Dear Friends, 

Belated Solstice, Christmas and indeed Boxing Day greetings to all corners of the world, 

I trust that you’ve all been enjoying whatever festivities are available to you, given the varied nature of rules and regulations these days. We were treated to an absolutely delightful Christmas with my brother and family over in Le Mas d’Azil. Deepest thanks to them all for such a fine spread, with the added bonus of at least one heatable room and hot running water - LUXURY!. 

For those in the northern hemisphere, and particularly to all who live in vehicles, huts, and other outdoor situations, I must say I’m delighted to have made it once more past the cross-bones of the year to the gradual return of the sun. We’ve been blessed here in the Pyrenées with a week of frosty mornings and clear (if short) sunny days which has come as a very welcome salve after a full month of rain, but today we’re back to a gentle drizzle over misty forest, with the handsome aspect of Belbèze-en-Comminges in the background.

 

Being as we live in the only vehicle we have for transport, the need to drive in and out of our driveway through this period meant that we were mostly rather marooned in a large pool of mud, with strategically placed pallets in various states of repair, between which to hop; and established a daily routine of adding layers of broken roof tiles to the deep ruts through which the van had to struggle, until eventually we have a semblance of wide terracotta train-tracks to get us round the corner to our favoured parking spot, replete with a siding for visitors. 

Sadly, my life has been largely based around moving massive amounts of stone, timber and tile, keeping us vaguely warm, well-fed and on the right side of the sanity barrier, so I’ve had very little time for any kind of music or festivities this festive season, but we are beginning to make some real progress on making our place at least slightly habitable. With a little help from my brother, I’ve stripped all of the old planks out of the first floor of the barn, and taken delivery of a massive piles of pine planks to replace them. To my great joy, it turns out that all of the beams and all but five of the joists are in fine condition, so after doing a little work on one of the walls, I’ll be able to put a floor in and actually have a decent dry area to occupy, rain or shine.

 

We have just acquired a beautiful old Godin woodburner for in the kitchen which now even boasts some cooking facilities, which certainly helps to keep the van slightly less humid, and we’ve stripped off half of the old plaster, ready to make it a little more like a house than a squat. We’ve been given a vast amount of useful bricolage by our friend Olivier, including a shower stall, which we’ve assembled, and is almost ready to plumb in (in the corner of the barn, rather than a more conventional setting, but we’ve got to start somewhere) but by far the most revolutionary step so far is our new bath-tub.

 

Anyone who has yet to install a cast-iron bath over a fire-pit in the garden, I can’t recommend it highly enough. The curious joy of a bath which gets warmer, rather than colder as you bathe, is quite something, and brings to mind the Captain of the Golgafrinchan Ark in Douglas Adams’ The Restaurant at the End of The Universe, though I prefer a pint to his Gin and Tonic. 

Word of our bird-feeding station on the wall outside the van window has clearly spread far and wide, as we now get daily visits, not just from Great-tits, but Blue-tits, a Robin, various little brown fellas, a pair of Nut-hatch, with their handsome peach and blue get-up and perhaps even a nightingale, though I need to get myself a decent bird book to consult on these matters. 

It seems the barn-owl no longer roosts in the barn behind the kitchen, since Yasmine and the aforementioned Hibou were equally surprised by their brief meeting in the back barn some months ago, but it dines in the barn from time to time, judging by the fresh pellet I found the other day and the beautiful feather that Anelie collected one day when we were out.

Talking of something which might have been coughed up by an owl. After all my banging on about the profound mendacity and abject incompetence of Boris Johnson and his shower of “ministers”, I must admit I have been quite taken-aback by the speed in which his reputation for being immune to accountability seems to be collapsing. 

There have been many times over the years when he has attracted the type of scandal which would signal the end of a career for anyone else, only to sail through unscathed, with everyone happy that it’s just Boris being Boris. I know that his enduring appeal and electoral successes leave most sentient beings outside the UK scratching their heads, as on the international scene he comes across as a cartoon-made-flesh of an overweight Trump impersonator having a stroke on live TV, but when I saw Declan Donnelly, one half of British Television’s most celebrated light entertainment duo, Ant & Dec, and not a noted public satirist, address him directly on a primetime show, I was gobsmacked, and at once elated that he may finally be tumbling toward his long-courted comeuppance.

 

 

After weeks of sending out ministers on TV and radio to expertly prevaricate their way through the scandal of the day, insisting that up was down, or down up, or whatever the instruction from on high had been, only to have Bojo reverse-ferret within the hour and send them out again to insist that the opposite had always been their fervently held opinion, there came a distinct point, just after the video of Allegra Stratton giggling through her mock press conference with the lads in the much fabled blue Briefing Room, when for two whole days, no-one would do it anymore - no-one that is, other than Matt Hancock, who would happily fellate a badger on Good Morning Britain if he thought it’d get him on the telly. 

The PM can normally rely on such experienced hands as Nadim Zahawi or Kwasi Kwateng, who both have fantastic names and can quite happily talk constantly for 20 minutes in an authoritative tone without answering a single question, or conveying any information at all, but suddenly they weren’t answering the phone. 

Much to Yasmine’s continued disdain, I am still a fairly regular listener to the Today programme on BBC Radio 4, and it was fascinating to hear the bewilderment in the voices of the presenters when endlessly required to state (for balance, naturally) that though they had repeatedly contacted the government requesting a spokesperson, no such spokespersons were forthcoming, in fact not a single representative of the party had even answered the phone, apart, of course, from Matt Hancock. 

As a tragi-comic spectacle it’s all pretty compelling to chuckle about from afar, but the truly tragic thing is that when Boris quietly steps back to spend more time with, or perhaps without his families, we will be left with a choice of Liz Truss, currently taking every opportunity to be photographed in a spanking new Thatcher hair-cut riding on a tank, or artificially inseminating a cheese, or whatever it is she does, Raaaab, who isn’t quite sure where Dover is and insists the police don’t investigate crimes which were committed in the past, and of course, Hancock, of whom we’ve seen far too much already.

What a strange system it is, in a country full of deeply charismatic, capable and morally driven people working in so many fields, that executive positions are reserved for blithering idiots who’d have trouble negotiating themselves out of a damp paper bag, or posturing egotists with a Churchill/Messiah-complex. I think perhaps a work experience style job-swap scheme in which Boris Johnson and his entire cabinet change places with Gareth Southgate and the England football squad for a trial period might be enlightening, not to mention thoroughly entertaining.

 

 

England’s young striker, Raheem Sterling was guest editor on the Today programme a couple of days ago, the day after Cumbrian hill-farmer, James Rebanks took the reigns, and both really were a refreshing change from the usual childish tit-for-tat and blind adherence to the latest twitter-storm. The interview with Sterling and Southgate in the place of the 8:10am interview with a “leading” political figure was inspiring on many levels, and Sterling's choice of subjects, guests and causes reminded me that there are many people out there who know exactly what we need to do to make our world a better place. 

