The pre-show playlist was blasting Kylie, I suppose because Kevin is Australian. Kevin is a Koala. A high proportion of the crowd was wearing fluffy bear ears. I was back in The Queen Elizabeth Hall, this time in the audience. My 4-year old was busy reminiscing. This is the exact same door we came in for your concert. And this is exactly where you sold your CDs. Of course he remembers the CDs. After falling asleep backstage in the 2nd half he woke up just in time to help man the merch desk before running gleefully around the foyer handing programmes to strangers. He was hungover for the rest of the week, but it was worth it. An opportunity for him to finally see what all the fuss was about these past two years. And to sing along to Big Yellow Taxi.

I asked him if it felt funny to be back in the same place again. This is completely different mama. Yours was a singing show and this is the theatre. Yours went completely dark and then there were just millions of blue lights. This is for children. I agreed it’s remarkable, how the same space can feel so totally different, even before the performance begins. A little stage set, a little lighting, The Loco-Motion. Though there were certainly similarities once the action began. Three-part harmonies, special guests, audience participation, earnest undertones. I do hope Jesca, Kate and I can return to Southbank’s magnificent hall for International Women’s Day next year. Same time, same place. The Songs Of Kylie Minogue.

Not unlike The Koala Who Could, daring to try new things for the first time, here’s a clip of me singing For Free from Ladies Of The Canyon, a new addition to the set list, with Richard Sears on piano and a little name drop to boot:

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If you haven’t yet managed to catch the show (lots coming up & more to be announced soon) you can now watch the beautiful film of our Paris concert on Europe’s finest public service culture channel: ARTE TV.

And keep an eye out for the latest edition of Mojo magazine when it hits the shelves in a couple of weeks…

Meanwhile, this month is 10 years since my album The Onion came out. Not sure how that happened. You can refresh your memories here. And wish me luck as I begin to record a long overdue solo record about which I’ll tell you more soon...

Ok. Need to go set up an egg hunt for some hungry koalas.

Happy Easter!

Lail x

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This is the final call for Passenger Lel Arad, Layal Arad? This is the final call. Lel Layal Arad was waiting at the wrong gate in Dublin airport. She did not clock that nobody else was waiting with her, or that the flight was due to take off in ten minutes. She did not clock this because the clock said 06:45 and she’d already been awake for two hours, after only three hours sleep. She was no longer built for this rock’n’roll life. I’m so sorry, she mouthed to the woman at the gate. Her voice had disappeared completely at the start of the tour. In real time, on stage in Manchester, somewhere during verse two of Big Yellow Taxi. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Thankfully it was coaxed back with copious amounts of steaming and Manuka honey by the time they got to Bristol, but it was still pretty husky. Think late era Joni. Especially in the mornings. Especially on little sleep. She did not bother explaining all this to the woman checking her passport. Instead, she gave her a thankful thumbs up before running the wrong way across the airfield and almost getting on the wrong plane.

Finally in the air, hopefully homeward bound, she fell asleep and dreamt of the previous night, of the luscious, red and gold Olympia Theatre, 1000 people singing along to songs that never get tired, of new friends and upstairs choirs, soda bread and Irish stew, guest lists and mailing lists and price lists and set lists, and the fine white lines of the free freeway. She woke up in London. London, where in ten days time the tour would reunite to play Shepherds Bush Empire, the venue where she’d seen some of her favourite ever concerts — Jonathan Richman, Ezra Furman, Camille. London, where her four-year-old had also been awake since the early hours, too excited for the return of his mama, and for Halloween, in equal measure.

Lel Layal Arad hopes to see you in London on November 13th. Or in Paris on November 17th. Or Vienna on November 20th. If the tour so far is anything to go by, she thinks these show are going to be very, very special.

The Songs Of Joni Mitchell - Final Dates

The upstairs choir, 3Olympia Theatre Dublin, 30.10.25, soundcheck:

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For reference:
*Hobo’s Lullaby
*There Is A Mountain
*Cousin Caterpillar
*I'm Nature's Mosquito
*Mr Robinson
*Winter

p.s. London Show! December 17th! Grab your tickets here!

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It’s Autumn! I hope you’re keeping warm.

I’m still processing the last month of music. I ricochetted from project to project, feeling to feeling. A lot of nostalgia, a lot of new ground, a lot to report, I’ll try to be selective.

ONE:

Still jet lagged from Montreal I took part in Dawn Landes’ Liberated Woman’s Songbook at The Barbican. I first met Dawn in Paris, maybe 2012. We’d played different shows but ended up at the same bar wearing almost the same jacket. Red, tartan. Over a decade later we were once again in matching outfits, along with all the singers on stage - long black skirts which got ripped off at one particularly liberated moment of the show. My skirt actually had technical difficulties in the tech rehearsal so I was whizzed over to the opera seamstress in another building for some new poppers. La bohème!

When guest of honour Peggy Seeger arrived we were all ready to practice her song ‘Different Therefore Equal’ for the finale. We did our best to impress her with our solo lines until she set us straight: If you sing like that people will listen to your voices instead than the words! We sang in humble unison from then on, following the beat provided by her walking stick, awed by her command of both song and situation.

Here I am singing Leslie Gore’s 1963 feminist anthem You Don’t Own Me:

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TWO:

The following week I opened two solo shows for an even older friend of mine, Jeffrey Lewis. 2007 I think it all started. New Old Friends Take Time. IYKYK. An anti-folk post-pandemic reunion. It felt good to refocus on songwriting and lyrics and friendship and purpose. To remember how much Jeffrey’s music meant to me and influenced me, and how exciting that time was, that scene, so much of it lived in the night, at shows, after shows, the hours I am now very much asleep, if I’m lucky. Also good to hear his new songs, to share my new songs, musical journals of respective lives lived on different sides of the Atlantic in this so-far very strange decade.

Remember that “poem” I sent out in last month’s letter? Well I put it to music and tried it out for the first time at the second show… too new to be playing… too new to be sharing… but you were with me from the start so…

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THREE:

And just a week later The Songs Of Joni Mitchell hit the road! I think it’s fair to say it was a grand success. Bristol, Manchester, Glasgow, all sold out, all joyful. It took five seconds on stage to forget the hours work that went into producing the tour and remember the reason we were all there. Everyone was so happy to hear those songs! As happy as we were to sing them! I felt ridiculously lucky to be sharing Joni’s words and melodies alongside such excellent artists in such beautiful venues. 2025, watch this space!

