, it was like he was not there.

     Half an hour in and we were blessed with an acoustic set. No play back, no strobes, just a red velvet sofa and a guitar. I saw the passing shadow of a smile on Justin’s face as he sang Love Yourself. When everyone else shuts up and gets out of the way, his voice is absolutely stunning. He glowed as he sang, exhausted, but in that moment I think he was somewhere close to being happy. 

FAN PHOTO OF JUSTIN PERFORMING PURPOSE, BIRMINGHAM

     When he performed a stripped-back rendition of Purpose, my heart writhed with that shameful emotion that is pity. It was like watching a beautiful songbird in a cage, its wings wasted away from non-use. Justin dabbed at his cheekbone with the back of his hand (tears?) and showed us a glimpse of his softer side. Feeling vulnerable, it wasn’t long before he got upset with the crowd. He tried to talk to us, but the fans at his feet were hollering and shrieking to such a degree that the singer could barely hear himself think.

     “Please,” he said, “could you just chill out for a sec?” We tittered nervously, not sure where this was going. Another brat attack? Another onstage breakdown? “I appreciate the love,” he went on, “I really do, but just for a moment could you try showing your love for me in a different way? I’m trying to share something with you and to be honest, all the screaming, well… it’s just obnoxious.”

     The tension in the room, already swollen with emotion, burst and split right down the middle: half of us sided with Justin, honouring his request for a bit of respect, while the other half booed and shook their heads.

     Justin shuffled about the stage, too late to stop now. “I know it’s a concert,” he said, his hand on his chest, a submissive gesture, “but please, just while I’m speaking. You can scream later!” He laughed, but the temperature had already dropped too low. (I found out later that some people had left the show at that point, insulted by his remarks.)

     From then on, it was a bit weird. I wasn’t sure how to feel, and there wasn’t that fangirl camaraderie I often feel at gigs. I looked around at my fellow beliebers and could not relate. I was bewildered by their unwitting appropriation of the slutty punk look (imagine a Nancy Spungen/ Kylie Jenner hybrid), and sadly noted how not even heavy Kim K makeup can cover up a bad mood. Where were the cute twelve year olds dancing to Baby without a care in the world? You know, with their clothes on? (OK so there was a beautiful one next to me, but she was the only one, aka Maisie Venn.)

     When it was all over, Justin Bieber, the whippersnapper who stole my heart eight years ago, grinned for the first and last time, blowing us theatrical kisses from on high. His face was alight with joy, only I couldn’t tell if it was out of love for us, or if he was merely giddy with the relief that he could now at last go to bed.  

RALEIGH RITCHIE, Bristol O2, February 27th 2016

Pushed tight to the swollen nose of the crowd, I clutch a flat piece of silence in a room full of loud. It is a reflection of my mind, snipped and sewn Yesterday, back when I was calm and alone.  

Now I find myself wrestling with a boldness fallen ill; I roll my shoulder hard up against the grill Of my doubt and shatter its teeth, a crunching thud, And watch fresh hope sprout there in the soil of its blood.

I pick myself a posy and remember the music, Teal sounds that softly violate my heart’s modest tunic.

These songs I swallow and am pleased,      Along with the stripped voice Of a gentleman that asks to be received,      Though there is no choice Because he has already wandered deep inside, Past the guards of my heart who’ve long since died.

But I am not the only one to be split apart: This damp mob devours the same art.      Like me,      They chew on his poetry Regurgitating it back up to the stage in one unified chant; I try to throttle my own tuneless shouts but I can’t, I shan’t!

Belly crushed to the barrier, I stretch out my gift. Embarrassed, I hope he notices me quick, be swift; I fan it wildly,      Raleigh, look! No no, it’s not a painting, not a book, It’s a collage, a montage.

And suddenly he is looking at me!      A dream rendered true, Everyone is looking now:      The band, the mob, the crew.

He relieves me of my present with a gentle hand And a look that says:      It’s OK, I see you, I understand. He is speaking to me, he is of my kind, But my replies are like lemon rind. Sour and stupid, I forget how to speak, Brain heed me – do not leak! My words are fumbled, bruised, Boiled dry to emotions confused.