Talking of inspiration. I have received the first rough recordings we made at the inimitable Mike West’s 9th Ward Pickin Parlor back in the autumn, and though indeed rough and ready, there’s some good material to start working on the next Djukella album. As the sun starts to return and I have to spend less time chopping wood each day, I shall get back to playing music and perhaps even recording some videos from the garden. For now I’m booking tours for this year, so anyone who fancies hosting us for a concert, or knows of a venue/garden/barn/house/park/church/hall where we should play along the way, please get in touch.

For now I shall leave you with a video of us playing last summer in the twilight of a Priston evening. Thanks to Owain Jones for continuing to post songs on the Village Hall Gigs youtube channel. It’s some of the only tangible evidence I’ve found so far of last year’s tour, and it helps to remind me that I still exist. If anyone got any good photos or videos of any of our other gigs, I’d love to see them.

 

 

I trust that you’re managing to stay positive and connected with as many inspiring folks as possible in these distinctly interesting, yet strangely boring times. With a bit of work, some quiet reflection and the odd conversation across the barricades, I have a feeling we can make 2022 a much better place to live. 

With much love from the moist hills of Le Couserans, and best wishes for a fine New Year, 

Jez

 

Dear people of the wider internet, 

I find myself several days later in writing this than even my tardiest estimates, but it was a very long drive. 

As you may have noticed over the years, I’m accustomed to spending most of my time on the road, but since we finished the tour with a glorious show at The Old Town Hall in Bourne, I’ve driven to Norfolk, Mid-Wales (including a slightly desperate dash to Aberystwyth in the middle of the night for diesel - as is the fashion nowadays), North Devon, Northamptonshire, Thanet, Dover, the fringe of Flanders, then all the way across France to the foothills of the Pyrenées where I now sit, in the doorway of our kitchen (or at least what once was and will once more be a kitchen). 

It seems that it’s considerably colder here than it is outside, but there is a table at a good height for typing and in a truly blissful counterstroke, my record player, amp, speakers and the mellifluous tones of Sonny Rollins and a seriously stellar band to warm me inwardly.

 

My lower back gave up somewhere around the middle of Normandy after far too many hours in the driver’s seat of Bella the Great White Hope, including the unfortunate complete failure of the valve on one of my swanky new tyres, which had left me lying in the muck, jacking up the overladen van as night fell on Flanders and North Sea winds whipped by, but through gritted teeth; freighted with half a ton of vinyl, a spare woodburner strapped to the wall and fully testing last winter’s new double-leaf suspension, we trundled on, and I was even able to stand up and play a delightful concert to a select few of Lauzun’s First Friday Folk the night before we finally rolled into the waist-high sea of nettles which were once more making their claim on the garden. 

Since a freak frost the week after we left had put paid to all tomatoes in the area, the only landmark was our gargantuan leeks, but in relatively short order, Yasmine set about the place with one of the mediaeval weapons we’ve inherited and now we have a garden again, replete with a slightly rough lawn, carrots, beets, peppers of all sorts and most miraculously of all to this northern boy, cantaloupes, their vines long dissolved, ripening among the nettles. 

All the flowers she frantically planted out from their pots the morning we left have survived, and now a plethora of finches, tits and robins are busy rooting about for the spoils whenever they don’t think we’re watching.

 

I’m very pleased to announce that the good people of the Invisible Folk Club have released a Podcast Special about our Djukella music, featuring a lively interview and several selections from The Fruitful Fells. 

They’ve been playing us a fair bit on their deeply enjoyable weekly show, but I am honoured to have been granted a whole programme’s worth of chat with Jon Bickley, taking in myriad digressions, from Taiwan and Polynesia to the Prairies, poetry to politics with shout-outs to the lyrical genius of Cahalen Morrison, Si Kahn, Scott Cook and Robin Williamson, the inimitable Sam Welbourne, the formidable Mike West’s 9th Ward Pickin Parlor, the mighty Dana Wylie, whose stonking new record How Much Muscle just arrived in the post, the delightful, indeed instrumental Rob Matheson of The Deportees, and of course, Master of Space & Time, Nye Parsons who gets a whole section about how brilliant he is.

 

 

If you know anyone who likes beautiful music and interesting chat, help us spread the word. I thoroughly recommend tuning in to the Invisible Folk Club as much as possible. I find it deeply refreshing to hear such a fine selection of musics and people who still enjoy informed colloquy. 

It was an absolute pleasure to catch up with so many of you on our recent tour. Playing real music to real people after so long was deeply nourishing. It seems that after such a long, enforced absence of society, the people of England are hungry for music in a way I haven’t experienced for years. Sadly we didn’t get to visit any of you in Scotland nor Germany, as after trying my best, it seemed the variety of COVID rules meant that either no-one was willing to book gigs, or getting us all there and back would cost more than we’d be able to make, but I trust you’re all keeping well, and thoroughly look forward to booking tours for next year and coming to sing for you all.

 

 

It is however truly refreshing to be back in France and once more slightly further away from the rather bleak media-circus and political pantomime of (the erstwhile - some might say) United Kingdom, though I do still hear angry blather about fish in the distance. 

It was fascinating planning a heavy driving schedule when half of the pumps in the country had no fuel, but being as our touring circuit is more provincial than metropolitan, we were able to manage it without much trouble at all. 

I was slightly disheartened to find that many people seem to spend so much of their time arguing vociferously with their own friends about what various “experts” on youtube shout into their phone camera about vaccines, trade deals, statues, microchips or whatever it may be, while the people in charge continuously outdo themselves in the farcical mismanagement of every aspect of their brief whilst handing bundles of public money to their mates, and no-one seems to notice. Or perhaps they notice, but don’t seem to care.

 

 

That our so-called government have managed to grin and giggle their way through a fuel crisis, food shortages, family doctors threatening strike-action, the ongoing scandal of Grenfell Tower and countless thousands of fire-trap apartments, the criminally wasteful slaughter and incineration of livestock, the decimation of our export-focussed fishing industry and countless other crimes, whilst sunning themselves on the private beaches of hedge-fund managers, bedding their advisers and “spaffing” (to borrow a phrase) literally ten times as much tax-payers’ money than even The Sun’s direst predictions of Corbyn’s profligacy up the proverbial wall, is a truly astonishing feat of political “optimism”. 

It seems sometimes that whoever is writing the script for this pantomime is constantly pushing the boundary of ridiculousness, to see when someone might notice. To think that there could be a worse Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs (beyond the obvious pun) than Boris Johnson, whose only noticeable achievement in the job was indefinite (at the time of going to press) extra jail-time for Nazanin Zagari-Ratcliffe, was almost beyond belief until Raaaab hove into view. 

Until that truly inspired choice, it was hard to imagine how Bojo would ever live down being “the worst Foreign Secretary in British History”. Now in another masterstroke, the very same sleight-of-hand has landed us with talk of Liz Truss failing upwards once more, and positioning herself as Boris’ natural successor. One has to wonder whether, had she spent a little more time “opening up pork markets” we would’ve needed to burn all those pigs. 

Robert Buckland, the one seemingly competent minister in the previous cabinet has now had to make way for the harrumphing Raaaab to take over as “Justice” Secretary, so he won’t reveal whatever juicy nugget it is he holds over the Prime Minister, and in a move which will chill the arts to the bone, we’ve been granted a culture secretary whose only noted association with culture is consuming offal on ITV. 

