Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Ian Grimble and Richard Matthews of Communion Music at 2KHz, Crouch End, London
The lungs are burning in these Jo Mango song. They're burning so very hot. They're roasting and much of that has to do with everything surrounding them being cooked up to toasty temps, filled with the kind of passion that can only be housed in someone you'd least expect to be such a maker of such passion.
Mango, a singer and songwriter out of Glasgow, writes songs that are packed with emotions and sentiments that create an exceptional amount of heat. If that person were to lie down in a bed of snow, they would melt the area back down to green grass, in a matter of seconds. Just the steam coming off of the tranquil skin would cut through the stacked layer of flakes and it would evaporate all of it, leaving not a trace behind. These people are needing to express thoughts and sentiments, but they're hoping that they're going to collect some of them as well - the ones that they've been hoping for, those words that have thus far been silent, the touches that have never before existed. They're anxious and still they remain as patient as they ever could be. You'd never know that they were being eaten alive, from the inside out, by looking at them.
She sings about people with soft hearts, with open and willing hearts, but they're also people who are not going to fly off toward the first sign of love or affection, half-cocked. They are going to be deliberate and careful with the parts of themselves that they're willing to give away. Mango is an enchanting singer and a wordsmith, taking a listener to those hidden places that are so intimate that they're almost uncomfortable. She takes us into those protected lairs where people are willing utter and think things that they'd never normally make public. They are open and they are sufficiently themselves, all flimsy and shaky. They are terrified of what their heart is getting them into this time and they want just to be able to figure it out at their own pace, without distractions, in a lonely and cold December, in a place where "the floorboards creaked like ice burgs." They would like to find their way, when there's a way to be found.