CLEMENTINE LOVELL

Westbound...

 

"My mother sang us The Ballad of Lord Thomas and Fair Eleanor as our bedtime lullaby. Epic and grisly folk ballads are the songs my three small sons fall asleep to now. The English folk sound is woven into my Herefordshire childhood, threaded through the hedgerows full of Queen Anne’s lace, mossy banks carpeted with primroses, the song of the cuckoo and rooks cawing in the woods. Later, Led Zeppelin became entwined with waterfall pools and walks in the Black Mountains. My parents’ vinyl collections - Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Steeleye Span, the Albion Band, Eric Clapton, Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen, Kris Kristofferson, John Mayall, Pentangle, and Fairport Convention to name just a few - were the soundtrack to our childhood, not just the music, but the crackle of the record player and the album covers so vivid in my memory. 

 

My maternal grandmother Pam Johnson moved to Herefordshire from Putney just after the Second World War. Land Army Girl tells the story of her and my grandad, who overcame opposition to be together. I wrote Cottontail Hunting for a childhood friend who is going through a difficult time. He and my brother Tobias would go long netting (an ancient form of catching rabbits) across the fields in the moonlight. Our friend recalls this as a time in his life when he felt happy and free. I wanted to reassure him that part of himself was not lost but still inside him somewhere, that his heart could be light. I hadn’t found the right arrangement for the intro until Tobias picked up his harmonica and jammed along; we had found just the thing.

 

Our childhood summers were spent in Ireland, taking the ferry over to West Cork. My paternal grandfather, the radio astronomer Bernard Lovell, bought a small island there in the 1960s as a place to find peace and recuperation. It was previously used to graze cattle in the summer, and bare apart from gorse, heather and sally bushes. He planted many species of trees and shrubs and the family built a house there. It has a magical energy and is the place where I can go back to the core of myself. My parents took us to pub sessions on the mainland, and I became hooked on Irish music, the tunes weaving around my brain, an instant feeling of happiness and that landscape, a sense of coming home. There was a couple who played music at Bernard Harrington’s pub in Glengarriff every night, John and Rose. John had a wonderful voice and presence, and an ability to hold a space for other musicians. He and Rose encouraged me to sing and play. Rose plays accordion and inspired by her I begged to have one for my 10th birthday. I began to teach myself, and Nancy Harrington would keep us there until the early hours playing the old Irish songs to her friends. I wrote John Barnett for a celebration of John’s life, which was held in Bernard’s in April 2024. It was an emotional night. Many gathered to share memories and songs, a framed photograph of John on the table amongst the pints of Guinness. That night I also performed Here A Moment for the first time in the community where that tragedy happened; four friends went out in a boat and disaster struck, only one returned. That survivour happened to be standing at the bar as I played. Afterwards I met him and we embraced and cried. He said that since the accident he really has tried to live each day as if it were his last, to be in the moment. 

 

I wrote Here A Moment whilst on a residency at Halsway Manor. This was where I was lucky enough to meet my producer Marion Fleetwood, and also Robbie K. Jones. I took the song to him and he added cajon and backing vocals which helped to bring it to life. He later suggested lyrics which formed part of the final verse. We performed it to our fellow residents that night in the bar, and when everyone joined to sing the chorus together, adding harmonies, it felt really special. Robbie and I promised we would record it together. It means a lot to me that he plays cajon and banjo on this track on the album. 

 

It was in the library at Halsway that I found the lyrics for the intro verse of The Cuckoo, originally part of another folk song or verse, but to me they felt like a fitting preface and I wrote a melody to sing above an accordion drone. For the verses I wrote a descending accordion riff that I wanted to mimic the feeling of a bird flying. The instrumental tune at the end is a Swedish one called Konvulsionslat (Convulsion Song), found by my wonderful fiddle player Duncan Menzies. Meeting Duncan, and my amazing percussionist Carmen Ruiz Vicente, helped to give my songs wings and take flight. We met in February 2024, through the Islington Folk Club and talented musician Savannah Gardner, and became a trio. Graham Smallwood of Folk & Roots, a man who works tirelessly to create a platform for emerging folk artists to showcase their work, gave us our break, and we began to play London gigs.

 

My initial collaboration was with James Keay, a wonderful pianist and composer who I met whilst running the Residencies programme at Britten Pears Arts. James is a special person, and working with him moved my music forward in a transformative way. I began experimenting with different ways of using my accordion, and he was a constructive force and critical ear for my first attempts at songwriting. I had been working as a producer in the Arts for many years, and at Snape Maltings I was facilitating artist-led projects across all genres of music. Inspired by the creative work around me, along with the big open skies and coastline of Suffolk, I began to write my own songs for the first time. James has been a sounding board for the instrumental arrangements on this album, we spark off each other creatively and collaborating with him is always a joy. 

 

I wrote Westbound after driving through a storm from Rosslare to West Cork to spend time with my dad. It was a few years after losing mum, the grief still raw, but finding some comfort spending time in this place together. I was staying at Dad’s when Ric sent his fiddle part over for this track; I will never forget listening together and my dad’s face. Ric said that when we recorded the part he closed his eyes and imagined playing on stage next to me. I think you can hear this in the music, the way his fiddle weaves through the vocal. I met Ric through Tom Leary, I owe a lot to Tom. One night a few years ago I was doing a floor spot at the Islington Folk Club, my local and a wonderful long standing institution. Tom heard me play that night and encouraged me, and later introduced me to a number of other fantastic musicians. I owe a lot to the Islington Folk Club too. I began writing songs a few years ago and it was a safe and welcoming place to try them out. Here and at the Monday club, an online gathering of musicians who used to play at the Watermans Arms in Richmond, which began during the pandemic and became a life saver for many of us. The Monday clubbers listened to my songs and encouraged me, and I love them all, they are special and wonderful people.

One of the first songs I wrote was Sparrow, a song about trying to hold on to my identity and find space for my creative self in the midst of the beautiful, challenging and sometimes overwhelming chaos of motherhood. In Sister, my sister and I become mothers to each other after losing our mum. Our bonds with our children echo the bonds she made with us. Time To Let You Go is about finding the courage to move forward in the pain of grief. All of these people and places that shape us, a little part of each wedging in our souls. For me, music has always been about telling people’s stories and about community. My earliest experiences of performing were about sharing songs and stories in an environment where everyone is encouraged to get up and contribute. It’s why I love the folk clubs and folk music so much. I wanted John Barnett to sound like a music session in the pub, the place where I am probably happiest singing. I hope it transports you there."