Talking of ITV, I had meant to recommend John Pilger’s latest documentary film in one of my previous missives during the summer, but for various reasons it didn’t make the edit. It was actually released a couple of months before the start of the pandemic, but far from being made obsolete by the passage of such momentous events, it seems even more informative when viewed in light of the past two years.

 

 

The Dirty War on The NHS is a fascinating investigation into the supposedly clandestine, but often brazen privatisation of Britain’s National Health Service, spanning both the recent Conservative administrations and those of the previous Labour government. 

It may seem a rather dry subject, and I admit it may be of most interest to those in Britain, but as ever, Pilger crafts a deeply compelling film with insights into many aspects of international pharmaceutical hegemony, and the tricks of a particularly disingenuous crop of political animals (or vegetables, as the case may be - there is some rather priceless footage of unlikely sex-symbol, Matt Hancock in a virtual reality head-set). 

A timely reminder that whatever one’s prejudices may be about commercial TV stations in general and ITV in particular, there is something to be said for true editorial independence when exploited fully by such a fearless truth-seeker as Pilger, which the maternal hand of Auntie Beeb would never allow. 

If you happen to be a stranger to the work of John Pilger, he has been at the cutting edge of investigative journalism since the 1970s, and an international star since his ground-breaking Death of a Nation:The Timor Conspiracy was released in 1994. Particularly if you are wont to believe even half of the videos you see on youtube, he provides an object lesson in how to use multiple sources and a critical approach to create arguments which stand up to scrutiny and shed light on areas where revolutionary progress can be achieved. 

As for my views on the local political scene here in France, I must admit that I’m not quite up to speed, but in my absence, it seems the media machine has managed to whip up another instant movement, in the form of TV blowhard, long time journalist and professional contraversialist, Éric Zemmour (who has yet to announce that he’s running for President) to rival Macron, their previous creation, and put the wind up Marine LePen, the anointed one of France’s far right. 

As far as I can see so far, the left are busy fighting each other, a similar number of people are arguing with their friends about the aforementioned interminable youtube disputes and the government are happiest when everyone’s shouting about fish rather than paying too much attention to how much governing they’re actually managing, so not a million miles from England, really, though folks are perhaps more likely to burn down the town centre if anyone expects them to adhere to laws they abhor. 

So much to learn. To the rest of you out there in the world, my apologies for ranting on about provincial politics, but I’m told there are folks out there who love to read it, so I try to keep everyone happy.

 

Talking of keeping everyone happy, festive season is coming and music is certainly a fine gift. 

Whether it be actual discs or virtual downloads; all our music is available to buy (for yourself and/or others) at jezhellard.net and work remains thin on the ground, so it’ll really help us to eat more than just leeks through the festive season. If all of you you can share our music with one friend, a video, weblink, song, album or mailing list suggestion, it will be immeasurably helpful and deeply appreciated. 

I trust you’re all keeping well as the nights draw in (or indeed start to wax t’ward summer if you’re south of the equator) and look forward to catching up in due course. 

All the best from Jourdin, 

Jez

 

Dear Friends, 

Deepest thanks to all the wonderful souls who’ve joined us for music and merriment over the past month of touring. The catharsis of actually being able to ply our trade for the first time in many months is palpable, show to show, and we’ve been lucky enough to play some truly spectacular venues and events. 

Now, for the first time in ages, I have a little moment to reflect, and try to catch up with all the correspondence, bills and forms I’ve let slide, as I tried to remember how one retains sanity, voice, instruments, musicians and sobriety whilst rushing like a mad thing, on the oversubscribed roads of old England, between profound musical experiences. It’s been emotional. 

Now the van is nearly cleaned, the laundry washed, dried and folded, and I’m almost ready to set off for tomorrow’s show in Lewisham.

It’s been truly heartening to realise that I still remember how to sing songs to people and play instruments after such a long period of hard labour, developing all the wrong kind of callusses on my hands, but the lifestyle takes a little more practice. 

By far the hardest aspect of this particular tour is the juxtaposition of trying to sing positive, inspirational songs to people and keep things light, while spending the rest of the time listening to the slow motion car-crash of our Afghanistani cousins being once more betrayed, deserted and thrown to the wolves by our erstwhile “war on terrr”, while the arms-dealers’ schills loosely termed “governments” of the “free world” loll on sunbeds and compete to disparage each other in media interviews. 

It may well be the case, but the perverse spectacle of watching the shrivelled husk of Tony Blair, his marked eye still twitching in vain attempt to blot out all the Iraqi children in his waking dreams, calling Joe Biden an imbecile for admitting defeat and shambollically retreating in shame from the scene of the crime, does beg a few questions, and leaves rather a sour taste in the mouth.

In fact, when our Tony (who feels “the hand of history on his shoulder”) was on the radio for the second time today; in order to take the taste out of my ears, I was inspired to clean all the grot out of the bag of life (where all the useful musical electrical things go, so called, as the alternative “bag of death” had all the drum hardware in it back in the day, and weighed enough to kill an ox) and re-coil all of my cables until my hands were black. At least the bleached and waxed Branson he seems to have become is good for something. 

The behaviour of self-described-hard-man and failed foreign secretary, Dominic Raab is so utterly sickening, it makes one grasp around for alternatives amongst the current crop of talent, but when confronted by the reality of that very crop it’s apparent we’re using the wrong vowel. 

Gavin Williamson was gallant enough to admit his insistence he had met Marcus Rashford (who would coincidentally make a more than passable Secretary of State for Education) when he’d actually seen a picture of an entirely different person, was an “honest mistake” (for a moron and a racist who likes to keep a spider in a box to scare the girls, one might add), but his performance in his actual job is a woeful sham. Priti Patel is dividing her time between devising ways to thwart international maritime law in an attempt to “humanely” drown desperate people using a wave machine in the sea, and working out how much it might actually cost to ship them to a rock in the middle of the Atlantic for “processing”. 

Grant Schatt is presiding over the wanton destruction of ancient woodland from the Chilterns to the Midlands in the name of a 1990s Japanese railway system we were too shortsighted to invest in at the time and he knows perfectly well will never be built, so people can get from Birmingham Airport to London slightly quicker in order to help “The North”. Liz Truss seems to make more sense on Dead Ringers than she does in real life. 

The fact that erstwhile medi-tech salesman and all-purpose toe-rag, Matt Hancock has thankfully been allowed to spend more time working on his youtube fame, only opens the door for Sajid Javid to bring the bedside manner of Goldmann Sachs to the Department of Health, much as Robert Jendrick brings his greasy manner and easy corruption to the decidedly uncaring Department of Communities. 

Gove has been eerily, and some might say slightly moistly quiet in recent months, save the odd burst of disco dancing, which I expect has some insidious undertones, and anyone who even knows who Oliver Dowden, Robert Buckland, George Useless, Alister Jack and Baroness Evans of Bowes Park actually are should probably seek some kind of councilling.

As for the alternative, the bleatings of Keir Starmer seem far more concerned with chasing Ken Loach out of the Labour Party once and for all (?!) and trying to rekindle the long lost Murdoch love-affair than with opposing any of the nonsense being spouted a mere two-swords’-length in front of him. 