I have to say singing the final verse of Woodstock felt overwhelmingly resonant in these wartimes. Here is it at Bristol St George’s, with the fine detailing of my tour-mates Olivia Chaney, Jesca Hoop, Gigi Williams and Kielan Sheard:

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Who’s coming to our Christmas show? December 17th at West Hampstead Arts Clubs - same venue as the Jeff Lewis shows! - tickets going fast…

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Going to see Nicholas Hytner’s production of Guys and Dolls was always going to be a big night for me. My long-awaited birthday present from JF, three-times postponed due to I can’t even remember what. I was hyped. I’m not sure the image of my 14-year-old self winning first prize in a musical theatre festival with a rip-roaring rendition of Adelaide’s Lament is good for my street-cred, so let’s just say I am familiar with the material. (Full disclosure: I also performed Take Back Your Mink, the genius showgirl number in which Adelaide feigns outrage at her suitor for trying to “remove” all the expensive gifts he’s given her… pearls, gloves, shoes, gown... whilst proceeding to remove them herself in coquettish indignation…)

Miss Adelaide aside, I hadn’t been to the theatre since before the pandemic. In fact, the theatre was my last real outing before the pandemic. I know that because the ticket stub served as my bookmark throughout lockdown. March 9th 2020. We’d seriously considered cancelling because everyone was worried about this thing called Coronavirus — we too were worried about this thing called Coronavirus — but we’d booked it such a long time ago, we couldn’t possibly cancel! I remember wrapping my scarf over my mouth on the underground, no masks yet, trying not to fall over because I didn’t want to hold the railings.

I arrived first and headed straight to the bathroom to wash my hands. The foyer was hung with tiny lanterns, sparkling down at the crowd as though everything was ok. When my friend arrived we decided not to hug, which felt so sad. I was ahead-of-the-curve in my caution because I was starting IVF. Literally that day. I took my first little pill right there at the bar, asking the barman for tap water and then panicking that I shouldn’t have drunk from a glass that someone else had touched. It was not good timing for me to catch a deadly virus. Ten days later the world had shut down, including every fertility clinic on earth. My IVF cycle was cancelled, indefinitely. Curtains.

It felt modestly miraculous then, four years later, for JF and I to be on our way to see my favourite musical, with our three-year-old happily conducting a “sleepover” at his grandparents’ house. It was a wonderfully warm London night, the river Thames was sparkling, a dance troupe was delighting the tourists, the city felt alive and we were part of it… Curtains Up! And drumroll…

Imagine my surprise when, approaching The Bridge Theatre, to which I’d never been before, it started to dawn on me that I had in fact been there before. Four years ago. On March 9th 2020. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world... What are the chances? I couldn’t believe it. All those lanterns, still sparkling. Have you ever swum in the ocean when a huge wave curls over you so you see it from the inside for a moment before it throws you up and knocks you down? This wave was made of memories and the salt stung my eyes.

Just the weight of these past four years. I was overcome by all we’ve overcome. I may be the first person to ever have cried during the overture of Guys and Dolls! The orchestra was so brilliant. As was the staging, the performances, the songs… those songs! The lyrics are sharper than anything my 14-year-old self could have fully appreciated. If you’re in London and able to catch the show, do it! I can’t promise you my own cathartic full circle experience, but it’s so much fun. Alternatively you can just watch Sinatra…

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Forgive me for taking liberties with the days of the week. I delayed Sunday’s letter by a couple of days so I could reveal some exciting news. But first I need to get you up to speed.

The Joni Mitchell tribute was just magical! It was everything I’d imagined and so much more than I could have imagined. I saw my sketchy stage plans turn into 3D renderings and then into real life. I witnessed everyone’s song choices and tech specs leap off email threads and become music! I wore a hardhat and watched a piano being tuned and learnt the difference between an oboe and a cor anglais and how to apply under-eye primer. In the middle of making sure we were sticking to the ridiculously tight soundcheck schedule I realised it was my turn to soundcheck... I put my clipboard down and picked up my guitar. Oh right! Singing and strumming! This is the bit I actually know how to do!

My two favourite moments of the day were the snatched dressing room rehearsals — first with Kate Stables and Jesca Hoop, trying out the backing vocals for Raised on Robbery, feeling like the Andrews Sisters — and then with JF on guitar and Sam Amidon on fiddle for Carey, feeling like the Rolling Thunder Revue. People are good. Music is good. Songs are good. Joni is good. That’s my big takeaway.

(This ended up on Cerys Matthews’ BBC 6 Music radio show 3 days later!)

I won’t go into great detail about the show itself because this review from Get In Her Ears captures it so beautifully:

Read All About It!

Talking of reviews, I found this page from my school paper. I was 11 years old.

Talking of Big Yellow Taxi, here’s the full video from the Roundhouse:

And just a little of the hoedown…

And it feels only right to end with the ending right? The Circle Game, round and round, In The Round, at the Roundhouse, featuring the Roundhouse Vocal Ensemble… and if you squint you can see the whole line-up at the back, from Vashti Bunyan to Emeli Sandé!

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Oh! I almost forgot the big news. The Songs Of Joni Mitchell is hitting the road. Bristol, Manchester & Glasgow in September. Where should we go next?

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I have a wonderful story to tell you. Possibly extremely niche and only of interest to me and five other people (not unlike my entire first album!) but worth the risk of a few unsubscribes. I’m just not sure whether to tell it from the back or the front. Backstory vs The Big Reveal… Maybe I’ll bump my way through the preamble like a child with a camcorder and then find a tripod in time for the punchline. Ok here goes:

A tequila-fuelled night out in Shoreditch circa 2009… a name I only remembered because it rhymed… a song that pre-existed the crush I wrote it about… a time when music start-ups were actually exciting… the rooftop of SoundCloud HQ in Berlin… the rooftop of Spotify in NYC… the day after Brexit… golden hour in China Town… transatlantic migration… lockdown weddings… and a swift fast forward to a Christmas Party at our new/old friends’ Matthew & Kaye’s house.

I should probably mention that travelling to this party from NW to SE London with a toddler felt like traversing the Amazon. Jungle not Prime. The kind of journey in which you very almost turn back half way because it’s raining so hard and the bus has too many buggies and what about the long way home… Luckily we did not turn back. Luckily as soon as we entered that warm house of fine wine and penguin toothpick holders I knew it would all be worth the Uber we were obviously going to order later.

And then we spotted Kaye’s guitar.

You play guitar? Oh your dad plays guitar? He’s a musician? What’s the band called? What a nice vinyl cover! Japan? Solo? Which song is that? Wait what… Loudon Wainwright covered his song??

[Mind racing:]

But Loudon Wainwright only has one famous song that he didn’t write himself…..

A song that has a permanent place in my family’s pop charts……

The song my sister and I sang for my father’s 70th birthday……

A song about fathers… and daughters……

The song I fell in love with all over again when I became a parent…..

A song so perfect…… could it be???

[Tripod, zoom, focus:]

Daughter in the water…? I ask with trepidation, already overwhelmed by the prospects.

Kaye, smiling bashfully, points to herself with both index fingers.

