I had this wonderful record blasting from my car stereo the other day as I drove through a leafy hamlet in the home counties. I stopped behind a car at a pedestrian crossing just as ‘Tear Up The Picture Of My Kids’ was playing. For those uninitiated, this is a terrifying tale about a stroll in Luke’s local park, he fed the ducks, he did not feed the sparrows too, it did not give him an enormous sense of wellbeing, and that is because a band of renegade squirrels ambushed him, stole his wallet, tore up the picture of his kids, and mocked him for the colour of his denims; so he decided to reap his revenge. Whilst I sat waiting in my silver 2012 Mazda 2, a squirrel caught my eye above my car. It was carefully and cautiously traversing a tightrope across the carriageway, a tightrope made of a telephone line. He was apprehensive, scared even. He could topple into the road at any moment. I did not see him complete his journey. The traffic moved and so did I.
Part of my conscience as an animal lover hoped he made the other end, that he didn’t slip and drop into the road to be squashed by a Range Rover Discovery as it navigated the perilously smooth tarmacked roads leading to the A30. But as the song concluded I could not help but hope karma perhaps played its hand and he met a sticky end (ringtone of his final squeaks is unavailable).
Who knows.
What we do know is that the aforementioned song is an integral part of an LP that straddles the music cosmos like a spaceman knight on its heavenly steed.
And it surely gallops through its 27 minutes. 8 tracks of baritone croon, pop charm, synth flourish, melodic wonderment and songwriting genius.
What can never really come across on wax is the showmanship. The craft, the owning of the stage, the interaction with the audience. The raconteur in the lyrics is only part of the story. A live album would be the obvious option. For instance, the forever evolving preamble for ‘Italy 11’ is important to get the full impact of the song. I cannot do it justice. It involves his mother-in-law, his wife and a bout of tummy trouble. I won’t say anymore. You must experience it yourself.
‘I’m Sorry Dad (Heavy Breathing) has a touch of the early Depeche Modes. Naturally, I just can’t get enough. Eighties keyboard lines, subtle acoustic guitar, sumptuous harmonies, those fizzing synths. Scrumptious.
In fact it seems Luke is channelling the spirit of Dave Gahan as next up, ‘That’s Where The Blood Is’ has his baritone warmth and depth.
‘Keeping You Up’ is frankly utterly filthy and the less said about it the better because I’m already incredibly aroused.
The aforementioned ditty detailing Sciurus carolinensis hoodlums mugging Luke of his property (*reloads shotgun*) is calmed by the beauty of ‘Arbour of Dreams’ an ethereal waltz through a newly landscaped back garden, neatly trimmed privet bush, manicured lawn, incredibly handsome, moustached half naked cherub on the plastic pretend wicker sofa with waterproof cushions. Drinking a can of Lilt. A different world.
‘Italy 11’, again aforementioned, so named after a picture of him so titled as a holiday in the boot of Europe, when in fact it was Reading Festival and it was 2012. A mistake we’ve all made before. That time our tent caught fire when someone put a can of Lynx on a camping gas in a camp site just outside Venice was magical. And the neighbour kindly urinating on it to put it out whilst we took a selfie. Unforgettable.
‘Summer Hit’ is dappled in sun light as it breaks through the tree branches and leaves of the apple tree in the orchard you visited as a child. It’s a lazy sunny afternoon kind of a song. In the summertime. When the tax man’s taken all your dough and left you in a state at home. Lying on the kitchen table. Put me to the test.
‘International Space Station’ is a song as old as time, it is pre AC (After Covid) but needed a proper release, a place to be showcased officially (although the original video treatment is magnificent) and it was made to be the closing song on an Enjoyable Listens LP. A country slide guitar, his gal by his side, looking at the stars, observing the International Space Station, the anticipation of carnal relations forever lingering in the cool summer air.
What Luke does more than most is make your most vivid dreams come true. When I say dreams, I mean those fantastical moments during sleep that you’ve forgotten by the morning. That is because Luke is a real life, but much smaller, BFG, taking your dreams, sitting in the shadows (in a non creepy way), catching them as they float away, bottling them up in his cave (van) travelling around and distributing these dreams as song from his magic trumpet (elixir coated vocal chords).
When I find myself in times of trouble, brother Luke comes to me, speaking words of wisdom and dreams of naughtiness. Let him always be.