Sadly the building is yet to be condemned as the asbestos-riddled anachronism it is, which might leave a little space for in which to form some sort of consensus, among a group of sentient people to try to address aspects of the abject mess we seem to have gotten ourselves into, rather than this incessant schoolboy baying across the baize. 

Across the Atlantic, despite the millions of people working for a sustainable alternative to our collapsing systems, I see much the same. 

Communities fractured on dialectic lines created by our telephones’ re-enforcement of our existing prejudices. Across the familiar divides of Republican/Democrat, Labour/Tory we’ve had several years now of brand new divisions, equally black and white, which cut right through all the traditional loyalties, then before society has time to adapt to the new paradigm, a new binary argument splits us in two once more on new battle lines until you’re left with only six friends it’s “safe” to talk to. 

Whether it’s brexit, environmentalism, trans rights, or whether or for what reason the author of Harry Potter should be crucified, people seem to have lost all empathy. Spending all your time agreeing with people who already agree with you isn’t going to change anything. I thoroughly recommend the general public. And indeed the great outdoors.

Talking of the general public, there may be a few tickets left for our one remaining hall show before I up and skedaddle for the hills. It’s at The Old Town Hall in Bourne, Lincolnshire on Friday September 17th. 

Apart from that it’s been an absolute pleasure to spend a few weeks travelling the roads of England, catching up with friends old and new, and sharing what it is we love. 

Endless thanks to Nye, Piotr for being endlessly brilliant, the other bands and performers we've been lucky enough to see along the way, including Peter Knight's Gigspanner, Two Man Ting, The Mudd Club, The Langan Band, Hands of the Heron, Ewan Bleach, Fiona Bevan, Adam Beattie, Jake Stephens and Carrie Tree, as well as everyone who has hosted us, from Broadstairs and Cafe 54 on the glorious twelfth via Simon’s Farewell, Fanny’s Meadow, Worth Matravers, Markfield, Cliffe, Into the Wild, Headcorn, Clovelly, Hatch Court, Glastonbury and Priston to last weekend’s glorious reception at The Mount Without in Bristol for such a warm welcome. It's been truly special.

It’s been sad not to be able to get to Scotland, Wales, Cornwall or Germany this time, but we’ll be back as soon as possible. 

I shall get to work booking real tours for next year, and do my best to bring this Djukella music to as many places as we can. Please tell at least one music loving friend/family member/colleague/acquaintance about our music, direct them to www.jezhellard.net or send them a song/album/video. It really will be immeasurably helpful. 

With much love, and maybe half an hour until I have to hit the road again, 

Jez

Dear people of the wide world, 

After months of laying low in the Pyrenées, days of driving over seemingly every speed-bump in France, hundreds of pounds-worth of PCR tests and umpteen novel official documents, I have finally made it back to the isle of my birth, and am for the moment, securely quarantined at an undisclosed location. We crossed the channel in the midst of last weekend’s furious storm, and have been wrapped up against the wild winds until today’s glorious sunshine has lured me out into the garden. 

We are regularly checked-up on by the charming NHS Test & Trace service, and are blessed with deliveries of milk and bread over the wall, and after a few days of decompression from quite a monumental drive, I’m trying to take advantage of being near a solid internet connection to write this missive and put together a last minute Djukella UK tour, since various festivals have had to cancel again at the last minute. The great Towersey Festival, which I was deeply excited to be playing for the first time, sent the email cancelling the festival literally moments after I had just forked out for non-refundable PCR tests half way across Limousin, which left me swallowing hard and wondering how the summer would pan out, but after two days work, I somehow seem to have a reasonable run of gigs coming together (have a look at the Shows page here on the website), and we would love to see you at whichever is local to you. 

We still have a few holes left to plug, so if you’d rather host one than drive halfway across the country, get in touch at djukellamusic@gmail.com 

On our way from Ariège, I was blessed with a house-concert for a select few of the First Friday Folk crew in Lauzun, thanks to the lightning work and boundless enthusiasm of Deb and the gang. Deepest thanks to you all. The diesel money was indispensable and singing to actual humans was truly spiritual. I thoroughly look forward to another go on the way back down. 

If I were not quarantined, I would certainly be heading down to London tomorrow for TEYR’s launch of their new album, Estren, at Hackney Round Chapel. If you are anywhere near London, have ears, and can get your hands on a ticket, I recommend you get yourself down there. Featuring such musical luminaries as Sid Goldsmith, Nina Harries and Abel Selaocoe, who is also a featured artist at The Proms the following week, it’s sure to be an unforgettable show. 

As for an album which I know you will love, The Fruitful Fells continues to receive glowing reviews and a decent amount of radio play, but as always, a quick request to your favourite radio show would be immeasurably helpful. 

If you don’t like CDs or no longer own the equipment to play them, it’s available to download, along with a digital version of the booklet if you fancy seeing some of Yasmine’s marvellous photographs, and soon, I will work out how to put some key parts of it on all the streaming services for your listening pleasure, though, as I’m sure you know, musicians would much prefer you got it directly from the source, so we get paid more than 17 pence a go. 

After weeks of listening out daily for some kind of sense out of Boris Johnson, so I might be able to plan this summer’s touring schedule, and learning nothing other than the fact that no-one in his government seem to realise that L’Isle de Reunion is right next to southern Africa, not in fact France, it seems he’s now gone back to doing what he’s good at; going on holiday and impregnating people. Probably safer all round, I suppose, but it does make me wonder who is actually in charge now that he’s dispensed with Mr. Spaffings. 

As soon as I’m allowed out in a few days time, I will collect the orchestra and head d’rectly to the very tip of Kent for Broadstairs Folk Week, where we’re playing on Thursday afternoon, then straight back to Surrey for an evening show at the legendary Fifty Four Cafe in Horley, from there we’re out west for Fanny’s Meadow, then back to the midlands and onwards to various choice spots including Wilderlands Wild Weekends in Ashdown Forest.. I won’t bore you with it all now, but if you have the energy, we’d surely love to sing to you along the way. All shows are covid-safe and in delightful places, so we’ve made it as easy for you as we can. 

Looking forward to catching up with all of you UK based folks, and apologies to the rest of you for neglecting you entirely, but working out how to sing in other countries might take a little more work. 

With much love from quarantine, 

Jez

Dear people out there, 

This was meant to start with great fanfare reminding you that The Fruitful Fells is officially released in exactly one week, but time passes at a worrying rate, and it’s actually released in five days, on Friday the 16th. I’m trying to finalise the details of how to get back into the UK to play some concerts, but the rules seem to change every couple of days, so it’s a work in progress. 

Since I last wrote, the seemingly impossible seems to be becoming possible all over the place. Canada is not only on fire, but might finally be starting to realise how dreadfully they treat First Nations people, the English football team have made it into a major final for the first time in many people’s lives and Boris Johnson is consequently having to pretend he didn’t just endorse racists booing the players, the erstwhile occupying forces in Afghanistan have upped and R.U.N.N.O.F.T in the night, plunging their local proteges into mortal danger yet still claim it was a worthwhile endeavour, and Matt Hancock, helmsman of Britain’s Coronavirus “response” has finally been fired; interestingly enough, not for widely acknowledged incompetence or the wilful sacrifice of a nation’s elders, not even for corruptly employing his lover, hoodwinking his family or awarding millions in public funds to his mates at the pub, but for hugging during the hugging ban. 