He laughs, and I notice his eyes hold a galaxy in each, Twinkling in a giant black sky over a giant black beach. It is night-time, the warm ocean holds its breath – He offers me his hand and I squeeze it; I am expressed,      All my frustration in one gesture synthesised,      Beheld gratefully inside those black coal eyes.  

‘Thank you, Emily, this is so cool, wow,’      And the best moment of my year becomes this, right now.

© AUDIO SCRAWL // emilysafe

Wow, hi! :) This is the first message I’ve ever received on this blog - thank you so much for your encouragment! It is invaluable to me, thank you thank you! Serioulsy I’m smiling so big, you’re so kind :) I’ve had very little feedback about my music writing, I’ve had one or two musicians ask me to write a poem for them, but I have no clue whether my work has a place...!

SAM WAY, Bath, September 14th 20151

I did not discern him quickly from the shadow: In the blackness my shy eyes were slow, And it was not until he turned that I beheld –

A countenance of porcelain Cheekbones to the sky, A secret soul that coursed within Betrayed by a twinkle in the eye. 

The place was dark, his features were dark, but his skin gleamed. I tried with all my might not to gawk. I am, by my nature, a curious girl, and I stole both glance and seat as I settled nearby. But I was not about to let a contoured face reduce me to a distracted thing, lest I miss the absorption of something greater, the very thing I had come for: music.

Ah, if music were a dish I would be desperately obese: gorging on the oral poetry of young composers, harmonies for breakfast! And here I was in this odd place of perpetual dusk, underground, spectator to a low stage. 

Intermission. And a lone spot near the bar. I sighed and leaned back against the wall, chin up and throat exposed. It is a thing I do and cannot help: I subconsciously make myself open, in case a person should walk by in search of conversation. 

“So, are you here with your Mum?”

An apparition smooth as china, the porcelain man. He shifted on one foot and leaned his shoulder against the wall, perfectly at ease. “I’m Sam.”

Already he was close to me, but as he spoke he closed the small gap between us, never losing my eye. He was sincere, intense, and lovely. He did not flinch when I laughed too loud, nor did he take a step back when my wild expression of hand caused our fingers to touch. 

“How old are you?” I asked. “Twenty-seven.” He sighed playfully, rubbing his chin.

I told him I thought we both looked fairly young for our age, and he agreed: “Yes! We’re fresh-faced. Lots of water. And whiskey.” He paused and his face grew solemn. “I’m an alcoholic.”

I stared. He burst out laughing (denial or confirmation?!), before announcing that it was his turn to sing now. I clapped once in dramatic surprise, the spell broken, and assured, “Yes, go!”

I watched him slip away to the stage, and wondered: what kind of a brain is clutched inside a skull so handsome? I had no inkling of what he was about to do, of what his art would sound like.

Sam stood alone before the microphone, calmly tuning his guitar. In the unnatural light of the set his demeanor was ever more defined, bold, like the white muzzle of a wolf in a black wood. 

He began to sing.

It was not a performance that can be described in a flippant or general way, because with each song a new piece of him was brought forward. At the start he was light-hearted, playing inside a beat that caught every foot in the room. The notes came clipped and fast; he sang so swift it was almost rap, but not once did he neglect the melody.

And then – it was like watching him undress. He took a breath and stripped down his own soul with a tenderness I very seldom see in young men. His voice rang out in the silence and I beamed at him, mouth ajar. Isn’t it strange that in the act of expressing their humanity, a person can seem supreme? – in other words, not human at all.

The light shifted, and the bones of his face were forced into relief. Strange shadows babbled all about him like ghosts caught in a storm.

With disarming ease, Sam swings between charming chit-chat and haunting vocals, a feat that requires a foot in both worlds. He was funny and engaging, but in it all I sensed a sacrifice, a tragedy.

Afterwards, my ears still full, I did not think twice about approaching him again. I walked boldly toward the stage, feet tripping a little on all those wires, and asked for a hug. Without missing a beat he held his arms open. “Yes, yes, of course!”