Upon confirming that her father did indeed write this mythological song, and simultaneously realising that she herself was the immortalised daughter in the water, I burst into tears.

At which, not yet familiar with tears of joy, or his mother’s overly emotional relationship to (certain) songs, our concerned toddler also bursts into tears.

Ladies & Gentlemen, if you have never heard - or want to revisit - this songwriting masterpiece, here is ‘Daughter’ by Peter Blegvad, as recorded by Loudon Wainwright III…

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And if you’re curious as to who the water daughter grew up to be, you can follow her beautiful illustrations, artwork and jewellery on instagram: @kayeblegvad

I was toying with the idea of committing to writing a new song each month of this year — probably more for my motivation’s sake than for your enjoyment — but at the moment everything I try to write slowly bends itself towards a song I already wrote. I wish it didn’t feel even more tragically relevant now in 2024 than it did back in 2022. I’ll try to redeem my reputation as an uplifting songwriter (or any kind of songwriter!) in time for February. For now, as we apprehensively enter the new year, and in keeping with the parent-child theme, I hope it’s okay to copy-paste this late night demo…

Lullaby In Hard Times:

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Lastly, after various complaints from loyal subscribers that it is near impossible to find specific demos or covers or chapters in my cavernous archives, I’m proud to say I have finally ORGANISED my two years of Substack back-catalogue into beautifully labelled tabs at the top of the homepage! (thanks for the tutorial ). In the words of aforementioned toddler who cannot yet pronounce the letter L… “Have a Yook!” » lailarad.substack.com

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My music listening habits are in a sorry state of affairs.

I don’t remember what I want to listen to anymore. I’m blank. Befuddled.

What do you want to listen to? I don’t know.

This sad epiphany began back home, a few days before setting off. I was clearing space on my laptop in order to import some heavy footage I had to edit. And what did I choose to delete? Music! That’s right, I found myself deleting entire albums from iTunes (if that’s what it’s even called anymore). Because I don’t really need them anymore, do I? Because they’re all on Spotify, for which I pay good money each month. (Because no, Spotify does not gift premium accounts to artists whose music is on Spotify, but that’s another story.)

As I scrolled through my library, forcing myself to delete ruthlessly, clear those gigabytes, not get nostalgic about files I haven’t listened to in years, I became very nostalgic. The Cranberries! Macy Gray! Gomez! Albums I once patiently imported from my now obsolete CD collection. Albums I knew by heart and then somehow forgot existed. Rufus Wainwright! Pavement! Cesaria Evora! Artists I loved enough to purchase conscientiously from the iTunes Store and then slowly (or suddenly?) dropped off heavy rotation. What do you want to listen to? I don’t know.

Then we got to the island — away from daily life, away from instant internet — and I reunited with... my CD collection. Not all of it of course, but the favourites. The ones I had once deemed important enough to arrange in plastic folders and weigh down my hang luggage with. Because here on the island there is a car, you see, and in that car is a CD player. And it is joyous! Remember Manu Chao’s Clandestino? Remember David Byrne’s Uh-Oh? Remember the mix CD I burnt for my father’s 60th birthday? Remember when our friend Mariscal, who first brought us to the island, drove over from Barcelona with a VW Beetle full of CDs for the summer?

Albums used to be in front of us, literally, physically. We could run our finger along a shelf and our mind would be triggered by names, titles, artwork. Oh perfect, I really feel like listening to Bill Withers this morning. Oh yes, Eurythmics are exactly who I need to shake me out of this mood. Now they are lost, like all the phone numbers we used to know by heart. It’s true I still listen to vinyl, and greatly enjoy the ritual, the flipping over, the scratches, but mine is largely an inherited collection — my parents’ hippie tastes — the music I was brought up on and is dearest to me. There are some newer additions — friends’ merch from various tours, a few gifts and second hand shop finds — but it lacks the vast majority of music I bought and devoured as a teenager — the CD years — and during my 20s — the iTunes era.

I can only hope that people who grew up with Spotify or equivalent in their formative years use it better than me. Download albums for offline listening. Save new discoveries in a way that’s easy to come back to. Make playlists that give them as much pleasure to share with friends as a mixtape. For me it’s paralysingly overwhelming. I listen to the one or two new artists who have somehow penetrated my psyche that season — hello Jockstrap — and to the handful of artists I have always listened to — the very same ones I have in that exquisite yet limited vinyl collection — except instead of Blood On The Tracks or Desire it will be ‘This Is Bob Dylan’ — and somehow an hour later Spotify is playing Daydream Believer, which, for reasons I cannot explain, it thinks I want to listen to every single day.

I’m not even talking about attention span and multi-tasking and ads and screens and shuffle and algorithms and everything that is mostly terrible, save for a few lazy advantages and yeah ok maybe some clever music discovery tools that I admit I benefit from as an artist thought I still think word of mouth wins. I’m simply talking about all the carefully curated music that used to surround me in my bedroom, on which I now draw a total blank when under pressure to type something into a search bar. Especially with the last four things I listened to and a million other suggestions of music I probably won’t hate tempting me to click on them instead. What do you want to listen to? I don’t know.

Talking of music discovery, my dad once stopped the car outside a record store (remember those?) on a family road trip in the US. I think it was NYC and I think it was Sam Goody. He told us we each had 10 mins to pick a CD for the car. He chose Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers and we all fell in love instantly. (I chose Damon Albarn’s Mali Music… I should seek it out on Spotify sometime…) Regular readers of Foggy Notions will know that Jonathan Richman is not someone of who’s existence I need reminding, but it’s still an annual delight to reunite with Action Packed: The Best of Jonathan Richman, which does not exist on Spotify and makes for the best golden-hour dirt-road island drive.

So ok, what do I want to listen to?? Recommendations needed!!

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Last month I wrote about the first show I played since the before-times.

Today I want to write about the first show I attended since the before-times.

And the overwhelming landslide of memories and joy it filled me with.

Was it the adrenaline rush of being an audience member again?

The overwhelming sense of time elapsed? How much we’ve all lived?

Was it the venue that got me, The Roundhouse, my history there?

Or the band themselves? The Moldy Peaches! So nostalgic but oh so fresh…

Whatever it was, I’m still giddy.

Do you love The Moldy Peaches? You may love them without knowing you love them. From the Juno soundtrack maybe, remember that film? Or the Meet Me In The Bathroom documentary, did you watch it? Anyway you should love them, they’re the best! Though honestly it doesn’t really matter if you love them. What matters is that I love them. And I got to go to their reunion show last week. Like a night out with an old flame. Older, wiser, boozy, risky. The show was at The Roundhouse in London. Do you know it? Near Camden? It doesn’t really matter. What matters is I could walk there from my house. And be back in 10 minutes if the baby woke up. What matters is I felt at home. At home with 3000 strangers in a huge round building originally designed to service locomotives.