You couldn’t make it up. If I’d have read this a couple of years ago, I’d be totally baffled by the idea of a ban on hugging. The rest, bar the football thing, has sadly been all too inevitable for some time. I wrote the bulk of We Have The Time, which was finally released on Heavy Wood years later, in 2003, in response to a quote from an Afghan herdsman, asked what he thought of the Americans in his country. He responded “They may have the watches, but we have the time”, betraying the innate poetry of his people, and chilling this listener to the bone. 

For students of history, it’s clear that invading Afghanistan (however pure ones motives) never works out well. Those are some tough cookies in some pretty hostile terrain, who’ve been practicing harassing interlopers for millennia, and in the past century or so, almost constantly. I always thought it seemed strange to attempt to avenge the atrocities of September 11th 2001, perpetrated by 19 Saudis, by bombing weddings in Afghanistan, and surprisingly enough, a full twenty years later, very little seems to have been achieved other than another few rounds of arms/concrete contracts and the attendant bribes. Of course it is deeply sad for all those who fought and died and their bereaved families on all sides. Plus ça change…

As for news of music, we will be playing on August 12th at Broadstairs Folk Week, and August 29th amongst a truly stellar line-up at Towersey Festival. I’d thoroughly recommend getting tickets for whichever is more local to you, or both, if you like a bit of travel. We’ll also be playing an outdoor concert in King’s Cliffe on August 21st if that suits better. If I can negotiate the multifarious and ever-changing rules, we will also be playing at Bedfringe in Bedford on July 31st. Other than that we are at a loose end and in need of gigs… garden concerts, house-concerts, parties, whatever you have. It’s been so hard to plan events this summer that it’s been pretty much impossible to put a tour together, but I would love to see you all, and sing to you, so if you can get twenty or so friends together, we’ll play anywhere. 

As I mentioned, the new album is released, officially on Friday, August 16th, and is available in various formats at www.jezhellard.net 

Here’s a few things people have said about it so far. 

“A standout; vocally, instrumentally, taken in a literary context, making sense of human existence…it places them towards the top in the folk music genre” - Irish Music Magazine 

“Mad the world may be, but it’s immeasurably improved by having music such as this brought into it, imaginative, thought-provoking and, above all, entertaining.” Folk Radio UK 

“A wonderful album, one of great depth and insight, musically intelligent and lyrically inspiring; an absolute delight.” - Liverpool Sound & Vision 

“An album well worth the buying.” - Living Tradition 

We’ve been getting a lot of local, internet and specialist radio play, but if you have a moment to email/tweet/bother any of the programs on BBC Radio 2, 3, or 4; In Tune, Loose Ends, Folk Show, or anyone who plays a bit of music, it would be lovely to get some national airplay. 

As always, tell your friends, buy an album, come to a show. I’m really looking forward to playing music for people again. 

With much love from the back of the van, perched on a mountainside, straining for internet. 

Jez

Warmest greetings to all of you, wherever you may be. I am currently sitting on my trusty fold-up chair in the only available patch of shade, enjoying the twitterings of birds and (mercifully) a gentle breeze through the long grasses. It is 11am and it has become well and truly too hot to do any more digging. Even raking brings the brain almost to the boil, so I have hosed myself down from top to toe and thought I’d try a little communication. 

I’ve been almost totally incommunicado for quite some time, as we have almost no access to internet or indeed phone reception at our new abode, and I have been waiting, for what seems like an age, to hear some sense out of Boris Johnson before I can really have any idea what my plans may be, so I’m sure you can understand my problem. What I do now know is that The Djukella Orchestra will NOT be playing at Festival in the Forest on July 10th, as since Bojo’s latest podium jobby it has been postponed to September 11th, so if you are in or around Lewisham, or were planning to come along, see you in September. 

To be quite honest, with the travel rules as they are, I don’t think I would necessarily be allowed back into the country by July 10th, which poses another problem in that our beautiful new album is officially being released on July 16th, and I’m a thousand miles away. 

As you can see, if I were an organised and media-savvy musical entrepreneur, I might have opened with a big banner headline about our new album, but I’m currently a penniless gardener/scourge of nettle-roots, and may be slightly out of practice at the old marketing business. 

I had planned to reconvene with the members of the orchestra to bring you some kind of live/online extravaganza to launch the album, but that will now have to wait until later in the summer. 

The Fruitful Fells is, however, still officially being released on Friday July 16th, and any help spreading the word will be deeply appreciated. Irish Music Magazine have said some wonderfully complementary things about it already, but sending a quick email/post/tweet/letter to your favourite radio show, asking to hear it, or to your favourite publication, telling them to listen to it will really help. 

If you’ve yet to hear it, it’s all available in various formats (or to listen to for free - if you can’t afford luxuries right now) at the new website, www.jezhellard.net and I would really love you to hear it. It’s taken a huge amount of work to get it realised in these peculiar times with no income at all, and I really think the songs will speak to you, and offer a bit of encouragement in the face of so much woe. Also, I have so very nearly paid off all the bills (only £1534 left to pay!) but still have absolutely no prospect of income until travel and concerts are once more permitted, so every sale counts. 

If you’ve a friend who likes music or poetry, or a family member in need of a birthday present, or any excuse at all, why not buy them a CD, or send them a download? If you can’t afford gifts at the moment, you can just send them a link to jezhellard.net or suggest they join the mailing list. Tell your facebook friends about The Djukella Orchestra or tweet your twits (tweeters/tweetees), or whatever they are called. I know it’s a bit of a palaver, but the music “industry” was already in such a parlous state before it was made totally illegal, that every tiny bit of (anti)social media you can muster really make a difference, and paying off the bills and finally being able to make some wages will be absolutely marvellous.

 

So I remain in the Ariège, fomenting plans for a return to the road and furiously tilling the ground until it’s time to hose myself down again. I am very glad that I have finally started receiving my subscription to Private Eye, and after nine months or so without it, it is deeply refreshing to once more be able to read articles written by people who seem to pay attention to detail, rather than the endless culture-wars and posturing of most of the publications I’ve been able to access online. 

For those of you outside the UK, or with no knowledge of Private Eye, it is a small and unassuming bi-weekly combination of investigative journalism and satire, and remains one of the only papers in the world to continue paying people - writers/comedians/cartoonists - fairly for their work. It is also, small and light enough to read in the bath, if only I had a bath.

So I remain in the Ariège, fomenting plans for a return to the road and furiously tilling the ground until it’s time to hose myself down again. I am very glad that I have finally started receiving my subscription to Private Eye, and after nine months or so without it, it is deeply refreshing to once more be able to read articles written by people who seem to pay attention to detail, rather than the endless culture-wars and posturing of most of the publications I’ve been able to access online. For those of you outside the UK, or with no knowledge of Private Eye, it is a small and unassuming bi-weekly combination of investigative journalism and satire, and remains one of the only papers in the world to continue paying people - writers/comedians/cartoonists - fairly for their work. It is also, small and light enough to read in the bath, if only I had a bath. 