I gave him a full encouraging squeeze, and told him thank you, that was beautiful, wow. Fortunately for me he was neither contemptuous nor embarrassed, only grateful. Such a modest creature. In fact, that had been the subtext throughout it all: a humble disregard for himself, despite his marvelous features. This makes for a wise artist indeed, for what lessons can the voice learn from bone?

Get Sam Way’s EP Architect on iTunes now.

Sam’s tumblr, twitter, youtube.

ANNA PANCALDI, 14/10/15, Bath

After my aching journey from an hour south I was in ill spirits when I stepped inside the wale’s mouth. What’s this? Red walls, black floor, Little stools, no door.

I spread my palms ready for vibes to be collected, But by the coming joys I had not yet been infected. What’s this? Red rugs, black shirts, Open hugs, no hurts.

The room darkened and my mood brightened, Amongst these cultured folk I was not frightened! We conversed softly about how The Beatles were, In fact, A rather experimental band, and, Tipping her hat, The lady at the bar’s eyes twinkled and tightened In a smile that oozed a warmth so free That I could not help but take the liberty Of claiming it and wrapping it about my icy frame, Even though, admittedly, it was not mine to claim. 

Anna, that was her name, With Sheryl Crow-esque mane, In fedora, black coat, black jeans, Just as lovely as she seemed. 

And do you know – she was a singer!     Oh, how she sung! God had greatly blessed her in throat and lung. Her voice gave me no choice But to sedate my ills and elate the spills Of good cheer, And good beer, Albeit the beer of others, clasped absently in hand, By friends, mothers, and members of the band. 

And, reader, if your eyes are thus far unsore, Let me tell you just a little more:

Tucked up there in my seat I was compelled to eat, But dear Anna, as her sounds began, my morsels became suspended And there they remained until her art had fully ended. How could I possibly consume food, beauty, noise     All at once? I tell you, it would be like kissing three boys     All at once.

No, it is proper to respect what is precious and true, To discern it, behold it, and then To say thank you.

For her last song, our Anna cast aside the microphone And stepped down to the spectator’s zone. It was there I experienced that thing we all crave: In that wale’s mouth, that pub’s dark cave, I felt, with no blemish of doubt, utterly accepted, Bound up in music, protected. I reclined content, trusted by my new friends, All with different lives, different ends, But inside those songs we were rendered unified,     One people, (And I watched as rejection withered and died)     One people, Breathing, listening – alive.

© AUDIO SCRAWL // emilysafe

JOSHUA PORTER, 14/10/15

I’d never met him, but after a few conversations online, I was fairly sure Joshua Porter was who he said he was, and there’d be no reason to call up Nev Schulman. But who did he say he was? A musician, a singer songwriter – and that was enough for me.

Inside the dim light and candles, I spotted him across the room, and he came to me at the bar. Chocolate. That’s the first thing I thought! He was all brown eyes and warm vibes. When spoken to, he listens, and he is courteous and encouraging.

Josh plays his guitar hard, as if he wants to utilise every inch of it, leaving no string unstrummed. It sounds good, and if you shut your eyes it sounds like two people playing – one with all the ideas, and the other happily filling in the gaps.

As I sat and listened, I felt my face soften in a smile that did not go away until his set was over. Josh’s songs are meaningful and touching, but make for easy listening, and they are impossible not to sing along to. I leaned back and soaked up all those soothing sounds that gently evoked a stream of images in my mind, from autumn bonfire parties to late summer heartbreaks, golden sunsets so beautiful and sad.

My favourite song is Angels Sing For Gold. It has, to my ears, that David Gray flavour, in the sense that it is an effortless, honest song, but when sung it feels like you’re singing a ballad, such is the effect on throat and soul.

This is a talent born of true passion, and a sincere dedication to the hard work it takes to make something worth listening to. Don’t let those hours be a waste. Search for Joshua Porter’s Far And Wide EP on Spotify, just in time for winter.  

Josh’s Facebook.

RALEIGH RITCHIE, 29/11/14, Thekla Bristol.

Dressed in black cotton and sweat, Raleigh Ritchie wiped a damp temple with the back of his hand. He bounced gently on the balls of his feet, restless with emotion. “I almost, like, fucking cried just then.”