My love for that building is deep. As well as the mythological venue — Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, The Ramones, et al — The Roundhouse also houses a creative centre for young people. I trained there in my year out. Learnt how to lead vocal workshops. Helped create a six-school-strong choir. Made amazing friends. The building was undergoing a huge redevelopment at the time so we rehearsed at the Salvation Army down the road. I was also on the Youth Advisory Board. Rock’n’roll. Seriously though, I’m proud to have been a very tiny part of what grew up to be the most incredible arts facilities, music studios, circus spaces — and just last week they launched an entire new building! The largest creative centre for young people in Europe, ready to welcome 15000 through the doors each year, mainly from disadvantaged, underserved communities. I promise I’m not just copy-pasting the press release. It’s a phenomenal place.

About a decade after my youth advisory days my father created a wonderful installation for The Roundhouse. Curtain Call, it was called. A 360 degree curtain made of silicon rods with double sided projections you could watch and walk through — he’s probably going to tell me I’m explaining it all wrong. It was an amazing summer of video art and live performances and members of the public hanging out on the floor for hours and hours. David Shrigley, Christian Marclay, Steven Isserlis, Eska (who, along with Mpho Skeef, was one of my tutors in that long-ago Roundhouse programme!) I performed too… A one-woman show about nepotism. Go figure. The opening night was one for the books. I met Ray Davies from The Kinks and almost melted. Then a few moments later the London Riots kicked off. Right there in front of the big glass windows. The bike shop across the road, the pizza parlour next door, smashed, looted… We were all ushered upstairs, locked into the main space with the huge silicon curtain for a long, tense time. Until someone scrolling twitter saw strong words flying back and forth between the rioters: Don’t touch The Roundhouse. That’s what I call karma.

All this came flooding back to me last week looking up at the beautiful beams and lighting rigs. That and all the other incredible shows I’ve been lucky enough to see at The Roundhouse over the years. Patti Smith, Ezra Furman, Fleet Foxes, Beth Orton, Pharrell Williams! I used to see a lot of shows. I used to go to shows with friends, alone, make friends. It was live music, all the time, and if anyone told me I wouldn’t be going to a gig for over three years… Anyway. The Moldy Peaches were on stage, playing a reunion show, and I was there. I didn’t think too much about it beforehand, but as soon as the music began I was transported. I had forgotten so much! I’d forgotten ticket touts patrolling the queue; I’d forgotten sticky floors and the smell of beer; I’d forgotten how I used to be that girl who acrobatically manoeuvred her way through the crowd to the front; I’d forgotten that I always used to carry earplugs in my pocket; I’d forgotten singing along and bluffing my way through lines I couldn’t remember; I’d forgotten how strange it is when everyone else is singing along too — having to share your secrets with strangers! Mainly though, I’d forgotten how music can remind you of so much.

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I remembered it was my first boyfriend who got me into The Moldy Peaches. We loved listening to them together, on his CD player, singing along under the skylight in his bedroom in the attic. We thought they were genius. In retrospect I think we loved them from different directions — him from a gamer, stoner, light-relief from all that heavy metal direction — me from a studious, lyrical, light-relief from all that lofty Joni and jazz direction. If I drew a Venn diagram of our cultural crushes The Moldy Peaches would be smack bang in the middle. A meeting point for our puppy love. I don’t think either of us had much context for the band at the time — I certainly didn’t know anything about New York City, the anti-folk scene, the open mic at the SideWalk Cafe — I discovered all that much later.

And it was long after we broke up that I went to see Adam Green (of The Moldy Peaches) play solo at Union Chapel. It was there I first heard his song about Jessica Simpson and was inspired to write my own song… about Adam Green. I’m not sure if the song was pretty witty or absolutely terrible, but it surfed the waves of YouTube very nicely for a while. It was that early YouTube/Myspace era. The heyday of digital music discovery, when you could write directly to Mark Ronson and he would answer. And it was while getting lost down those inviting Top Friend avenues that I stumbled upon the wonders of Herman Dune, Regina Spector, Jeffrey Lewis — actually if I remember correctly it was my mother who first heard Jeffrey’s song about Will Oldham and sent it to me as ‘another example of a songwriter singing about another songwriter’… Do these names mean anything to you? It kind of doesn’t matter, it all meant so much to me. It was impossibly important and influential at that particular juncture of my musical trajectory. My mind blew open with possibilities. Wow! You can write lines that never end and don’t rhyme and are basically like conversations with a close friend!

A few days after listening to everything Jeffrey Lewis had ever written I tried out these new-found lyrical liberties in a song called Winter. One of my first songs which survived. Literally a few days after that I went to see Devendra Banhart play at The Forum. At some point in the show he asked if anyone in the audience had written a song they’d never shared before. My hand shot up and somehow I ended up on stage. I say somehow, because I’m not sure how I physically got up there. Adrenaline and a leg-up, probably. Devendra handed me his electric guitar. I’d never held an electric before. I’d only just started playing acoustic. I hoped it worked in the same way. I took his request very literally and played my song Winter, which I’d barely finished writing and had certainly never shared with anyone before. I was brave! The audience was wild! A reviewer in the Independent suggested it was a set-up! Someone captured it on video and put it up on YouTube. A lovely Spanish woman, Neith, who still comes to my shows. I’ll post the video below because I still blush at what Devendra says at the end, but please be warned this was 2007, I was wearing a grey tutu ballgown and was ridiculously nervous… Someone who’d been at the show tracked down the video and got in touch. Italian this time, Valentina. She ended up making my first music video. She also became one of my closest friends. And falling in love with my treasured musical collaborator, Roi Erez. They now have a child together. Who happens to have the same name as my first boyfriend, but that’s beside the point. I do feel we all have a lot to thank Devendra for though.

Imagine this girl on stage knew that a decade or so later she’d play a show at Francesco Clemente’s art studio in NYC — and Adam Green would attend! Imagine she knew her relationship to Jeffrey Lewis would transform over time from superfan to true friend. That they’d walk together to play the open mic at The SideWalk Cafe (RIP)… I’ve lost the chronology a little, but the punchline to all this might be that some years ago I was opening a tour Jeffrey was doing with Peter Stampfel of the legendary Holy Modal Rounders. And some years after that Peter posted my song Milo on Facebook, which had overtaken YouTube as the place to be. A Canadian songwriter called JF Robitaille heard the song and the rest is history, including our son — Milo — who, if you’re reading this on Sunday 4th June 2023, turned two today.

Dear Milo, happy birthday! The moral of this story is that life twists and turns in ways you can’t predict and a lot of it has to do with crushes on musicians. I hope you grow up to be a doctor or a lawyer, but maybe keep on practicing your harmonica just in case…

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p.s. I realise I haven’t said too much about the show itself. It was triumphant. Just to hear the whole sold out Roundhouse singing “Who mistook these baths for showers? Who fucked up that leaning tower?” was pretty life affirming.