So it seems “Freedom Day” has gone the way of the Garden Bridge, Boris Island, Home By Christmas and so many more hare-brained schemes, and all the malarky about Mr Spaffings and his ground-shaking “bombshells” designed to destroy Bojo and the astonishingly inept, (yet even more astonishingly resilient) Matt Hancock amounted, surprisingly enough, to nought. It was fascinating to hear that the exact same people who worked themselves into a frenzy of anger about Cummings’ Eye Test last year, were the only ones who seemed to have missed the point that when someone has discredited themselves so thoroughly in the eyes of the public that they will likely require “Personal Protection Officers” for decades longer than anyone is willing to pay for them, they may not be the most trusted messenger, even if they are saying something nasty about someone you detest. 

In fact, Johnson’s approval ratings seem to be locked in a rather perverse inverse ratio to his competence, and indeed his actions, which certainly poses some interesting questions about our education system, at the very least. Only this morning, on reading a short piece about his superlative reverse-ferret over the new “Royal Yacht”, after the palace released a swift press-release expressing her extreme displeasure at having anything to do with the hugely expensive project, having read about it in the press before anyone thought to mention it to her, I realised that in this, and in all matters, Bojo is simply a busker. The Busker’s Credo is  “It’s often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission”, something that both Herr Drumpf and our own blonde beast clearly live by, and now, on recounting any of Boris’ exploits, it explains every one. “Please forgive me, I seem to have impregnated…………….”. 

Talking of the blonde beast across the pond, or perhaps swamp, and wanting to end things on a positive note; even though Ol’ Uncle Joe, despite appearing considerably more progressive than predicted, seems to have immediately swung into trying to rekindle sabre-rattling with Russia and China, isn’t it delightful, on a daily basis, not to hear from, or even about that orange wind-bag! 

With much love from the back of the van, 

Jez

 

 

Springtime greetings to all of you, 

 

I am truly blessed at this moment to be lying on my belly in the grass, buttercups blooming all around amid the hum of insects, gazing out across the strangely blue Gascon cows, who eye me suspiciously from time to time, towards the mists obscuring Mont Valier in the distance. I trust you've been enjoying some respite from endless doom and gloom, wherever you may be.

 

After an enforced, and I must say deeply refreshing break from screens, brought on by my laptop charger suddenly giving up the ghost a couple of weeks ago, I have spent the past few days since the new charger arrived (in a near silent, electric yellow Postman-Pat mobile) pretty much glued to the thing, wrestling windows and attempting to get my head around the minutiae of constructing a new website, and painstakingingly uploading much of my life’s work into imaginary boxes. 

During the break I’ve explored a little more of our current parish here in Ariège, and rediscover the reading of actual books, and their attendant joys. I devoured The Grapes of Wrath, which, though desperately depressing on so many levels, is a truly astonishing work of American literature, right up there with Huck Finn and Moby Dick, and unnervingly resonant with our contemporary scene, two books of Roald Dahl’s short stories, a bit of V.S. Naipal and even a touch of Dickens, and after a pretty chilly winter in the van, a few days of sunshine in which to read has been a godsend. 

Anyway, I have news. Drumroll please… From now on, all of your Djukella musical needs will be catered for at jezhellard.net

I’ve had to give up on the old website for the moment (though it remains as an antidiluvian relic of our pre-covid world) as my dear friend Dan who runs it seems to have entirely disappeared, and for months I have been unable to find him , or indeed access the website to keep it up to date. If anyone has any idea where DJDJ has got to, please let me know, but for now we have a brand new album to release, and for that, the rigours of this modern world mean that a website is a prerequisite. 

And it’s quite a fancypants kind of a website I might add. Please give it a visit and let me know if it all works alright, both on computers and the omniscient black mirror, or whichever device it is you prefer to finger. If there are any features, songs, performances or anything else you’d like to see there, just let me know and I’ll see what I can do. 

In the mean time, look what we have here...

 

Talking of the new album, just around my birthday, I received the first box here in France and it has come out looking and sounding very pretty indeed, though I say so myself. By now I understand that the bulk of the preorders have been sent out, barring a few international orders I’m trying to work out how to get through the French postal system, so if any of you who ordered one have yet to receive a package in the post, get in touch and I’ll remedy the situation as soon as possible. 

For those of you who don’t have a CD player, the album is now available to download from our Bandcamp page, which you may know, or the brand new website. 

Now, with the help of this new website, we will be embarking on a publicity campaign ready for the official release in early July, when, with any luck, I may be allowed back into the country and even, dare I day it, to perform a few concerts to actual human people. 

If any of you have a moment spare, please email your favourite radio-show/venue/festival/newspaper/magazine or arts organisation, asking to hear/see/read about or indeed fund us in our constant yet underpaid work of bringing music, poetry and a little sense to our troubled and confusing world. 

Tell a friend about the website or show someone a youtube video. Send a download as a gift to a music loving friend or family member. You’d be amazed how much help the tiniest of actions can be. 

Over the past few weeks I finally managed to get it together to record a couple more videos for Falkirk Folk Club’s weekly online folk session, which just goes from strength to strength.

 

 

Though I’m mostly technologically inept, and have largely failed to capitalise on the current situation by developing a regular online performance presence (it’s quite hard from a van, to be honest), as various innovative and inspiring friends have (if you’ve yet to see Tim Edey or Ewan Bleach at their weekly shows, you’re really in for a treat, also Scott Cook, Adam Beattie and various others have outdone themselves in this brave new world), Falkirk’s session, managed majestically from a gently disco-lit desk somewhere in spacetime, by the unflappable Charles Tibbles, keeps drawing me back.

 

 

To see the massive improvement in everyone’s playing which comes from being forced to record yourself every week for a year and more played out in myriad forms is truly inspiring, and the sense that the community has become stronger, rather than fragmenting through lockdown is palpable. Thanks to the lot of yous for having me in now and again. 

So there is talk of it being legal to put on concerts and even some festivals this summer, though I won’t hold my breath just jet, but if all goes to plan (an irreversible roadmap!? - what on earth could that mean? Surely timeline is the word you’re after) we will be releasing the new album and touring from the first week of July, so if you fancy some outdoor, covid-safe music, keep an eye on the Shows page on the website for dates as they come in, and if you have a garden, barn, marquee or other suitable venue and 25 or more people to listen, get in touch and we’ll come and do bespoke concerts for any situation.

 

 

Talking of musical comrades and new albums, anyone who has yet to preorder a copy of TEYR's new album Estren, then you're missing out. It's released on April 30th, so get yourself ready for the off, but for now here is their latest single...

 

 

Thanks to all who’ve pre-ordered Djukella albums, donated to the tip-jar and generally helped to keep us alive through what has been a tough year for us itinerants in the performing arts. 

Having ranted on about what a luddite I am, I will endeavour in the next couple of weeks to set up some rudimentary studio from which to do some livestream shows. The ones we did last year were such fun. It’s so refreshing to communicate with you all, even if it’s only through comments on the screen and occasional flying emojis. I will update you all about this in due course. 

