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 curtains are drawn in Nimmo & The Gauntletts songs.
They are pulled as tight as they can get. The carpet and the furniture must not get faded. The people inside are to be left alone. They are to feel the way alone feels. They are to appreciate the tranquility, even as it drives them mad, thinking about what others are doing with the opposite. They peek out from the corner of the curtains, tucking a head under their heaviness and they let their eyes adjust to the moonlight and the safe condition of being tough to detect from the outside. They can look, but be little seen. The nights that they look out on are diluted. They are chipped down and watered. They are soft around the edges, remnants of what they intended.
The squall has come and gone, as Sarah Nimmo sings. It's passed and now the water is just being swept from the places where it doesn't belong. It's a drowsy aftermath of something or other, but there are still moments of agitation, when a bruise is grazed or a scab gets caught on something and gets rudely pulled off. These are hurt people, sad people, but they're looking for ways to remake their hearts. They've been found slumped and abandoned. They've made themselves slumped and they've not fought the abandonment. They've thrown punches and they've pulled them. They've absorbed punches and they've camped out in their dimmed rooms and watched others for signs of life.