On Friday we played our first live show since the before-times. Not only had we not been on stage since fucking Covid, but also my father was in hospital with fucking Covid. It was more serious than I care to get into here, suffice to say he is now out of ICU and on the mend, but you can imagine that perfecting our harmonies was not top of my agenda… A week ago I told him we might postpone the show, to which he shook his finger at me menacingly and said “Are you crazy?!”. The day before the show I brought a guitar to his hospital room for a practice run of my solo set. He was very disappointed that it was my old little Guild rather than the beautiful J-45 Gibson hooked us up with. His feedback on my songs was stellar: “Too short. Play it again!” “I remember that guy. He doesn’t deserve this song!” “Are you going to sing louder?” — turns out singing through a mask is a real workout.

Cherry on the cake, after almost 2 years of basically not sleeping at all, our toddler Milo started sleeping through the night. Only his night starts around 6.30pm and ends around 4am, at which points he wakes up proudly declaring “I am hungry!”. (Have you tried putting him to sleep later? Yes. Have you tried feeding him more— Yes, yes, we’ve tried everything.) JF and I practiced our duo set very very quietly each night, in the short space of time between Milo falling asleep and us falling asleep.

For the past few months I thought getting on stage again would be easy, a little trivial. A cinch, compared to what we’ve all been through. What’s a few songs after a global pandemic, various wars, climate disaster, IVF, emergency C-section, a father in hospital… But it didn’t quite work like that. For someone who has never really suffered from stage fright, I was very nervous. Being back on stage felt momentous. Essential. That being in the moment, the telling of stories, even those harmonies… Precious people in the same place at the same time, forgetting or ignoring or reflecting on their lives outside. Laughing, crying, sharing something real, tangible, imperfect…

A few years back I worked on a collection of interlinked short stories based around a concert. I think I may finally know how to finish it. Live music was taken away from us for so long — it’s increasingly unsustainable for musicians to tour at all — but I believe things will come a full circle. When AI rules the world it will be gigs and theatre and dancing that people value.

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What the hell am I talking about? Jeez Kabeez! My Foggy Notions are more Foggy than usual. Point being, these are my excuses for being a day late in posting. Plus I should not have had that second Negroni. That said, it’s a bank holiday Monday here in the UK thanks to something like Babar The King, so technically this is still the last day of the first weekend of the month…

The video above is a souvenir for those who were there on Friday, and a little glimpse for everyone else. Having warbled on about the cathartic emotions of the performance I chose to share a light-hearted solo number with you. Some of you will remember it from an audio recording I posted here about a year ago. It’s called Everybody’s Hustling and is the song through which I met some of the lovely Substack team and wonderful fellow writers. (Here’s looking at you ) In the intro to the song you even hear me telling the audience about my Substack… everybody’s husting… welcome new subscribers!

And wishing you all a beautiful spring.

Lail x

p.s………

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Like a giraffe with a very long neck it’s hard to get up when you fall

It occurs to me that in my first few years as a singer-songwriter — including much of my first album — I was inadvertently writing children’s songs…

The premise of the song was only a little more grown-up:

Oh let March pass quick so April can be here

I’d love to claim all the intentional symbolism of the changing seasons. The truth is I was in a long distance relationship at the time and surviving the lonely weeks until the next reunion was my biggest concern.

The reason the song is still stuck in my head is the bridge. That’s the part that traditionally comes between the second chorus and the third verse. God knows where I put it. But it was undeniably catchy:

We’ll march through March
We’ll march through March
We’ll march through March
We’ll march through March
We’ll march through March
We’ll march through March

It’s a good mantra for the month. You’re welcome to appropriate it.

I was reminded of another old song I wrote recently. Last month we spent a beautiful week in Andalucía in Spain, including a day at The Alhambra. I’d been there once before, almost exactly two decades ago. It was my first ever solo trip, staying in youth hostels, living off gazpacho, pre-smart phones, wonderfully disconnected. In Granada I befriended a beautiful Australian artist called Carla. She had long blonde hair and wrote out all the verses of Joni Mitchell’s Cactus Tree for me on a postcard she had painted. While she was busy being free…

Speaking of Joni, I should probably mention that my paid subscribers received a juicy Valentine’s Day cover of You Turn Me On (I’m A Radio)…

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(Yes, this is my attempt to Court & Spark you…)

Anyhow, back to the past. Twenty years ago I spent a day wandering around the wonder that is The Alhambra. It was August and extremely hot. I remember not having enough water with me. Perhaps this added to the delirious state in which I walked through the gardens. I say delirious because either I was not in my right mind, or memory is a very slippery fish. It was August, you see. High temperatures and high season. There must have been throngs of tourists swarming around. Even now in February it was at capacity. Queues and crowds, tour groups and selfie sticks. Yet in my hazy recollections of that solo visit to The Alhambra I was there all alone. Alone enough to sit down and write a song! I really don’t remember another soul. I remember solitude, tranquility and silence. I had the Nasarid Palaces all to myself. This can’t possibly be true! Was I in my own world to the extent that I didn’t notice the masses? Or has time slowly erased them from my memory, leaving only those most vivid mirages of tiled floors and marble fountains?

I'm writing in the garden at number 24
I got to 37 but I don’t want to leave the palace door
Where silent water lines the floor
And all my thoughts have been thought before

The rest of the lyrics are even more embarrassing, with far too many Spanish rhymes — Alhambra / Sombra / Sierra Navada / Granada — but I do love the image of my younger self writing in a notebook in the shade of an orange tree, so busy being free.

This time around I was more preoccupied with the fact that strollers are not allowed in the palace and if we walked at our toddler’s pace we’d literally never leave the palace door. My arms hurt for the rest of the day, but it was worth it. “Look at this magical place Milo, this is where Babar and Celeste live!”

I just realised there’s only one letter difference between place and palace.

And there’s only one month between winter and spring…

We’ll march through March!