For now I'll leave you with a song from the new album whose last couple of verses seem even more poignant than usual, but I thoroughly recommend you get your hands and indeed ears on the album version, replete with the soaring strings of The Djukella Orchestra.

 

 

For now, I trust you’re all having a fine Easter Weekend, enjoying the chance to see other people (depending on where you are, I suppose) and generally feeling glimmers of hope amidst all the darkness. 

Looking forward to some correspondence from anyone who finds the time, and to seeing you all as soon as possible. 

Jez

Dear friends far and wide, 

This morning I was lucky enough to wake up with the birds, who are definitely starting to smell spring in the air around these parts, and was treated to the most spectacular dawn. The whole valley was filled like a basin with morning mist, but where we’re parked in the van is high enough up the slope to catch the first pool of sunshine oozing over the foothills, the mist lapping around my feet, and a short jaunt across the dew-drenched grass (my boots are still a little soggy, I must admit) revealed the most spectacular view of Mont Valier’s crisp white crags against the morning sky. 

It’s been raining pretty solidly for days which can make van-life a little trying, and it’s more than refreshing to be able to sit outside typing, never mind the chilly fingers, and listen to the world wake up. 
  

To those of you in Taiwan, New Zealand and a select few other places, I must admit I’m a little envious of humans being able to hang out and even sing together, but well done all round. I trust that the rest of you are managing to make the most of this seemingly endless period of isolation, and find yourself at least warm and comfortable. 

To all of the dear souls who’ve pre-ordered the new album, sorry to keep you waiting, but they are most certainly on the way now. I’m told they should be delivered from the factory in the first week of March, then they’ll be sent out just as quickly as can be. 

Everything got a little set back, when a few days before Christmas one of the rear suspension springs snapped on Bella The Great White Hope, thankfully at very low speed and within a mercifully short distance of a safe and welcoming park-up, but it was quite dramatic, and did leave us rather stuck, halfway up a mountain, just as the winter weather began to settle onto the Pyrenees. 

After finding no spares in the locality, I ordered some brand new leaf springs from Sanderson Leaf Springs near Birmingham, who are marvellous, but the Brexmas madness at Dover swallowed them up, and they spent a couple of weeks at Manston Airport in Kent, not flying anywhere, just sitting in a lorry at the world’s least popular Christmas Party, and a couple more in Toulouse, before they finally made it through. 

In the final week of this prolonged waiting period, on the third day of religiously sitting on the roadside in a deckchair in order not to miss the delivery, then inevitably receiving an email telling me I had been out when the driver arrived (?!), we were delighted to be invited to stay in a gite with my brother and family, who’d come down from their own lockdown in Bretagne, choosing a place way up a mountainside just as the most monumental blizzard descended, so we spent the week mostly snowed in, stoking the fire, cooking and getting to know our host, Tom, while they went out to buy snow-chains and go exploring. 

  

I must say that a little time in a house, with a bath and three fireplaces was an absolute luxury and much appreciated after so long in a stationary van, trying to stop our clothes from going mouldy, and a chance to hang out with my niece and nephew was an absolute treat, but all good things come to an end. 

When the snow finally started to recede, we got a lift back to the van from the ever beneficent Tom and then with the incredible talents of Wayne, Ferroniere d’Art and all-round mechanical wonder, we managed to get Bella jacked-up, dismantled and reassembled in a matter of days. Thanks to Sonik and G for putting up with us for so long. 

Since then, I’ve been able to communicate with Sue in Priston enough to complete all the album artwork, she has wrestled templates and facebook communication lag to create an truly beautiful thing, and it’s now in the capable hands of Ackent Media, being turned into objects. 
  

All this has been accomplished on a pair of computers whose rapidly approaching senility and obstinate tendency to just switch themselves off for no apparent reason has made the process interesting, to say the least. Deepest thanks to Carl Folker for all the help keeping them going. 

With any luck, now that it’s been sent off, I will find the time and clement conditions to come out of hibernation and be a little more communicative, record and video or two, make a long promised appearance at Falkirk’s Cyber Folk Session and work out how and when we might be able to perform to human people again one of these days. 

Thanks for your patience. I can’t wait for you to hear it. 

Sadly, as seems increasingly to be the way in recent times, two more dear friends have passed away in the last couple of weeks, both remarkable musicians, leaving me humbled at their courage and bereft that I’ll never again get to hear them light up a room. 

Alan Moorhouse, who Nye, Sascha and I somewhat desperately busked our way down to visit in Cornwall two Januaries ago finally lost his valiant battle with pancreatic cancer. He was an inimitable busker, ranter, raver, and crafter of incredible comic songs, with a wicked twinkle in his eye. Thankfully, with the help of the great Salossi, he managed to make it to Germany one more time last year to record some of these gems for posterity. So for anyone who needs a chuckle from an ex-busker, get in touch with Sascha for a copy of the album. 

  

Omer Makessa was one of the warmest, gentlest individuals with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing a stage. His passing last week came as a complete surprise and is particularly hard to swallow. Originally from Martinique, he made his home in Bristol and for many years has brought sunshine into the hearts and dancing feet of countless Bristolians and many a festival field. It’s hard to get to grips with the fact that we won’t be able to make the music we’d meant to. Yet another reminder that it’s best to just get on with it while we can. So much love to the both of you, and all of those who are trying to come to terms with your absence. 
  

A beautiful serenade from a couple of years ago... 

For any of you who’ve yet to get your hands on a copy of Scott Cook’s new book/CD, I just stumbled across my copy the other day, trying to work out what the seemingly endless red thread which had tied itself around my legs was coming from, and finally tracing it back to the unravelling cloth bookmark in the aforementioned hardcover chunk of soul. After a couple of pages of classic, folksy Scott Cook schtick to get you started it really is a bloody good read. He pulls no punches, and delves into the darkness of both himself and our dysfunctional world, but it’s really worth it, and comes with some fine songs to tap your feet to as you go along. 

For those of you who know Scott’s music, or have caught him live, you’ll know a little of the depth and scope of his wit and wisdom. He’s one of the clearest and most rigorous thinkers I’ve encountered in many years on the road and there’s definitely a lot to be gained from this beautiful book. 
  

For those of you interested in an honest appraisal of how we’ve ended up in such strange times (Scott included), and with a gap in your binge-watching schedule, I thoroughly recommend Adam Curtis’ new series of films, Can’t Get You Out Of My Head. Any of you who saw his Century of the Self series in the early 2000s or his more recent Bitter Lake, and Hypernormalisation, will know what to expect. He’s a remarkable journalist, with a style that always takes me back to the days when television documentaries were less sensationalist and rather more sober. 

It’s not exactly your normal light-entertainment comfort TV, but he has some fascinating insights, and though he reveals dark truths, rather like Naomi Klein, he manages to find inspiration, courage and creative potential amongst the chaos. 

Any of you who fancy getting in touch to let me know what’s been keeping you sane, I’m all ears. 

I’m so looking forward to seeing you all one of these days when us troubadours are once more allowed to roam. Any of you who’ve yet to pre-order the new album, we still have about £1500 worth of bills to cover, and would love you, your friends and anyone else you can think of to hear it. With any luck, it’ll bring you a bit of solace and even the odd chuckle. 