I was close enough to see his dark eyes, slick as two black beetles: there was no “almost” about it. Unabashed, he spread his arms, and with a fractured voice made soft with tenderness, declared, “I’m home.”

The place erupted with screams, and shouts of affirmation were tossed about like hot coals toward the stage. This crowd was fiercely proud of their hometown starlet. And the feeling was infectious; I’m not from Bristol but I found myself looking upon Raleigh with just as much fondness as if he’d been my neighbour and I’d watched him grow from street wanderer to artist.

But I hadn’t.

Last year, I was sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor, earnestly studying the latest issue of Wonderland Magazine, and I happened upon a face. It was lovely, it was ordinary, and it made me curious. I lapped up the article and within minutes I’d grabbed my laptop and was listening to a new voice, the owner of this face: Raleigh Ritchie.

It was like nothing I’d ever heard. Though sometimes defined as an alternative branch of R&B, his sound initially struck me as trip-hop. But as I listened, it occurred to me that perhaps it was both. His songs trip and flow, like an inherently restless creature momentarily borne on a steady breeze. Catchy, spacey, arousing.

For the next few weeks, I wrote countless poems with this new music in my ears, tracks like Stay Inside and Stronger Than Ever drawing out my melancholy and stoking my aggression.  Ritchie’s odd and honest lyrics made me brave, and they gave me courage to claim who I was, even if that meant being really weird.

It was by a mere Twitter fluke that I found out he was coming to Bristol (back to Bristol), and I bought my ticket there and then. I knew, already, that I was to go alone. I asked around a bit but was met with a universal furrowed brow and, who? This excited me; I felt as if I’d just discovered a precious jewel with a value that my peers were not yet aware of.

A couple of weeks later, I was on board Thekla, an old 1959 showboat, Bristol’s only floating nightclub/ music venue. I’d left early to ensure a third row standing spot (it says “I’m interested, but I’m not going to throw my bra at you”) and my heart quietly trembled at the thought of seeing Ritchie in the flesh. The lights dimmed and people shuffled about me with sharp elbows and polite coughs. I glanced at them and felt a sudden and unfounded prick of comradeship. Stage right I noticed a shadow on the wall. It bounced up and down, gently tossing its head from side to side.

And out came Raleigh Ritchie, crowned with snapback and sheepish grin. Everyone cheered with abandon. And I mean everyone: the bar staff, the sound guy, the 6ft swollen-armed lads beside me. Ritchie bowed his head to this reception, in such a way that suggested humble instinct rather than custom, and his smile spread secretly to his ears.

But for all his humility, Ritchie owns the stage with a ferocious presence (backed up beautifully by a fantastic band who shares his vision) that demands attention and respect, whilst still being hugely entertaining. Looking back, the thing that struck me deep was his entire lack of inhibition when singing, made all the more endearing by the fact that between songs he seemed, to me, a little shy. I could see him struggling against this in an effort to involve us in his performance. As he warmed up he became less and less cocooned, until he reached the end of himself, utterly unashamed to bear all, to express his emotion, to trip over the mic wire.

Ritchie made me laugh (Cuckoo), and he made me cry (Birthday Girl). I was opened up, forced to feel, and I did not shun it. He advanced to the edge of the stage and looked down. Our brown eyes locked. I grinned at him, a dream, the room bursting with all my thoughts and all his music, and in that moment I wanted nothing more than to just say thank you. He smiled at me mid-lyric, and I stuck out my tongue between my teeth. A drunk girl next to me squealed and squeezed my arm.

It was all over before we, the sweaty swaying mob, were satisfied. When Ritchie bounded offstage (post bow), we were not going to let that be the end. So we all just kept on singing. The band gazed at us, then at each other, before grabbing their instruments and playing along with us. I took this personally as a token of acceptance, and my heart swelled.

We screamed for our delight to return.

And he did – with a smile that had grown to impossible proportions. Ritchie sang us two more songs and then he disappeared for good, leaving in his wake a people emboldened. 

www.raleighritchie.com