Lail x

p.s. If you feel like paying for the pleasure of these Foggy Notions, I won’t be the one to stand in your way… In fact, I’ll make it really easy for you…

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More problematically, we cannot for the life of us get Alexa to play our music. Now, I do appreciate that neither of us have very easy names to pronounce. But you’d think we’d have cracked it… Alexa, play JF Robitaille & Lail Arad. [Shuffling songs by Jethro Tull.] Alexa, play Laaail Arad. [Playing La La Land, by Brice Vine.] Alexa, play Laiiiil Araaaad. [Hm, I don’t know that one.] Alexa, play Leyal A-Rad. [Here’s Loyal, by Chris Brown.] Alexa, play J F Robitaille. [Sorry, I’m not sure about that]. Alexa, play Jay Eff Row-bee-Tie. [I couldn’t find Grumpy Time by Jeff, but here is other music by Jeff.] Alexa, play JF Ro-bi-ta-LLi-é… [Here’s Robbery by Bruce Henry]. Ok stop. Stop. STOP! Alexa, stop…

To be clear, our music is in there. We can get to it via the song names. Alexa, play Everyone Is Moving To Berlin. [Playing Everyone Is Moving To Berlin by Lailarad.] Alexa, play Rival Hearts. [Playing Rival Hearts by JF Robity.] And yes, we have tried to imitate her pronunciation back at her… to no avail. I told you, she is stubborn. Sneaky. A slippery fish. I challenge you to beat her at her own game! In fact:

We would like to offer a $100,000 REWARD to anyone who can make her play our music! Double for the duo! [This is the point at which you ask yourselves: How do you pronounce Lail Arad and JF Robitaille? Well, maybe you’ll have more luck if you aren’t quite sure…]

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If you feel cheated by this Sunday morning’s offering, well, I feel cheated by Alexa. All those millions of frustrated people trying to and failing to play my music each day!

In case you are one of these people, I’ll leave you with this “Greatest Hits” playlist we made on Spotify… And with the announcement that we’re dropping our surnames for the duo album that is officially coming out next year! Alexa, play JF & Lail. Hopefully she can handle that. Meanwhile I’m sticking to my turntable.

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Remember the Broken Bicycles cover I did for Every Tom Waits Song? Well Ray Padgett, who was responsible for that commission, flew to London a couple weeks ago to see not one but two Dylan shows (as you do when you also run a Bob Dylan Live Concert Substack). This seemed a fine opportunity to finally meet in person, but also to test out the local musical walking tour which had accidentally come together while the world stood still and finding the house where Dylan may or may not have chopped up a piano for firewood brought unexpected joy to our otherwise stress-is-an-understatement days. Ray, we felt, was the target audience we’d been waiting for, what with his self-proclaimed fetish for folky folklore.

I won’t give away the entire tour in case you ever find yourself with a day off in London and want the company of two expert guides (ok, let’s be honest, JF’s brings the encyclopaedic knowledge, but I do provide excellent tangential anecdotes). I will however divulge some highlights in case you prefer to walk alone…

When you exit Hampstead Heath overground station don’t walk up the main entrance to the park. Instead, walk all the way around the perimeter (much as Orwell [now on Substack!] did on his walk home from work at the bookshop which is now the bakery opposite the hospital). Keep looking left and don’t lose your cool. You will think you’ve missed the turning, but it’s just a little further than you think. And then there it is, the beautiful back entrance to the ponds, hopefully familiar from a certain Nick Drake photo shoot circa Pink Moon. This is your photo op.

I’ll skim over the over-priced baby clothes shop above which Leonard boarded in exchange for coal and promising the landlady he would write three pages of his novel each day, because I’m fully aware that I’m in danger of Leonard Cohen overkill. I’ll also skip over Nick Drake’s humble abode as we’re not really sure whether that was the original building or another which was built in it’s place. I will instead direct you to 184 Haverstock Hill, where both Dylan and Paul Simon potentially “borrowed” Scarborough Fair from Martin Carthy whilst enjoying his hospitality. I won’t tell you that we walked right up to the front door and took several pictures before hearing a big brawl break out inside and realising we were outside the wrong house. I will however urge you to end your walk at the legendary Roundhouse, which needs no introduction from me, but where I have seen both Patti Smith and Ezra Furman play Halloween shows, which for someone who hates Halloween was, I thought, rather brave. Toddler trick-or-treating went well despite the downpour, thanks for asking.

I’ll leave you with another folky pandemic memory, when the second verse of Paul Simon’s American Tune echoed loudly in the wells of silence…

And here are all those buttons, to which you are hopefully not yet immune:

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Once I’ve introduced a reliable rhythm, the trick is to both stick to it and break it up. To alternately settle and surprise. To establish a status quo without ever crossing the line into the perils of boredom. Only once my audience has been won over do I attempt — very slowly and with great caution — to wind down the pace, turn down volume and dumb down the lyrical content, until I have successfully induced a trance-like state of looped melodies and lyrical mantras. Then begins the world’s longest fadeout, after which, if I’m lucky, I can slip backstage and enjoy the drinks and snacks in my rider, my singing barely audible as I shut the door behind me. I have learnt to battle the temptation of ending with a bang, or leaving my loyal fan wanting more... I can say from experience that this is highly unadvisable.

In terms of material, I am not unlike like the station in Joni Mitchell’s You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio. The songs on heavy rotation are saccharine, nostalgic, a little bit corny… and it is very rare for a new song to enter the playlist. This is not BBC 6 Music; my listener wants the hits. I should clarify that bedtime has it’s very own cannon with little connection to the real world pop charts. I will list a sample of A-List tracks below for your perusal. Some choices are self-explanatory, for others I have no explanation.

There’s been a lot of talk this week about how touring is no longer sustainable. So many friends have had to cancel their long-awaited tours, either before setting off or mid-way through. I really hope we can come together to find solutions, so that when my private nightly concert bookings come to an end I can get back to ending with a bang and leaving you all wanting more…

Thank you and good night!

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Night-Time A-List

(I’ve linked to live versions where possible. Enjoy!)

Riding In My Car - Woody Guthrie

Iko Iko - The Dixie Cups

Down Down Baby - Sesame Street

Oh Mister Sun - Raffi

How Much Is That Doggy In The Window - Patti Page

Lean On Me - Bill Withers

Black Hills Of Dakota - Doris Day

Golden Slumbers - The Beatles

The White Cliffs Of Dover - Vera Lynn

Ave Maria - Schubert

Emergency Encore: The Ugly Ducking - Danny Kaye

Speaking of fall, I had a big fall! Actually two, on the same day. I don’t fall for twenty years and then I fall twice in one day! I have very little to show for it. A tiny Marilyn Monroe-style dot above my lip from face-plant-mouth-full-of-mud fall #1 and a very sore bruise on my butt, as they call it here, from sideways-lurch-off-the-chair fall #2. I’d blame the chair, but you might ask who the designer was… so I’ll blame the baby. I’m totally fine, my body aches more from the 20-30k steps we’ve been clocking each day.

One of these overly ambitious walks was to Midtown Manhattan, to the NYHQ of — wait for it — Substack! That’s right, I visited the physical home of my virtual home! I sang at Substack and now I’m telling you about it, on Substack! I do love me a bit of meta… and I’ve always loved playing slightly awkward shows in people’s work spaces… a rare glimpse behind the scenes… Like when I was invited to play in the Paper Magazine kitchen on a long-ago NYC trip… or on the Soundcloud rooftop in Berlin… or at The Hindu Newspaper editorial meeting in Chennai… I always leave secretly wishing I worked there… at least for a day or two… If I worked at Substack I would be on the Trust & Safety team. Everyone would trust me and I’d be so young and friendly with favourite bands I’ve never heard of.