With much love from the sunny patch in front of the van! 

Jez

Dear friends wherever you may be, Solstice Greetings to all and sundry! 

As I grab a brief moment to sit here listening to a truly stunning violin recital by the inimitable Piotr Jordan, recorded and streamed live last weekend at the French Protestant Church of London, I’d like to try to reflect a little on the current state of things, but a deeply affectionate Yasmine has just emerged in front of the screen, like a cat on a newspaper, urging me to serve the food that I just left gently simmering away, so I must to that, but will try to return to typing before the sun sinks fully behind the icy peaks out the window. 

Here's a link to Piotr's recital in the mean time...

Absolutely sublime violism from the one and only Piotr Jordan... 

Well sunset has been and gone and sadly it’s a little too hazy in the south-west to see the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn for the first time since 1623, but the crescent moon is waxing, dinner thoroughly taken care of, and I’m back. 

A couple of nights ago (before the rear springs on the van snapped and left us somewhat stranded for Yuletide - that's another story altogether) we were parked up by the church at Castéras as the sun set, and before I’d read anything about it in the newspaper, we saw two planets incongruously close to one another, in perfect alignment with the crescent sliver of the setting new moon, hanging above the full chain of the Pyrenees. 

It was quite a remarkable sight, and if you happen to be somewhere with a clear sky to the SSW in the next day or two you’ll see them come so close as to likely appear as one enormous star, just above the horizon around sunset, but no-one is quite sure how close they’ll come to each other, as the last time it happened, no-one with a telescope was looking. 

I trust you’re all keeping your wits about you and some kind of human contact, however “remote” that may be in this darkest of seasons. We’re approaching the very fulcrum of the Yule and imminently the days will start to get longer for all of us in northern climes. For those of you in the southern hemisphere, keep up the good work with what you’ve been doing, with the exception of Mr. Bolsanaro. 

I have now finished the violin recital and have moved on through a fantastic set of Balkan selections and beyond from Dunayska Kapelye to The Pulborough Players, in the same church as part of the same concert series and featuring some of the many facets of the wonder that is Piotr Jordan. There really is so much fantastic live music being played into telephones in empty rooms this festive season. I just hope someone gets to hear it. 

A private audience with Dunayska Kapelye... 

In fact, speaking of new music which has just been released, The James Patrick Gavin Trio - Live at The Welsh Chapel is a beautiful thing, as is "When the Lights Are Bright" the new album from Beth Porter's band Marshes (formerly Beth Porter & The Availables). Click on the links and you will be lured into lush string arrangements and glorious music galore. Also, for any of you who've ever enjoyed hearing the Djukella Orchestra performing "Borders", The Undercover Hippy, the lyrical genius behind that and many other songs has designed a t-shirt that you may well want to model... Just click the above link to get your hands on one. 
  

It seems that despite all the bluff, bluster and perhaps even other words beginning with b, the crooked cabal of cronies masquerading as a government in the country I call home have managed to hightail it to their country hideaways mere moments before it became apparent that a new strain of the dreaded lurgy means that everyone else is now going to have to stay where they are and abandon the patriotic family Christmas celebrations they’d been encouraged to believe were an inalienable right mere moments before that. 

It has been rather one of those years all around, to be honest, but you don’t need to look as far as Taiwan, or even Greece to realise that it’s not beyond the wit of man (or indeed woman, as the case may be) to organise things in such a way as not to give the appearance of wild improvisation by rank amateurs. I always question the records where wonderful saxophonist and famed exponent of free-jazz, Ornette Coleman decided to play “free jazz” on trumpet and violin, two instruments he is not known for being able to play (for good reason, I might add), and wonder whether a five year-old learning to play the oboe, or even a cat feeding itself into a mangle could also on these terms be considered free jazz. 

It seems we have a “free-jazz” government, and a cabinet of amateurs, and surely an amateur cabinet is nothing more than a box, and Dominic Spaffings went off in a sulk with that some weeks ago. It seems the only one who is home by Christmas, is Mr Eye Test himself. Thank heaven for small mercies. 
  

To make such a fuss about how banning Christmas festivities would be “inhumane” after nonchalantly cancelling Diwali, Hanukkah and Eid just seems so lazily exceptionalist, in this of all years where thanks to the vast eruption of humanity prompted by the wanton murder of George Floyd by a gang of police officers going “viral” on the internet (that’s a phrase which doesn’t seem quite so cool this year, eh), they’ve all been frantically paying lip-service to Black Lives Matter at the same time as stirring a culture war which surely stinks far too much of the lingering Trump to be any use to them now, but then they do seem to be making it up as they go along. 

When the lockdown of Rochdale, Burnley, Bradford and practically every part of Britain with a large Desi community was announced the night before Eid, who among them gave a thought to the folks who’d bought new clothes, laid on huge spreads for the planned feasting and booked non-refundable tickets to visit loved-ones. With just a couple of days warning and perhaps an iota of consideration, all this chaos could easily have been averted. 

The nonsense about following “the science” as though science were some illusive beast akin to the Gruffalo, rather than the simple exercise of deductive logic available to any layman as a truly inalienable right, has worn woefully thin, as time and again, vast sums of public money is doled out to private companies owned by the spouses, friends and associates of prominent politicians, for grandiose schemes which consistently over-promise and under-deliver, and often fail to deliver anything at all. 

The very same people who sold us “the big society” whilst imposing savage “austerity” on all public services and fostering a hostile environment in order to save the public purse pennies, are now squandering generations of current and future tax-payers’ money without a penny reaching the public at all. It’s a travesty. 

It’s Churchill you think you are, Mr Bojo I suppose, if your dreadful book is anything to go by, but I’m afraid you’re starting to look rather more like Chamberlain in all but stature. 
 

As for the state of things across the Atlantic, at least we hear less of what Herr Drumpf thinks from day to day (even moment to moment) any more. Well I suppose some folks do, but I’ve not been tuning in to those channels. 

It’s a refreshing change, but I worry that rather like in the UK (if it’s still anything but a sick joke to call it that), the “opposition” party has been so thorough in eviscerating itself to rid the body-politic of the upsurge of popularity and support amongst the young and disenfranchised these past few years, inspired by radical leaders their parties would literally do anything to thwart, that it may not in the end be too concerned about opposing the idiotic corporate culture which landed us all in our current situation. I suppose we shall have to wait and see, on both sides of the water. 
  

So please pardon my fierce rant, and allow me to leave you with this hymn to fraternal feelings and goodwill to all, featuring the full-cream Djukella Orchestra led by the marvellous Dominie Hooper and recorded back when such plurality of voices was permitted in public or indeed private places. Apologies for my own wild attempts at improvisation at the beginning. I soon checked myself and the assembled voices conjure some tasty chords for your listening pleasure. Dedicated at the time to the dearly departed Charlie Roff, it goes out to all those who've been snatched from us prematurely. 
  

Dominie Hooper & The Djukella Orchestra - The Quiet Joys of Brotherhood 

With much love from the back of the van and all the best wishes for a positively delightful 2021. 

Jez