[Someone (my mother) suggested I let you know that the words in orange are clickable links, just in case anyone (else) doesn’t realise…]

I kicked off the mini-set with Prospect Park — not only because it was the first song I shared here on Substack, but also because — though we could see the Empire State Building right outside the window — at least half the people in the room lived in Brooklyn. Go on Gowanus…

Then I played 1934, my song for Leonard Cohen — not least because of last Sunday's Leonard offering (and, spoiler, the theme continues next week), but also because the special occasion allowed for an in-person meeting with fellow Substacker and Joni Mitchell biographer, David Yaffe. David has endless Leonard and Joni stories, which as you can imagine I can never get enough of.

I ended by singing a Magnetic Fields song with JF — not just because it was the first song we ever performed together, but also because it’s called San Fransisco, which is where most of the Substack team are based. Come back from San Fransisco, it can’t be all that pretty, when all of New York City misses you… It’s a beautiful song. It’s also a very short song and the baby’s patience was waning. Yes, he came along too. The first baby to grace the Substack offices! (If this was a test to see what touring with a baby might be like, we failed.) (Though he did sleep during the entire walk home, through the honking horns and flashing lights of NYC’s nighttime).

I won’t tell you about the even more ambitious walk we did to Francesco Clemente’s Broadway studio — another work space in which I’ve performed — and what a space! — but I will share a few pictures, for those of you who aren’t avidly following my instagram stories...

And don’t be too jealous. As I type this the baby has fever, the builders are making more noise than I thought possible outside our window, and it’s pouring rain!

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But earlier this week, watching the footage of Joni Mitchell’s surprise set at Newport Folk Festival, I was jealous. So very jealous! Not of Joni herself, not even of the musicians on stage with her, but of the audience. Imagine! Imagine going to Newport Folk Festival in 2022, psyched to see Brandie Carlile, and going home having witnessed the first live performance from Joni Mitchell in over 20 years. I can’t actually imagine. I may have internally combusted when she strutted onto the stage in her beret, sunglasses and pigtails. Even looking at the YouTube clips over breakfast I was in tears.

Something about the fact it was at Newport, where Judy Collins brought Joni to perform, along with another newcomer named Leonard Cohen, back in 1967. Something about the fact those fantastically flirty photos with Leonard were taken right there, on the day they met. Something about the fact that I’m right in the middle of reading Joni’s biography, which is why all these facts are at my fingertips and on my mind. Something about those songs, how much they mean to me, and to everyone else. Something about the past few years, and how badly we all need some good news. Something about how nobody knew whether Joni would ever be able to sing again after her aneurysm. Something about the fact she sounded so damn good.

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I could say Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi kick-started my career. I was 11-years-old on a school camping trip. Everyone was playing rounders (the mild British equivalent of baseball) and I wandered inside the lodge, maybe to use the bathroom, maybe to avoid batting. I happened upon a teacher (he seemed old to me, he was probably 28) and a girl from my class. He was playing guitar, she was trying to sing Big Yellow Taxi. There were several things I did not understand: How did this girl get out of playing rounders? Why was she not embarrassed to be singing with this teacher? How did she even know Big Yellow Taxi? And if she did know it, why did she not know all the words?

I, of course, knew all the words. Having declared myself a hippie earlier that year, my parents’ record collection was on heavy rotation. Ladies Of The Canyon was my favourite album (my pre-teen self was not quite ready for Blue) and Big Yellow Taxi was my favourite song (easier morals to palate than, say, The Arrangement). Everyone else in my class was listening to Saturday Night by Whigfield.

I hung back by the door a while, unsure what to make of this girl trying to sing my song. Do you know the words? The teacher beckoned me over. (I’m aware that this sounds like a scene in High School Musical.) I walked over and joined in, quietly at first but quickly gaining confidence, like the soon-to-be-star of aforementioned cheesy movie. That night, around the campfire (I kid you not), the teacher asked if I would sing Big Yellow Taxi for everyone. My first public appearance! On the coach journey home some of the boys (yes, the boys!) asked if I’d sing that paradise song again. Back at school, I was asked if I would sing it at morning assembly, and later again at the end of year show. It was a big deal, that show. I wore a little yellow belly top from Gap Kids. When the teacher started strumming I went completely blank of the opening lines. I got there on take two... there’s probably some home video evidence on an antique Hi8 tape somewhere. A few weeks later Amy Grant released a cover of, you guessed it, Big Yellow Taxi. It was the song of the summer.

I went on to sing in every school concert, every choir, every musical. I went on to cover Chelsea Morning, All I Want, People’s Parties. I sang Twisted in every audition I ever had, only recently learning that Joni’s version was a cover itself. I sang Carey in market squares on Spanish Islands; Help Me in moody Hotel Bars; Free Man In Paris in crumbling Parisian Theatres. Now I sing Morning Morgantown to my baby when he wakes up far too early each morning.

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I never paid particular attention to Both Sides Now. It always sounded a little saccharine to me. I guess I never listened properly. Or didn’t know how to listen. I hadn’t yet seen love from the other side. The lyrics came at me when looking out of an airplane window not long ago — the first flight I’d taken in a very long time — and I was immediately sure Joni had written the lyrics in the air, looking down at the clouds. The biography I’m reading confirmed my suspicion! Both Sides Now, her first big hit thanks to Judy Collins, was the standout song at Newport last weekend and caused well deserved ripples across the world wide web. Her voice is no longer brilliantly high, but marvellously low. Deep, weathered, laced in wisdom. She’s 78 years old, looking at life from the other side. I showed the clip to my mother, who is about to celebrate her 70th birthday. She too cried the whole way through. I don’t know how she wrote this song when she was so young.

The excellent biography I keep alluding to is Reckless Daughter, A Portrait Of Joni Mitchell. It was written by David Yaffe, a fellow Substacker I recently met thanks to the weird ways of the internet. Sometimes good things come out of Twitter!, as he put it. You can imagine my excitement when he endorsed my Leonard Cohen song, having spent time with the man himself. And you can imagine, knowing my predisposition to biographies, how much I’m enjoying his Joni book. I’m eager to get his reflections on the Newport extravaganza, ideally on a Chelsea Morning in New York, sipping tea and lemonade at a table in the shade... (forgive my lyrical mix and matching, it sounded more sophisticated than milk and toast and honey).

Incredibly enough, Paul Simon also made a surprise appearance at Newport last weekend. Despite being utterly overshadowed by Joni’s re-emergence, he got my tears too. A few of you may remember I shared a verse of American Tune deep in the pandemic proper. It’s an incredible song that keeps on giving and I was absolutely floored by this rendition with Rhiannon Giddens. No jealousy, just admiration and motivation.

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Did you think I’d forgotten about last week’s caption competition?! I’m sure many of you are eagerly awaiting the results…

Entries were of extremely high calibre across the board. However, there has to be one winner. And though this may prove highly controversial, the winner is… my very own Canadian singer-songwriter duo partner, JF Robitaille! I hope, when you look again at the photo with his accompanying caption below, you will put aside your suspicions that the gig was rigged and agree he is the deserving winner!

This caption reminded me of the time I accidentally signed off an email to a major publisher with:

See you shortly!

Except what I actually wrote was:

See you shorty!

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Prior to the vaccines, we had a few perfect days. So much so that I keep catching myself singing Perfect Day by Lou Reed. (Does she not know it’s about heroin? Yes yes, she knows.) The weather has been disconcertingly fantastic here in London, and it makes all the difference. Literally. For reasons I won’t get into now, we have not be able to fully rejoin society yet. By that I mean, we are having to be very Covid-wary. Still. Again. So a sunny weekend, when we can walk the city and meet friends outdoors, is a real gift. I clocked 23K steps on Sunday. Yes my legs ache as well as my arms. But it was worth it:

Hackney City Farm (pigs, sheep, baby donkey); Broadway Market (buskers, pastries, memories); Regent’s Park (ugly duckings, pretty swans, bandstand jazz); The Gallery Of Everything (Jarvis Cocker, Campari, soda); all free and child-friendly, I might add. (Does she not know how to use semicolons?; debatable.) And most importantly, in each of these places... people! Purposeful playdates and chance encounters with people I hadn’t seen in years. Not a figure a speech. Years. Two, maybe even three years.

Perhaps you experienced this social resuscitation long ago, after the first lockdown or the third wave. Perhaps it was more gradual for you, or has been long forgotten. For me, it happened now, last weekend. Being back in East London, in Central London, my old stomping grounds… meeting up with old friends, bumping into forgotten friends — even making new friends! — felt invigorating. Like being a tourist and coming home all at the same time.

When I called our doctor’s surgery to book the baby vaccines they said we would have to do them somewhere else. Not because they have no appointments, but because they have no nurse. At all. For the foreseeable future. (Does she not think this is because the NHS has been razed to the ground? Yes, she does.) So they sent us to another clinic, a 35 minute walk away, and I was not best pleased. Surely the whole point of a local doctor is that it’s local.

Perhaps because the sun was still shining and we were still in weekend mode, or perhaps because we were nervous and needed to distract ourselves from the needles about to be jabbed into our unknowing one year old, we headed out early in attempt to make a morning of it. We discovered a new playground, ate coconut cake on a bench, walked around a colossal, crumbing cemetery I didn’t know existed. And then, just outside the doctor’s surgery, still early and dragging our feet, I spotted someone I hadn’t seen in 20 years.

I actually recognised her mother first, then noticed her little baby, and only then did my mind confirm it was really her. An old friend from school I’d completely lost touch with. One of the first people I ever sang and performed with, harmonies and all. It was wonderful to reconnect, first out on the street with our babies, so close in age, then later back at home, listening to each other on Spotify, trying to catch up on a lifetime through confessional song lyrics.

So it seems there was a reason why we were sent to that far away clinic!! I don’t actually believe in fate. I do though believe in coincidence, timing and state of mind. I’m not sure I would have looked her way long enough to realise it was her if I hadn’t just spent the whole weekend feeling like I recognise everybody I pass. If I wasn’t so excited to be rubbing shoulders with people again.

Covid is rising in London, I still can’t hug you all freely, but it’s summer in the city, and I feel I’m emerging from a long hibernation, looking outwards.

Apropos of meeting people — after a long time, or maybe for the first time — I’d be so delighted if you said hi or introduced yourself in the comments below… (Does she not see who has subscribed? She does, but she’d love to know who you are, where you are, how you are! Put a face to the email address, so to speak…)

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I’ll leave you with Jonathan and this remarkable rendition of That Summer Feeling…

(There’s a surprise appearance by John Cale at the end of the clip — promoting his record Music For a New Society — perfect!)

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It was our first single as a duo. We thought it was a one-off collaboration. We recorded with Mike Lindsay from Tunng in a little studio in Old Street. JF still smoked back then and took cigarette breaks in Hoxton Square.

We were doing a monthly residency at The Society Club in Soho, with special guests and too many Negronis. We ended each show with everyone singing along to Candy Says. It was about as Max’s Kansas City as London gets.

On the final date my maverick visual collaborators Flo and Liz set up webcams and iPhones around the room. A lot of old friends were in town that night. We wrapped up around 1am and by 3am JF and I were waiting for a bus to the airport. Those were the days!

We didn’t know that was the last time we would see The Society Club. That it would suddenly close down while we were away. It was a very important place for me. They published my first lyrics book, gave me a place to experiment and feel at home. I met a lot of magical people there. Some of them are reading this.

Here’s to surviving five winters… with more twists than Harold Pinter would have deemed plausible… and here’s to the full length JF & Lail album… coming soon… inshallah!

And here is the video:

'We Got It Coming' by JF Robitaille & Lail Arad
Video directed by Flo Kohl & Ellis Pendens 
Song produced & mixed by Mike Lindsay
Sparks Music / Universal Music Canada

p.s. Speaking of winter, there’s a heatwave in London as I write this! Seeing the bar in that video made me thirsty… What’s the perfect cool-down drink for someone who has barely had a drink in two years?!

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*The memoir I mention is Fierce Attachments by Vivian Gornick. Would love to discuss with anyone who’s read it!

For example, do you know where I’m writing to you from? I guess I did mentioned it in my journal… though I’ve also referenced New York and Montreal in recent songs… Anyhow, to avoid confusion: I am in sunny London. UK. Europe. And you?

I suppose you have surmised a few things about me. I suppose you know I’m a singer? Although, thanks to one pandemic and one baby, I haven’t played a live show in over 2 years — which, having previously played around 100 shows each year for around 10 years, is certainly identity-crisis-inducing. But yes, I guess I am still, just about, a singer. A songwriter. A musician. A performer.

In the meantime, you may have picked up on the fact that I’m writing a novel, which may or may not be a novel when it’s finished. I already finished it once or twice, but I’m now trying to finish it again, in the stolen time between my baby’s bedtime and my own bedtime, which are often mere minutes apart. When it is firmly finished, you will certainly be the first to know.

I also promise new music soon — the long-awaited duo album really is coming — and a return to the stage will presumably follow — but for now you are most welcome to explore my back catalogue via YouTube or Spotify or best of all Bandcamp…

Ceci n'est pas une sales pitch.

And now that you know me a little better, maybe you can help... I can’t decide whether to keep on growing my hair or chop it off. Opinions please!

Here’s to 20 weeks. See you next Sunday!